An Excerpt: Seven-League Boots

Tonight for your reading pleasure, I thought I’d share a tiny excerpt from a project I worked on last November (hello, NaNoWriMo!). It’s currently called The Price of Sight, but that is extremely subject to change. It’s loosely a sequel to Eye of the Beholder (my “Beauty and the Beast” retelling). It follows the story of a young woman named Minette, who comes into a vast magical power by accident and struggles to know how to control it or avoid the unwelcome attention it attracts. The excerpt below is from Min’s childhood and is neither particularly polished nor absolutely certain to end up in the finished product. Hope you enjoy a random story!

The tale is told of the old magics, magics so powerful and great that in those times the waters ran with gold and the trees gave forth ruby apples. The old magic, it was said, could save a person from death, could heal any wound, could save a person from ever going hungry again. Marvels and wonders, the minstrels sang out, miracles and dreams.

Min’s favorite story was the one of the seven-league boots.

“Long ago,” her father intoned as he sat beside her bed at night after tucking her in. “Long ago, there was a young man who had a pair of boots. Oh, how he loved those boots. They were ordinary and they were old, but they got him every place he needed to go. They were comfortable and fit his feet to perfection. He even imagined that in winter they expanded just enough to allow an extra layer of woolen socks.”

He reached down and tickled Min’s foot, and she giggle and squirmed away. “Then what happened?”

“Well, the young man loved to travel. He was an adventurer at heart, and he wished to get away, off into the distance where he had never been before. But he knew it would take a long time to get there, to wherever it was he wished to be. Even he didn’t really know.”

“So what did he do?”

“He went to a witch,” her father said with relish, savoring the word on his tongue.

“And what did she do?” Min was always far too excited in the stories to allow her father to pause for long.

“She told him she could help him to travel long distances as quickly as he took a single step. He was thrilled at the idea. But she was quick to point out that it would cost him something. He would have to give up something he loved. He paused in thought. ‘What must I give up?’ he asked. He was certain he would not mind the price. ‘Your boots,’ she said. ‘And something else that you will not know until you let go of it.’”

Even though she knew the story, Min still had to ask. Maybe this time he would say no. “Did he do it?”

“Yes, he did,” Min’s father replied. “His boots were such a little price to pay, and while he loved them he did not need them to make him happy. So he gave her the boots and waited for her to make him what he wanted.

“She took the boots and performed the necessary magic—no, don’t ask me what the magic was. I don’t know. This sort of thing is lost, Min. Now hush and let me finish the story.” He smiled down at her, and his smile warmed her to her toes.

“When she was finished, she gave him back the boots. ‘Do not wear them unless you plan to travel. And then put them on only to step in the direction you seek to go. Take one step, and you will travel seven leagues.’

“He thanked her excitedly and went out the door. Where shall I go first? he wondered. With a little thought, he picked a direction and sat down to put the boots on his feet. Then he stood and took a step.”

Min raised herself off her pillow to listen eagerly to the rest of the story. Her father gently pushed her back down and brushed the hair from her face. “Shhh. . . You shall hear the rest. Just close your eyes.”

She obeyed him and listened sleepily as he finished.

“The world swept past him in a blur, and truly the boots were magic now because when the world resolved itself again into trees and dirt and grass and sky, he did not recognize where he was—and he hadn’t crashed into a single thing,” her father said with a chuckle.

“But then, when everything was settled, he felt a pain in his feet so great that he fell to the ground and pulled off his boots to look. They were dirty and bloodied and sore.”

Min cringed at the gruesomeness of it. Even with such a terrible ending, she loved the mystery and the magic.

“He discovered that he could travel those seven leagues in a single step but that his feet would feel every step, as if he had been barefoot. Why did it work that way? No one knows. Such is the way of the old magic.”

Min sighed and yawned, her eyelids drooping.

He smiled gently. “I bet he was very, very careful from then on where he traveled and how.”

Min stirred, barely capable of speech. “Thanks, Papa. Do you think it’s real?”

Her father leaned down to kiss her forehead as he had a thousand times before. She was fully asleep before she even had a chance to hear his answer. “Yes, my little Minette. I am sure of it.”

He walked from the room and gently closed the door.

Goodbye, Prologue.

I once read about an author who had cut something like 50,000 words while working on her 70,000-word novel, and I thought, “Ick!” How horrible to have written so much that would never make it into print. Blech. And now, here I am, reworking my own novel (again) and cutting scenes like mad.

Including my prologue.

I am unreasoningly attached to my prologue. I think my book has started with the sentence “I was not the first” since approximately forever ago. Doesn’t it just sound marvelous? Doesn’t it just make you want to read on? Isn’t it absolutely perfect? (The answer here is “yes.”) And yet, it’s being chopped. For reasons that don’t need exploring at this juncture (because that would be nearly a novel itself), the prologue is saying, “Adios.”

So, as a grand farewell, I’m posting it here. *Sniff sniff.* Goodbye, prologue, I’ll miss you.

I was not the first. Yes, I was the Beauty, the breaker of the curse, the one they write the stories about. Just not the first. But the story is much simpler that way, confined and clear. The storytellers have forgotten—or perhaps they never knew—that life is rarely so simple, so neat. So they weeded and thinned and told you a story of roses and terrible bargains and a single lonely girl with the power to break a spell with three simple words. If only it had been that easy.

I cannot blame them for their story, but you should hear the rest of it.

The first young woman to meet the Beast was named Sarah. In rather fairy tale fashion, she was collecting berries in the forest—perhaps even singing to the woodland creatures—when she lost her way. Back then, there were no rumors about magic in the woods, and the only dangers she knew of were easily avoided by watching where she stepped and listening for bears. When she discovered the faint track that led to the Beast’s home, I imagine she felt no foreboding or fear. She would have followed it until a clearing opened before her and she came upon a modest home—no great castle like the stories say—surrounded by a magnificent garden, dazzling with the colors of its summer blooms. I think she must have been surprised; she couldn’t have known that anyone was living here, so deep within the woods. I imagine it was nothing more than curiosity and friendliness that brought her to stand before the big oak door. Nothing would have hinted to her what was behind that door. So Sarah lifted her hand and knocked.

But as I said, this is not her story. It is not really the others’ story either, though I will tell you what I know of them. But without their stories, I sometimes think, mine would not exist. Were they the necessary ingredients, added one by one, to a potion so potent that it could break a terrible curse? Were they simmering together for years until finally the magic was ready for me to bottle? Without the others, would the spell still have been broken by the irresistible mix of beauty and beast? I cannot know what might have been. I cannot know the way the story might have been told, in the hands of another storyteller, at a different time, with different secrets kept or shared.

What I do know is this: This is not their story, but in a way it is. Sarah, Kerrienna, Juliet, Alara, all of them. It is their story, and my father’s and my sisters’. But, most of all, my story. The story of a Beauty and her Beast.

Feeling Shiny

Adding my name and book title would require
a level of technical savvy I do not possess.

Item #1: I won the NaNoWriMo challenge! With a whopping 50,006 words during the month of November. Hoorah! In case you’re wondering, the novel I worked on is different from last year’s and different from Eye of the Beholder (the “Beauty and the Beast” project you probably hear about ad nauseum if you ever ask about how my writing is going). In the past I always wondered how you could turn a fairy tale retelling into a series. You retell the fairy tale once. Done. But I wonder no longer. In trying to decide what to write this year, it just sort of happened: This year’s project, currently titled The Price of Sight or maybe The Price of Looking (but most likely eventually titled something completely different), is a sequel to Eye of the Beholder. Sort of, anyway. It’s set about twenty years after Eye, and it’s about Isabel and the Beast’s daughter, Min. It’s not a fairy tale retelling, just a young adult fantasy novel with a little adventure, a little murder, a little dancing, a little romance, and a lot of magic. And no, it’s not finished. And no, you can’t read it yet. Seriously, people. When I tell you something is a rough draft, it’s really really (really) rough.

Item #2: I took second place in a little Mormon Mommy Writers competition. And okay, yes, the prize is $5. But it also includes publication (even if the publication is tiny). Essentially it’s just fun to have someone outside my family and friends say, “Hey, I think this girl’s submission is shiny.” Although they probably didn’t say “shiny.” But that’s okay, because I’m feeling shiny! In case you’re wondering what I wrote, it was mostly this blog post, with a little less snottiness. Thanks to my fabulous brother Makani for liking the post enough to make me wonder if it might appeal to others!

Item #3: Creative deadline #347 is long-since passed. I intended to have several drafts of Eye complete this year. Ha! What a joke. Onto #378, which is this: My writing buddy Meghan and I both intend to have a finished first draft of our novels finished by the end of February. Stay tuned for the moment when I watch that deadline zoom by too.

…

And now I’m wondering. All those people I challenged to a NaNoWriMo adventure, it’s time to report! (Oh, and sorry I didn’t cheer you on better. Sigh. But I do think you’re awesome.) Did you accomplish your goal? Only some of it? A tiny, tiny speck of it? Good work, now go do some more!

The Cinderella Plan

Author’s note (yes, the author would be me): Here’s a bit of lighthearted frippery I wrote a while back, supposed to be short (less than 750 words!) and sweet and perhaps a little ridiculous. Hope you enjoy.

I watched as the archduke approached, gingerly carrying a ridiculously impractical glass slipper across the room. Soon he would ask me to try it on. This was my moment. Feigning clumsiness as he presented it to me, I jostled his wrist and gasped as the slipper crashed to the floor.

At first he only stared in shock at the scattered shards, but then he began to weep. Poor man. “Don’t cry,” I told him, reaching into my apron pocket. “I have the other one.” His eyes darted to the shoe I held out, and he began to smile again.

Trust a man not to notice the glaring size difference between the original slipper and mine.

“Thank you for finding me!” I threw my arms around him and wailed. A little melodrama couldn’t hurt. “I’ve missed my prince so desperately!”

He escorted me out to the carriage. And just like that, I was on my way to the palace and my betrothal.

***

I’d resisted my parents’ suggested brides for years. The fiscal irresponsibility of the parties they dreamed of throwing for my nuptials was almost a greater deterrent than the brides themselves.

Almost.

Apparently their only requirement for my wife was that she sport the latest hairstyle. A brain was unnecessary. And a bit of common sense was quite undesirable. They didn’t want someone who would actually agree with my budgets and projections. At this rate, by the time the kingdom became mine, it would be destroyed.

As my parents increased the pressure to marry—increasing the costs of their wife-finding extravaganzas as well—I finally came up with a desperate plan. A fake mystery woman. A whirlwind romance. An impossibly tiny glass slipper that would never fit anyone. I would gain months of peace if I could convince my parents I was heartbroken when the archduke couldn’t find my true love.

***

Of course I wasn’t the girl from the ball. She didn’t exist. I was just a girl with a few unorthodox ideas, a penchant for eavesdropping on secret plans, and an unhealthy love of meddling. But no one listens to the ideas of an unimportant glassblower’s niece, no matter how marvelous. As the prince’s new fiancée, however, I had a chance.

Oh, he wouldn’t be pleased at first (men always think their plans are the only way to do something), but I was exactly what he needed.

***

The herald approached my parents’ thrones and announced, “The archduke has returned, victorious in his search for the slipper’s owner!”

“What?” I sputtered. “He wasn’t supposed to—” Mother shot me a surprised look. “I mean . . . I’m so thrilled he’s back. I just thought the journey would take longer.” I pasted on a smile of delight. “Bring her in!” Then I would decide how to get rid of the impostor. No gold-digging piece of fluff was going to trick her way into marrying me.

***

I sallied into the throne room wearing last year’s gown. The queen had looked excited when I entered, but now she cringed. I smiled. She’d change her mind soon enough, but first I had to convince the prince to hear me out.

“Darling! I feared we’d be parted forever!” I ran to him and threw my arms around his neck—the perfect position for secret conversation. Plus it couldn’t hurt to waft a little lilac scent over the poor man.

“Who are you?” he hissed into my ear.

“Your fiancée, of course,” I whispered back.

“Whatever you want, you’re not getting it.”

Straight to the point, then. “I want to help you. You’ve been going about things with your parents all wrong. Spreadsheets will never convince them to change.”

“Oh? And what will?”

I smiled wickedly. “Fashion, my dear.”

He pulled back, aghast. “Fashion?”

“Yes,” I told him firmly. “Retro-minimalist fashion, to be exact. Bring back the stuff that’s been sitting in the attic for starters. I made some charts for you to look at.”

“You did?” He perked up. I knew the prince couldn’t resist a good chart.

“Yes. But first we have to convince them this is real.”

“How?”

“Kiss me, of course.” I winked.

***

Could her plan possibly work? She smiled warmly, and I thought it might be worth a try. I’d have to consult her charts to decide for sure, but maybe my fortunes—and my kingdom’s—were turning around. So I leaned down to kiss my new ally. My new fiancée.

Now I just had to find out her name.