If the amazing cover art doesn’t capture you, her storytelling will. I read The Berserker’s Bride by Laura Strickland and enjoyed it immensely. Her latest, a fairy tell retelling called RapAnn’s All, sounds amazing and the cover is another good one!
Welcome, Laura.
Why Retell a Fairy Tale?
Most of us are quite familiar with fairy tales. When I was young, I read them from a collection I found at the back of an ancient encyclopedia at home. I loved the magic they contained, and how believable that magic seemed. It helped convince me I could shape a world with words, and persuade readers to inhabit it for a time.
But writers, as we must all agree, are creators. So why would a writer choose to retell a fairy tale, a story that’s been told over and over again for centuries? My desire to retell these well-known tales comes from the questions that run through my mind when I read them. What if Cinderella hadn’t been beautiful? Would the prince still have loved her? Why did Rumpelstiltskin demand the young queen’s first-born child? What could he possibly want with an infant? And why was Rapunzel imprisoned in that tower, anyway? What happened to her after she got out?
My Fairy Tales Retold series answers those questions, and more. In Cinder-Ugly, Cindra is not beautiful. In Rum Paul Stillskin, we discover why the little fey man spun that straw into gold. In my latest release, RapAnn’s All, we learn why RapAnn is shut away in the tower. A few things are different. I’ve placed the stories in new settings: a Medieval town in a fanciful land, the wilds of Devon, and in the case of RapAnn’s All, the Scottish borderlands. All are told in the characters’ own words, rather than mine. Each will impart his or her tale to you.
They have persuasive voices, as persuasive as the tiny print in that ancient encyclopedia, so long ago, the one that painted pictures in my mind I can still see to this day. It’s my most sincere hope that they are also every bit as enchanting.
The prince balked in the beginning, at climbing up my hair. He feared hurting me, even after I showed him how I might sling the length of it over the iron hook, and relieve the tension on my head.
“Look—the braid is like a rope.”
“This is the only way in?”
“This, or magic.”
He tugged on the yellow braid gingerly. Then he swarmed up it, using his feet against the stones, to climb. Up he came, and over the sill.
Into my life.
And oh, he made the room so small! Large he seemed, in that confined, circular space. I could smell him at once. He smelled of sunshine and horse, and something else that must have been sweat.
Hastily, I unhooked my braid and backed off.
He held out his hands. “Peace, mistress. I’ll not harm you.”
I looked into his face, and he into mine, the first real opportunity we’d had, for the previous distance.
He was not handsome, not like some of Lady Margaret’s guests who, though men, might be deemed pretty. He had a broad forehead, browned by the sun, and an angular jaw—almost square—covered by a trace of beard. His nose, being straight, lent little character. But his eyes—och, his eyes. Earnest and brown, they regarded me from between thick, dark lashes. Gazing into them, I breathed more easily, for I knew he would never intentionally hurt me.