History is the imagination’s oldest fodder.
I’ve always been fascinated by the past: documentaries about ships mysteriously vanishing without a trace, war letters packed with voice and personality, and biographies of survival against all odds. Especially as a fantasy writer, I deeply appreciate true and curious events because sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction and this week I brushed up against two strange histories. Not on the internet. Not in a book. In my own, real, every day life.
But before tell you about it, I wanted to quickly highlight this book by the amazing Anna McKenzie, I Wanted to Tell You Something: Fairytales which is now out in paperback! It’s filled with easy-to-read modern fairytales and over two dozen beautiful black-and-white illustrations that bring the story to life.
Premise:
“The day after my 18th birthday, someone put a spell on me.”
A young maiden finds herself in the worst possible situation: cursed to wander the woods and wastes of fairyland until a stranger speaks her name. As she undertakes her perilous journey, she meets a host of wayfarers and creatures with their own intentions, from a talking fox to giants, trolls, wood elves, fairies, billy goats, knights, and a particularly malicious piper.
From the stormy seas to the great Void of the North, this sweeping story will enchant fairytale lovers from middle grade readers to adults, revealing gems of wisdom that transform the young maiden’s heart and attitude as she desperately searches for a way to break her spell. But will everything she learns be enough to set her free?
Okay, back to the two things that happened to me this week. To lay the groundwork, I need to tell you about my house.
In 1923, my city’s funeral director commissioned an architect to design a “modern” home for himself and his family. He was a respected member of several clubs and societies, as well as a deacon at the local church. One newspaper reported that he was: “well liked by all.”
I’ve looked up his picture online, studied the original blue prints in my basement with his name on them, and I feel a strange fondness for this man whose vision for this house, a century ago, resulted in my family living here today.
Last week, I was unloading my car in my driveway when a Colonel Sanders doppelgänger approached me and introduced himself as “the boy who used to live across the street” — meaning in the 1950s.
He was friendly and we chatted for a bit. I asked questions about what the neighborhood was like back then and eventually the topic circled around to my house. He got a funny look on his face that I was immediately suspicious of.
“Mrs. Thomas was quite the characters. She was a funny lady. Full of energy. And Mr. Thomas, well, there was quite the scandal there.” He paused and his eyes twinkled at me with an asking-me-to-ask look.
But I was not about to ask for the nitty-gritty gossip surrounding this place where I now live and move and grind my coffee beans, thank-you-very-much. No sir, if you think I’m going to take the bait you will find yourself sorely disappointed. Despite the fact that my eyeballs were blinking a morse code for him to S-T-O-P, he was determined.
“Oh, yes.” His nodded, his eyes still sparkling like something was funny. “Quite the scandal.”
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