An Interview with Tammy Burke

This month, I have decided to interview a fellow fantasy writer. I think I will do this from time to time. First up is an acquaintance of mine, Tammy Burke.

Tammy is the award-winning author of the Heart of the Worlds YA epic fantasy series, where faeries, flying pegasi, and ancient mysteries intertwine with stories of courage, belonging, and hope.

A former journalist with more than 400 published articles, she now helps writers master storytelling through speaking engagements and her educational platform, Mythic Observatory. She is also an admin for David Farland’s Apex-Writers and has served as president and conference chair for the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group (GLVWG).

When not writing, Tammy studies historical swordplay with sword and dagger and competes in fencing tournaments, drawing inspiration from these techniques to enrich her action scenes and worldbuilding.

Here is the interview:

What is your identity as a writer. How do you see yourself?

What a great question! I predominantly see myself as a young adult fantasy writer who feels deeply passionate about telling stories that offer hope and the message you are always enough…along with offering a kick-butt adventure with researched faery lore and real-life melee experience. I fence sword and dagger.

I also see myself as someone who pays it forward in the writing community. I’ve had some amazing mentors and teachers, and it makes my heart happy that I can pay it forward. I do this partly through presentations I give to various audiences, including an international one. 

Q: When did you begin to see yourself as that kind of writer? Was there a seminal moment, or did it evolve?

Another great question. I think when we first start writing, we don’t have a complete writing identity because we’re still learning ourselves. But we do have aspirations. Based on my aspirations, which are pretty close to who I’ve become, I’d say from the time I first set words to paper.

Q: Where/when/how do your story ideas originate?

For my Heart of the Worlds series, that story seed came into existence back in the 90s. That was before I could do it justice, but I worked on it off and on.

Since then, I’ve learned all sorts of things with the craft, including techniques to come up with story seeds quickly. I think the most important question to ask at any point of the pre-writing to drafting phase is “What if?” Oh, and trust your subconscious. It knows your stories long before it clues in your conscious mind.

Q: OK, are you a plotter or a panster? Do you plan out a story or discover it as you write?

I started my writing career as a pantser, and I would write myself off into the tall grass with no way back. I never finished anything.

So, I went the other way, and I became very much a plotter. I ended up with a severe case of plot-crastination.  And guess what? I never finished anything.

Neither technique worked for me. Then I found my sweet spot. 40 percent plotting and 60 percent pantsing. If I have just a bit more than the main story beats, I know what I’m writing to…so no getting lost, and it also allows me freedom of exploration. And that helps keep me engaged. 

Who are your inspirations?

Several years ago, I would have given you a list of amazing writers who inspired me. Some of them would still be on that list, but some of them made bad choices. That is always a problem with having heroes. It’s disappointing, and sometimes crushing, when they fall off their pedestals.

But that realization made me discover something. I find myself increasingly being inspired by the groups who I’m working with. Seeing them grow, learn, tell amazing stories… that’s the inspiration that pulls me out of bed in the morning. What can I learn, accomplish, and develop that I can bring back and teach.

Story itself is another inspiration, and storytellers are superheroes. Seriously. I mean story has the ability to change hearts, minds, souls, paradigms, cultures… They let people know that they’re not alone, that there are ways of finding solutions, that good can overcome evil. I mean, story can even cross time and space itself.

Q: Have you ever had a minor character demand a larger part in the story? Has your story suddenly taken off in a direction you did not see coming?

Lol. Yes! I recently had a minor character who demanded a larger part. This was in book 3 of my Heart of the Worlds series, and her name is Darla. She was meant to be a very minor character. In fact, at first she didn’t even have a name. But I gave her one and the next thing she was pushing my antagonist off to the side. I was like wait a minute you’re changing the entire plot. And then I realized no, this made story stronger. 

So yes, sometimes it happens. I think the key thing to consider when you are facing that is…will this make the story stronger? And no one can answer that except for you, the author.

I think this also answers that second question because by allowing Darla to have a much bigger role in book 3, the plot changed. It still arrived approximately the same place at the climax, but it was more vibrant, and it filled in a plot hole in book five.

Q: On your social media, you talk a lot about structure. To you, what is the importance of story structure and its ramifications?

Oh, you’re talking about my Mythic Observatory platform on Substack and YouTube. I’m really enjoying talking about structure there. I recently went through character arc and the Seven Narrative Threads to keep your middle from sagging.

Structure is important in story. It’s the foundation. It also is a plotting tool that lets you find what’s missing in your story. It is not a paint by number or cookie cutter though I’m sure one could use it as such.

And know there are different plotting structures. For me story embryo works extraordinarily well. I can see at a glance where plot twists would provide the best bang and how tochiastically have theme and transformation resonate effectively.

Q: What question have I not asked that you want to answer?

How about what I’m up to next. Currently, I’m working on Faeries Don’t Love, book four to my Heart of the Worlds series. I have my shingle out for copy editing, and I’m taking clients. And I am wrapping up season one in the Mythic Observatory. Season two will start up this fall. I may have other news coming soon, but I don’t have anything that I can announce just yet.

https://tfburkeauthor.com/

https://www.facebook.com/TFBurkeAuthor

https://www.instagram.com/tfburkeauthor

https://mythicobservatory.substack.com

https://youtube.com/@themythicobservatory

Tammy, thank you.

Grimm Again

Earlier this evening, I found Thalia and Jini popping popcorn in the kitchen.

“Movie night?” I asked.

“Nixie night,” they replied.

I was a little stunned. “You’re visiting the Nixie? Why?”

Thalia and Jini glanced at each other. “Girl stuff,” they said.

“She’s dangerous, you know?”

“We know. Melissa has warned us as well.”

I let it go at that. I had tried to set up unbreakable rules with my daughter, which only led to the appeal of forbidden fruit. I tried to keep her from making mistakes, but it only kicked the can down the road for her to make mistakes later.

Nonetheless, I feel uneasy. I divert my attention by picking up Grimm when I settle into my comfy chair. Using Thalia’s childhood method of choosing a story, I close my eyes, whirl a finger in the air, and bring it down at random on the table of contents.

The Knapsack, the Hat, and the Horn.

I don’t think I have read this one.

Three young brothers, who found themselves getting poorer and poorer, decided to try their luck in the greater world. After much travel, they found a mountain made of silver. The eldest brother took as much as he could carry and returned home. The other two traveled on until they found a mountain made of gold. This contented the middle brother, but not the youngest.

The youngest entered what seemed to be an endless forest, in the middle of which he wished for something to eat. Magically, a table appears covered with a tablecloth itself covered with food and drink. He gladly feasts and then takes the tablecloth with him. It never failed to provide food.

During his travels, he comes upon a charcoal burner preparing his sorry meal of potatoes. The young traveler offered a better repast. Impressed, the charcoal burner proposed to exchange magical gifts. He had a knapsack that could produce seven soldiers to do one’s bidding.

The exchange was made, and the traveler took to the road again. After a short while, he tested the knapsack and sent the seven soldiers back to the charcoal burner to seize the tablecloth. Thus began his career of deception.

Next, he came upon another charcoal burner who had a hat, which, when turned about, produced cannons firing at will. The scenario repeats itself.

At last, a third charcoal burner had a horn that, when blown, would bring down walls, not unlike the horn at Jericho.

Armed with these three magical gifts, plus the tablecloth, he returns home. His brothers do not recognize him dressed in a tattered coat, carrying a worn knapsack, and wearing an old hat. Offended, the youngest produced an army to defeat his brothers.

The king got wind of this conflict and sent his army to quell the dispute. With a turn of the hat, the king’s army was sent packing. Seeing his advantage, the youngest demanded the king’s daughter in marriage and rule over the kingdom. The king could not resist and gave over his daughter.

She wheedled out of him the nature of the old knapsack, which she stole, and sent the soldiers back to kick her new husband out of the kingdom. But he still had the hat, and the cannons forced her and her father to relent.

Again, she seduced him to reveal the power of the hat and stole it when he slept. Enraged, and still possessing the horn, he blew it in revenge, bringing down the castle fortification and city walls, crushing the king and the princess to death. He was then king.

WHAT A HORRIBLE STORY.

Where is the moral? The Grimms were good Lutherans.

In the background, I hear Thalia and Jini returning. They are giggling. They are giggling teenagers. Everything is fine.

Part Two

Soldiers’ Tales

The bell over Augustus’s door greets me as usual. The heavy scent of tobacco dominates the air. Augustus, reading a newspaper, looks up, sees me, and reaches for the canister of Elfish Gold.

“And fifty grams of Traveler’s Due,” I answer an unspoken question.

He nods in understanding, then frowns a little. “You haven’t ordered Traveler’s Due in quite some time.”

“A story I read last night brought it to mind.”

“Ah, yes, a story, of course. Which one?” He scoops out tobacco from the canister, measuring it by eye, and dumps it into a small paper bag on a scale. Fifty grams exactly.

“It was a Grimm story about which I am upset.”

“Really, let me guess. The Knapsack, the Hat, and the Horn.”

“How did you know?”

“It might be the most upsetting tale in the Grimms’ collection. But see here, I am glad you asked for Traveler’s Due. I have changed the mixture slightly and will value your opinion while we discuss the tale.”

That is his cue for us to head to his “testing room” as we always do. His comfy chairs are more well-worn than mine and covered with a dinge of smoky grey. If he were to upgrade and replace them, I would be scandalized. We light our pipes and settle in.

“I imagine,” says Augustus, through a haze of smoke, “you were taken aback by the lack of a moral, as was I.”

“Quite right.”

“There are,” Augustus continues, “many soldiers that figure into the Grimms’ tales in one way or another. Let me enumerate a few. There is The Three Army Surgeons to start. Then there are the soldiers in The Worn-Out Dancing Shoes, The Devil’s Sooty Brother, The Blue Light, and The Devil and His Grandmother. I am sure I could find other examples.”

“Point taken,” I say. “But the youngest brother is not a soldier.”

“He may as well be. He holds weapons of mass destruction.”

“OK, I will buy it, but where are you going with this line of thought?”

“Good question. I am thinking out loud. Would many of the audience for these stories be, themselves, soldiers in taverns or sitting around campfires? They might well be discharged soldiers wandering around, hoping for another war to employ them. A story where a common soldier wins out over everyone else—including royalty—would appeal to them. They would not be looking for moral messages. Rather, something to entertain them and suggest possibilities.

“While the Grimms were quick to promote Christian values, they were also looking for stories that represented the German folk voice. Soldiers were among that folk.”

I think on this for a moment. “That soldiers may not be longing for a moral in the stories they hear, I will concede. However, this is still a story with an unsympathetic protagonist. All the tropes of a fairy tale are there. There are three brothers starting out into the world. There are magical devices, a mountain of silver, a mountain of gold, a king, a princess, a marriage. It’s all there except a moral. Our protagonist gets away with murder. Even soldiers must have a sense of fairness.”

“I am not defending the tale,” Augustus responds.

I nod. “I guess what I am saying is this is an unusual tale for the Grimm collection.”

Augustus blows an exquisite smoke ring. “There we can agree.”

Part Three

Another Thought

I clean out my pipe and repack it. “I approve of the new mixture. What did you do?’

“For the most part, I added a little Latakia. I felt it needed a bit more punch.”

“Well, back to our subject,” I say. “What about these charcoal burners? Where did they come from?”

Augustus chuckles. ”I am glad you have asked that question. I will pontificate on this item. My family history tells me that my great-grandfather was one of them by trade.

“Charcoal burners have been underserved by the fairy tales, a missed opportunity. Oh, they do appear at times, usually in variants of known tales, especially in the lore of Scandinavian, Slavic, and—for some reason— particularly Czech populations, yet rarely. Such a shame. They are the perfect magical helper.

“At first glance, the charcoal burner is the male version of a henwife—practitioner of the black arts—and the old-woman-in-the-wood character. But he holds a unique position. His abode is in the forest, away from society. Forests, in the minds of pre-industrial people, were associated with danger and mystery, especially a deep, dark one. The charcoal burner was elemental to that environment.

Like the henwife, he was always poor. Forgive me an aside; these two occupations are lowly, affording little benefit, yet, in the tales, the practitioners have access to magic but do not take much advantage of it to improve their condition. I find that a curious point.

“But, back to my argument. Since our heroes often find themselves wandering around in the wilderness on their quests, who more likely are they to run into than a charcoal burner and his humble hospitality? A convenient story element. And if they have a magical device to share, all the better.”

I lift an eyebrow at that one. “I doubt the fairy-tale Michelin Guide would list these lodgings.”

“I’ll ignore that,” he says. “Metaphorically, though—and here is my strongest point—he is transforming wood into charcoal, transforming one thing into another, like our protagonist transforming from a commoner into a king. The tales are about transformation. Why do they not take advantage of this symbolism more often?”

I tamp my pipe and relight. “I have noticed that those with magical powers—the black arts—are usually women, witches. There are a few wizards in the tales. Oh, lots in modern fantasy writing, but not in the traditional fairy tales, just like there are lots of dragons in modern fantasy and few in fairy tales. Also note, there are not many fairies in fairy tales.”

Augustus applauds. “They should be called wonder tales.”

“I agree, but I am straying from what I meant to say. Ah, yes. Magical devices can fall into the hands of males, be they giants or humans, and they usually lose them to the protagonist through trickery, as in our story.”

“Your point being as it applies to charcoal burners?” Augustus looks at me quizzically.

What is my point? What am I talking about?

“I think I am trying to say men, in the tales, be they anything other than a wizard, do not hold the keys to transformation, even if they are charcoal burners who transform wood. True transformation is in the hands of women. Charcoal burners can only blunder about, not appreciating magical devices they happen to have.”

Augustus smirks at me. “Would Melissa approve of your notion that women excel in the dark arts, while men are simply amateurs?”

“That men are amateurs, she would agree. Associating women with evil, not so much. Say?” I hold my pipe in front of my face. “This mixture is making my mind fuzzy. You didn’t put something like opium in it, did you?”

Augustus smiles but does not answer.

Your thoughts?

Philipp Otto Runge, who?

For those who also read my Fairy Tale of the Month blog, you know I talk about Philipp Otto Runge, not a household name (there is a pun buried in there). I have more to say about him.

Everyone knows about the Brothers Grimm.

Let me refine that statement. Are all the inhabitants of Indonesia interested in Western children’s literature? Perhaps not.

Everyone in our Western culture knows about the Brothers Grimm.

That is more likely, but are there still illiterates among us?

Every educated person in our Western culture knows about the Brothers Grimm.

Now I feel pretty safe, but do they know the first names of these two brothers? I’ll guess the percentage falls by about 50%. When we come to Philipp Otto Runge, I think the “everyone knows about” lands at about 1%.

I invite you to become a member of this exclusive 1% club with the following information.

Runge was an artist, draftsman, painter, writer, and color theorist regarded as a leading figure in the German Romantic Movement. His submission to the Brothers Grimm’s call for German folk fairy tales—The Juniper Tree and The Fisherman and His Wife—so affected Wilhelm that Runge’s style became the voice of the Grimm’s tales. However, he was known better for his paintings and portraits.

Born into a well-to-do shipbuilding family, the ninth of eleven children, he contracted pulmonary tuberculosis as a child and continued to be in frail health all his life. In his early twenties, he took up the career of an artist with his older brother’s support. He spent most of his adult years in Hamburg. He married, had four children, the last of which was born the day after Runge died at the age of thirty-three.

Runge, having a mystical, deeply Christian faith, conceived of a multimedia work of art before the word “multimedia” was current. The project bore the name “Times of the Day,” centered around four paintings to be housed in a chapel, accompanied by music and his own poetry. He hoped it would spark a new religious movement based on his notions of the harmony of the universe.

Some of his works are compared to those of William Blake. There is the suggestion that Runge served as an inspiration for the Art Nouveau Movement. In any event, his early death has denied us the full development of a genius.

You can find images of his works Here.

Bird Songs

I’ve had a very pleasant evening with Duckworth. Nothing special. I proposed a meal, followed by our sitting in the study drinking espresso. Duckworth does love a good cup of espresso, and I always make an effort to provide the best. I only drink espresso when he visits. I like it well enough, but it is strong. I keep my machine for it in the walk-in closet on the third floor.

My third floor can be a little “wonky,” I like to say, but lately I have had no problems. Up the stairs I go to return the machine to its storage place.

Apparently, there are lessons I refuse to learn.

Opening the door to the walk-in closet, I find myself in Melissa’s bedroom. She is dozing in a stuffed chair beside her bed but startles awake at my entry. She pulls her night shift about her.

“What are you doing here? How did you . . . I locked up hours ago!”

“I am not here,” I say. “I’m in my attic.” I look behind me, through the door, to see my third-floor hallway.

Melissa glares at me until her countenance quickly softens. “Oh, no. It’s my fault. I’ve summoned you again. Sorry. I didn’t intend to.”

“Well,” I say, “I am sure my cursed attic has something to do with it.”

“Oh, please, have a seat.”

I take a chair with the espresso machine resting heavily on my lap. Melissa continues.

“I just read a variant of The Juniper Tree and decided to talk to you about it as I fell asleep, and now you are here.”

“Well then, what is the story that has brought me here?”

She holds up the book from her lap. “Folk and Fairy Tales from Denmark, volume two, collected by Evald Tang Kristensen and translated by Stephen Badman. This version is called The Little Bird’s Song.”

There was a husband and wife with a son named Hans. The mother died, and the husband remarried. By his second wife, he had a daughter. The new wife much preferred the girl over her stepson and was abusive toward him. His father did little to protect him.

Events came to a head when the woman decided to dispose of Hans. When her husband was at the mill and Hans returned from school, she proposed treating Hans and her daughter, Berline. She took them to the attic, where there was a chest filled with apples. She gave one to Berline, who took her treasure back downstairs, and allowed Hans to choose an apple for himself. As he bent over the chest, she slammed down the lid, decapitating the boy.

She then set the body up, sitting in a chair by the stove, tied the head back on with a scarf, and placed an apple in his hand. In a short time, she sent Berline to ask Hans if he had finished his apple. The corpse, of course, did not answer. The mother sent Berline a second time and then a third, with the instruction to box his ears if he did not answer.

When his head fell to the floor, Berline thought she had killed her brother. Without pause, the wife cooked up Hans for the evening meal, turning him into a soup. Berline warned her father about what her mother had done, but he took no heed. During the repast, Berline sat under the table, crying, and collected the bones as they were thrown to the floor. These she put into a gilded chest.

Sometime later, she reopened the chest to gaze upon her brother’s remains. Out flew a lovely little bird, the prettiest she had ever seen. It flew off to sit on the roof of a goldsmith’s home and sang a morbid song about its previous life. Nonetheless, the song charmed the goldsmith, and the bird sang the song again in exchange for a string of pearls.

The next visit was to a blacksmith to sing for an axe. That was followed by a visit to a miller to acquire a millstone. The bird flew back to its home, perched on the roof, and sang its morbid song. Berline came out to see if it was her little bird. The bird dropped the pearl necklace down to her. When the mother came out to see what was going on, the bird chopped off her head with the axe. When the father came out to see what had happened to his wife, he was crushed by the millstone.

Berline kissed the little bird, and it turned back into Hans. They lived happily together ever after.

“Well,” I say, “that is different for The Juniper Tree. Different enough to be interesting.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Melissa replies.

Part Two

Let’s Compare

“The Juniper Tree has an interesting and particular history.” I feel a pontification coming on.

“Yes, it does, but please remind me,” Melissa says. “You just startled me out of sleep.”

“Right. I’ve been drinking espresso all evening with Duckworth. So I’m wide awake.” She’s given me free rein. “The Grimms were not field collectors of fairy tales. That science had not been invented when they wrote Kinder und Hausmärchen. Rather, they collected the tales from friends, family, and acquaintances. One of the acquaintances was Philipp Otto Runge, a German Romantic artist, something of a polymath, who died too young.

“He sent to the Grimms The Juniper Tree, and The Fisherman and His Wife. Runge’s ‘voice’ for his two stories is what Wilhelm adopted as the voice of the Grimm fairy tales. All the stories in Kinder und Hausmärchen were vigorously edited and reedited, even though the Grimms’ goal was to find the German folk voice. There was a nationalistic spirit driving their work, facing down the culture of the Holy Roman Empire.”

Melissa taps her finger on the cover of the book that lies again on her lap. “Let’s compare the stories side-by-side.”

“I’m game. How does the Danish version start?”

“By the end of the first paragraph, we know a husband and his wife had a child, Hans, but the wife dies, and the husband remarries. The second wife has a daughter with him, whom she dotes over, treating Hans badly.”

“Oh, my,” I say, “Runge’s version has quite an opening scene. One winter’s day, a rich man’s wife is peeling an apple under a juniper tree. She cuts her finger, and drops of blood fall onto the snow. She wishes for a child as red as blood and white as snow. The story follows her progression month by month, tracing her emotions that move from happiness to sadness. In the seventh month, she eats the juniper berries.”

“That,” Melissa says, “was considered an abortive drug at the time.”

“Correct. In the eighth month, she asks her husband to bury her under the juniper tree. In the ninth month, she gives birth to a boy as red as blood and as white as snow, then dies. The husband buries her beneath the tree as promised. The story does not give a name to the boy.

“He remarries and has a daughter by his second wife. The new wife has it in for the boy, just as in the Danish version, but a motive is given that the boy stood in the way of her daughter inheriting her husband’s wealth. The story suggests the devil is also at play.”

“Therefore,” Melissa temples her fingers, “what my tale covers in a paragraph is a couple of pages in the Grimms. Juniper is much more detailed and dramatic. Then we come to the chest of apples. On the surface, the events are the same or at least similar.

“The children are offered an apple, the boy loses his head—literally—the wife props up the body, ties the head back on with a scarf, the daughter knocks off his head (this is where we hear her name as Berline in the Danish version and Marlene in the Grimms), and the boy is cooked up and served to the father as the daughter, weeping, collects the bones.”

“Yes,” I say. “But we both know the circumstances are different. In the Grimms’ tale, the second wife acts out of evil impulse, inventing the crime as she goes along. In The Little Bird’s Song, the wife plots it out beforehand. However, it is in the Grimms’ version that she comes up with an excuse for the husband’s son not being at home. In the Danish, Berline warns her father about what has happened, but he does not seem to believe her and does not question.”

I raise a finger. “Marlene collects the bones in a silk neckerchief and puts them under the juniper tree.”

Melissa nods. “Berline collects the bones and puts them in a gilded chest.”

“Marlene watches as smoke and flame rise up, out of which flies a beautiful bird.”

“One day, Berline opens the gilded chest, and out flies a beautiful bird.”

“The bird flies off to a goldsmith.”

“Aren’t you uncomfortable with that espresso machine in your lap?”

I set it down on the floor.

Part Three

The Differences

“Where were we? Ah yes,” I say. “The beautiful bird flies off to a goldsmith’s house, perches on the roof, and sings his morbid little song.”

Melissa echoes, “The beautiful bird flies off to a goldsmith’s house, perches on the roof, and sings his morbid little song.”

“The bird sings his song a second time after the goldsmith promises him a golden chain.”

“This is an odd note in my version. The goldsmith gives the bird a pearl necklace, not a gold chain as in Runge’s tale. The illogic cries out to me.”

“Granted. My bird flies off to a shoemaker, landing on his roof. He brings out his whole family and all the servants to hear the bird sing after promising a pair of red shoes.”

Melissa knits her brow. “The bird flies off to a blacksmith to sing for an axe.”

“The bird then goes to a miller, whose twenty workmen are finishing a millstone. This, for repeating the song, is given to the bird, who wears it like a collar.”

“There are twenty workmen in the Danish version. That always struck me like a Greek chorus. My miller also gives the bird a millstone to wear like a collar.”

“The bird returns to his father’s house to settle in the juniper tree.”

“The bird returns to his father’s house to settle on the rooftop. There is no juniper tree in my version.”

“Here,” I say, “is where our stories diverge even more. The bird sings his song, which is heard by the household. Marlene begins weeping again. The mother is filled with horror. The clueless father falls into a blissful state. He goes out to see the beautiful bird, who drops the golden chain about his neck. He returns to the house, showing off his prize.

“The wife has fallen into madness. Marlene visits the bird to be given the red shoes. She, too, like her father, is filled with joy. The wife, in her madness, flees from the house. The bird drops the millstone upon her. The father and Marlene come back out of the house to see smoke and flames rising out of where the millstone has fallen and sunk into the earth. When all clears, there is the son, returned to life. Happily, they return to the house and eat.”

Melissa, again, taps her finger on her book. “The bird flies back to his father’s house, settles on the rooftop, and sings his song. Berline comes out, and he drops the pearl necklace down to her. The mother comes out and gets the axe, literally, perhaps a retaliatory beheading. The father comes out to see what has happened to his wife and receives the millstone on his head. The little bird flies down, and Berline kisses him, turning the bird back into her brother. They live happily together for the rest of their lives.”

Melissa and I pause to contemplate.

“Both end a little uncomfortably for me,” I conclude.

“Violently, certainly.” Melissa nods. “Another odd item: I recall Runge’s version starting out stating this story might be two thousand years old.”

I raise a finger. “I think Runge is making an historical reference, comparing his story to the curse of the House of Atreus.”

“My thinking as well. Here are more oddities. Why in my story are there apples in a chest in the attic? And why would a goldsmith be handling pearls? Runge’s story is much more consistent in these matters.”

I am back to pontificating. “Let me suggest that Runge, as a folklorist, is not to be trusted. He was an artist; he made sense out of the material he covered. Real folk material is full of inconsistencies and nonsense given its dream-based origins.”

I think that is a good point, but missed by Melissa, who has fallen asleep again. I pick up my espresso machine and quietly close the door.

Standing in the attic hallway, I open the door again. It is my walk-in closet. I return the machine to its shelf.

Will Melissa think this was all a dream?

I stop at the top of the stairs.

Are we all someone else’s dream? Might I be the imagination of some wacky author? That would explain a lot.

Your thoughts?

AI vs. Movable Type: Which constitutes the greater crime?

OK, so I got you to start reading this missive with a catchy title, but I see a parallel, and I have a point to make.

Johannes Gutenberg, around 1450, invented a system for printing books that used a couple of emerging technologies, replacing what had been the exclusive task of monks and scribes. Books had been rare and expensive. Suddenly, they were cheap and available. Also, there were pamphlets and broadsides.

In 1517, according to tradition, Martin Luther nailed his Ninety-five Theses to the door of All Saints’ Church in Wittenberg. It was a local act of dissent. There had been local acts of dissent to the Catholic Church before, but the Ninety-five Theses was reprinted and distributed, getting the word out.

Then Martin Luther upped and translated the Bible into the German vernacular! What was he thinking? Giving the common people access to the word of God without the necessary filter of the Catholic Church? What did that get us? The Thirty Years’ War, for one; Protestant and Catholic princes battled each other, resulting in the deaths of a third of the German population.

Considering this single example, was it worth the cost of having movable type? Should we not, at long last, return to the less inflammatory system and limit knowledge to those who do not have the training to understand?

OK, I hope you see the exaggerations I’ve made for this fallacious argument. While Gutenberg’s improvements were significant, they were only one factor in an evolving European culture moving toward what historians have labeled the Enlightenment.

I am making a comparison between then and now. AI is an emerging technology introduced into a world of many moving parts. Interestingly, movable type is a technology no longer used, replaced by other, more inexpensive digital methods.

I see two options:

• Ignore AI. Do not use it in any of its forms, which is not to be on the internet; off the grid. Welcome to the world of Luddites.
• Accept AI. As with the effect of movable type, it is already established. There is no going back.

I am in full agreement with Linda Caroll , who writes on Substack, when she says we need clarity. If an item has used AI, which is derivative, that act must be acknowledged as such. In my books, I state the use of AI in the cover design. (Oh, check out my new covers for A Vacant Throne and Sword of Trueterrathat my son created with AI. He likened the experience to being an art director.)

In addition, the courts have said derivative content cannot be copyrighted. Does that open up a whole new consideration? Can we lean on the writings of great authors and yet profit from them when we ask for paid subscribers? If I use AI to simply correct my punctuation, am I being derivative? AI is, ultimately, derivative.

What I am suggesting is that we have been here before but continue to struggle. We would be wise to consider the possible consequences, given our experience. What we need to do is use AI and not let AI use us. AI would lead us towards the common denominator. We ought to aim to be unique. This, in my mind, is the current challenge. The consequence could be profound.

A Snake

I open the familiar gate to Miss Cox’s garden. I always enjoy being here. The grounds are pleasant and well-kept. Miss Cox always provides a pot of tea tucked into its cozy and enough cups for her visitors. I never see her, but then she is always rather reclusive.

It is in her garden, a place between time and space, that I have been able to meet with Joseph Jacobs, Andrew Lang, Hans Christian Anderson, and others. But today . . .

Why am I here?

I spot Melissa sitting on the bench with the teapot on the wrought iron table in front of her.

“You called me?” I say.

Melissa smiles. “You are so obedient.”

I settle onto the bench, and she pours me a cup.

“I am in fairy-tale distress,” she says. “I read a tale, many years ago, in Giambattista Basile’s Pentamerone, that offended me, and I excluded it from my memory. I ran across it again today in Andrew Lang’s Green Fairy Book, there called The Enchanted Snake. It still offends me, but now I want to know why. Interestingly, in the preface of the Green Fairy Book, Andrew says this is the last of the color-book trilogy. It went on for eight more volumes. Apparently, he did not talk to Lenore about that.”

“Well,” I say, “tell me the tale.”

A woodcutter, Cola-Mattheo, and his wife, Sabatella, to their sadness, have no children. They show sympathy to a little snake they find in a bunch of faggots that the woodcutter brings home. The snake speaks to Sabatella and asks her to be like a mother to him. This she does.

When the snake has grown, he wants to marry the king’s daughter and asks his “father” to make the arrangements. The woodcutter, something of a simpleton, does as his “son” asks. The king, thinking this a bizarre joke, agrees if the snake will turn his palace into ivory, inlaid with gold and silver.

With the help of Mattheo, this the snake easily performs. The next two challenges the king demands are also easily done. Trapped by honor, the king calls for his daughter, Grannonia, and tells her that he has chosen a husband for her. Calling the king her lord and father, she acquiesces. He does not tell her he has promised her to a snake.

When the reptile arrives in a golden carriage drawn by six white elephants, all flee at the appearance of the would-be bridegroom. Only Grannonia holds her ground. The snake, after kissing her, leads her into a room where he sheds his serpent skin to become a handsome man. The king and queen, spying on them, rush in, seize the snakeskin, and burn it. The bridegroom turns into a dove and escapes by breaking through a glass window, injuring itself.

That evening, nearly heartbroken, Grannonia slips from the castle disguised as a peasant to search for her would-be husband. She is befriended by a fox, who translates the story that the birds around them are singing, which is her story, and that the dove, actually a prince, is gravely wounded.

The fox further explains that, at her pleading, she could effect a cure for the prince with the blood of the birds telling the tale. The princess talks the fox into catching the birds for her. He does so, but then further explains that his blood is also necessary, which he is not willing to give up.

She convinces him to try and still help her, even promising he can sell her as a slave to the king of her beloved. On the way to that kingdom, she murders the fox. With the blood of the birds and the fox, she is able to cure the prince with the agreement that he will marry her, although she is still disguised as a peasant.

The prince, when healed, refuses to marry the peasant woman since his heart belongs to someone else. Grannonia reveals herself to the prince’s great joy. Her parents are invited to the prince’s kingdom, and the grand marriage takes place.

“So,” I say, “are we here to meet with Basile, Andrew, or Lenore?”

“I would like to meet with Lenore someday,” Melissa nods, “but today I have invited the fox for an interview.”

Part Two

A Princess

A movement catches my eye. I turn to see a fox jumping over Miss Cox’s garden gate. He trots, purposefully, toward us, but then stops a good twenty feet away and sits on his haunches.

“I see there is a gentleman with you,” the fox states. “That gives me some encouragement that I have not been called to be beguiled by a woman again. Men are honest if poor at following my instructions. Women have yet to prove themselves worthy of my assistance. If you want something from me, you will need to bargain for it, and a cup of tea will not suffice.”

“I anticipated your reluctance,” Melissa says, “and have brought kibbles.” She advances halfway between the fox and us with a stainless-steel bowl. The fox backs up as she moves forward, then approaches the bowl as Melissa moves back. He sniffs suspiciously, glances up with a question in his frown, then takes a bite.

“Oh, it is good. Well then, I sense you have a question.” He nibbles and listens.

“Yes,” says Melissa. “I wish to speak of, and perhaps defend, the princess Grannonia.”

The fox coughs but continues to eat, and Melissa goes on.

“The king, her father, falls into the snake’s trap of giving up his daughter to him. Grannonia, being a dutiful daughter, never thinks of objecting. However, the king does not tell her he has betrothed her to a snake.

“This is the beast-as-a-husband motif, of course. In this case, she is left to face her snake bridegroom as everyone else flees. True to the motif, the snake turns into a handsome prince. What could have been a happy ending turns tragic when her parents interfere.

“Now, deceived by her father and denied true joy in a rapid turn of events, she, in disguise, leaves the castle, leaves the life familiar to her, and steps into the unknown to reclaim the true love she so briefly knew.

“Here is my question. Was her distress why you befriended her, or was it a chance encounter?”

The fox finishes his kibbles. “A valid, feminine-perspective question that I will try to answer, although it gives me pain. You must understand I am a fairy-tale fox, a helper. My befriending Grannonia was no coincidence, no accident. I appear to supply what my client lacks.

“In the case of heroes, men, it is their lack of any kind of strategy to get from point A to point B. They invariably screw things up, and we move on to get them from point C to point D and onward.

“The case of women is different. It is not all about a strategy but more about comprehending their dilemma and plotting a path forward. What they lack is control. To my demise, Grannonia seduced me into trying to help, even promising me I could sell her. Blindsided, I let her murder me. She took my life, she took my blood, but more importantly, she took my cunning, if only metaphorically. She became cunning and took control. I was no longer needed.”

With that, he turns, vaults over the garden gate, and is gone.

Part Three

The Mindset

“He is a bit misogynistically inclined,” I defend.

“I won’t blame him,” Melissa replies. “Grannonia is certainly one of the few women with a fox helper in European fairy-tale tradition. She did not act saintly toward him.

“I am thinking he is right that Grannonia murdered him in part to acquire, or maybe usurp, his abilities.”

I sip my tea as our conversation comes to a halt while Melissa processes the fox’s words.

“A bit off topic,” I eventually say, “but I could not help noticing the naming convention. Only the woodcutter, his wife, and the princess had proper names.”

“Yes, how about that?” Melissa also sips her tea. “At the end of the tale, we find out that Grannonia’s parents are the king and queen of Starza-0longa, and the prince’s kingdom is Vallone Grossa, yet we still do not know their names.

“Usually, the fairy tales begrudgingly give up a few names, those of lesser characters, not often the names of royalty. They are the King, the Queen, the Prince, and the Princess. That the woodcutter and his wife have names is no surprise, but that the princess does in our case is unusual.”

“I also noticed,” I say, “that while the woodcutter and his wife had names, and the snake is indebted to them, they disappear from the story and do not reappear, not even at the wedding.”

“A good point,” Melissa agrees. “Were peasants not allowed at royal weddings? When this story was told in the seventeenth century, would that protocol not be questioned?”

“The fairy tales come out of a different mindset than our own,” I agree. “Characters set off on their life’s adventure with nothing more than a loaf of bread to sustain them. Lovers do not recognize each other when they meet after a separation. Heroes will not reveal their true identity for no profitable or apparent reason. Fathers, who initiate a crisis, disappear from the story. The weddings! They go on for days. Much of this is nonsense, but I for one will buy it every time.”

“Maybe,” Melissa frowns. “The weddings, at least, in the fairy tales are a reflection of actual medieval customs. Interestingly, medieval weddings took place on the church steps, not over the threshold, not in the sanctuary. Marriage was considered to be a contract, not something sacramental. A mass might follow the contractual agreement.

“However, the marriage feast, among royals, was political theatre. The more elaborate, the better. Peasant marriages did their best to reflect that as well. Marriages have always been a big deal.”

It is my turn to frown. “You suggest the fairy tales reflect the era in which they were created? What I consider nonsense has some basis in medieval culture?”

Melissa smiles at me. “I am not sure I would put money on it, but it is a workable idea. But what I am thinking about is the universal, timeless thoughts that the fairy tales embody. Particularly, this tale of The Enchanted Snake.”

Now my eyebrows rise. “The fox said something that touched you.”

Melissa sighs. “Maybe not something he said, but the realization that crossed my mind as we spoke. Grannonia’s story is my story.”

She turns away but then looks directly at me. “I married under pressure from my parents. I soon found myself trying to reclaim the marriage as it fell apart, and we became separated. I did things and thought things I now criticize others for doing. My hypocrisy is what made me reject the story when I first read it. Now, I must reconsider and purge myself.”

“Well,” I say, “I hope you don’t murder me in the process.”

Melissa snorts a laugh.

Never underestimate the content and effect of a good tale.

Your thoughts?

That’s right, I am having a book giveaway. But it’s not what you think. When I say “a book giveaway,” I mean one book.

Of course, there is a story.

Back in my college years at Kutztown University, downtown in a back alley was “Mountain Bummie’s Bookstore and Furs.” He traded in used books and animal pelts. In my memory, Bummie (Baumgartener) was a weather-beaten man—hard to say how old he might have been—and he spoke in the regional Pennsylvania Dutch accent. Where he got his books for resale, I don’t know, but I believe if I had looked hard enough, I could have found a Gutenberg Bible.

Being a poor college student, I didn’t have the disposable income required for unbridled purchases and had to put items of interest back on the shelves. One of those I now wish I hadn’t. Imagine a hardcover book with the usual spine, but inside were only a few pages. It bore a floppy appearance with the unfulfilled spine, yet it had obviously been made that way. Confused, I let it go.

What it was was a traveling book salesman’s sample. In the nineteenth century, as many books were sold by traveling salesmen as were sold in bookstores, probably more. Known as the subscription method, a salesman could carry a number of these samples. The customer could see the quality of the binding, how thick the book would be, and read a sampling of the writing. If they purchased the book, two things happened. One: the publisher knew exactly how many copies to produce. Two: the purchaser’s name would appear on a list in the back of the book. How many of us still love seeing our names in print? I believe all of Mark Twain’s books were sold on subscription, certainly Huckleberry Finn.

I held one of those sample books in my hand and put it back.

One of the treasures I did buy was a peddler’s edition of Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe in German, printed in Philadelphia in 1809. Think nineteenth-century mass market paperback. The book is small, with an unadorned cover (although still intact after more than two hundred years), and completely marred by someone who, with a red felt-tipped pen, wrote “1809” on the first blank page. Here is the title page. You can see some of the red in the illustration where it bled onto this page.

Another book I purchased, coming back to where I started this blog, was this.

Why I got it, I no longer remember. I don’t recall having any interest in China. It is a travel guide to Peking, filled with descriptions, suggestions, photos, foldout maps, and advertisements. One of the maps, tucked into its own little pocket at the back of the book, is this.

I will give this book to the person who needs it most. I suspect there is detailed information that may not be available anywhere else, at least not distilled in such a fashion, for someone writing about this period or who has a historical interest. It is written largely in English, meant for Western travelers, and is 237 pages plus. I know this book is worth a couple of hundred dollars on the market, but I want it to go to a good home.

Make your case.

Irish Story

“In honor of Saint Patrick’s Day,” Thalia announces, “I will read an Irish story.”

We are all settled in the study for the evening reading. By we, I mean Thalia, Jini, Johannes in Jini’s lap, the fairy on her shoulder, probably the brownies in the dark corners, and myself. A fire in the hearth keeps the March dampness at bay.

“Connla and the Fairy Maiden from Celtic Fairy Tales.”

Connla of the Fiery Hair, son of Conn of the Hundred Battles, stood on the heights of Usna with his father when they were approached by a fairy maiden that only Connla could see and hear, although Conn could also hear her.

They gathered that she had come to take Connla to the fairy world, the Plain of Pleasure, to be her consort and live with her forever until the Judgement Day. Fearful, the king called for his Druid, who drove her off with a spell, but not before she threw an apple to Connla.

For the next month, Connla would not eat or drink save for consuming the apple, which grew back its flesh. As Connla ate the apple, he became more enamored of the fairy maiden.

At the end of the month, she reappeared. Connla, the king, and their men were on the Plain of Arcomin. As before, Connla could hear and see the fairy maiden, and Conn again called for his Druid. The fairy maiden pleaded her case, pointing out the evilness of the Druids.

The king deferred to Connla and let him make the decision. Connla was torn between his kin and the fairies. In an impulsive gesture, he left with the fairy in her crystal boat, never more to be seen.

“Oh,” Jini sighs, “that’s so lovely and tragic. Connla is torn between those he loves and the one he loves. He can’t have both. Kind of Romeo and Juliet, sort of.”

“Ah!” I say. “Star-crossed lovers.”

“Oh,” Jini smiles. “I like that too.”

Johannes stirs restlessly in her lap. “It’s really Oisin and Niamh.”

I hadn’t thought Johannes was listening, only taking advantage of Jini’s lap while she stroked him during the reading.

“In that version, Oisin returned from fairyland, Tir na nÓg, after a year, except in our time it had been three centuries. Niamh warned him to stay on his horse and not touch earth, but accidents happen. He was condemned to be an ancient man, not able to return to the Land of Youth. Curiously, it is said he met and talked to Saint Patrick. All in all, the tale falls well within the Irish tradition of tragedy.”

“I know that version too,” says Thalia, “but I prefer this one. It ends much more romantically. Connla disappears in a crystal boat with a beautiful woman. I say, let’s leave it there.”

Jini scratches Johannes gently behind his ears. “The fairy tales are filled with love stories. Couples are getting married: Cinderella, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, all of them.”

“Yeah, but,” Thalia puts in, “I’m thinking of the lovers who cross over into fairyland, like Connla and Oisin, and don’t get to come back without it becoming a disaster.”

“Ah,” Jini nods, “bittersweet.”

Part Two

More Irish

“I remember,” I say, “another Irish tale about Brân Mac Febail, who was, one day, out walking when he heard beautiful music that put him to sleep. When he awoke, there was a silver branch with white blooms in front of him.

“That evening, in his court, appeared an otherworldly woman, who took the branch, explained it came from the Land of Women, sang a song describing that land as a paradise, and encouraged Brân to sail there. She then disappears with the branch.

I have Thalia and Jini’s undivided attention, and I go on.

“He and a number of companions sailed off, met the sea god Manannán riding a chariot across the waves, the Isle of Joy where the inhabitants couldn’t stop laughing, and then the Land of Women. Brán and his men were paired off with mates.

“After a year of feasting, they wished to return to Ireland but were warned by the woman not to touch land. Nonetheless, they sail. Remaining on the ship, they call out to people on the shore. They only knew the name Brân Mac Febail as a legend. When one of his men went ashore, he instantly turned to dust.

“Brân related his story to those gathered on the shore, then sailed off never to be seen again.”

“Yeah, similar,” Thalia nods, “but the women don’t call themselves fairies?”

“No, they don’t. It does sound a touch like some of the islands in The Odyssey.”

“I’m thinking,” Jini squints a little, “of Tam Lin, sort of.”

“Sort of?” Thalia squints back at her friend.

“Well, it’s the opposite. Connla is kind of abducted by the fairy maiden to fairyland. Tam Lin is abducted from the fairies by a mortal woman.”

“Oh, oh, okay.” I see Thalia analyzing. “Tam Lin was a mortal man, taken by the fairies, and about to be sacrificed when stolen back. The Tam Lin thing is a bit more complicated than Connla’s, but still there’s shuffling back and forth between the worlds, and it’s romantic. I’ll count it.”

“Let me make another suggestion to be included in your club,” I try again. “There is a Welsh tale of King Pwyll and Arawn, lord of the otherworld. To settle an argument between them, they agree to take on each other’s likeness for a year, and Pwyll, mighty warrior, would defeat Arawn’s enemy. Honorably, Pwyll does not take advantage of Arawn’s wife and does defeat his enemy.”

“No romance,” Thalia frowns. “Doesn’t count.”

“No, wait,” I argue. “There is still exchange between the two worlds.”

“Doesn’t count,” Thalia insists.

I sense a prejudice toward romance. “I believe I have one more to be considered for the club, Thomas the Rhymer.

“He was lounging under a tree when the queen of Elfland lured him away. On their trip to Elfland, they come to three forks in the road. The queen explained that one road led to heaven, one to hell, and the other to Elfland.

“After seven days in Elfland, the elf queen sent him home again because, in fact, seven years had passed. Like Tam Lin, she feared he would become the ‘tithe to hell.’ He returned with the gift of prophecy and the inability to lie. During the next seven years, he became famous for his prophecies, but then a hart and a hind came out of the forest and summoned Thomas back to Elfland, and he was not seen again.”

Thalia raises her finger. “Thomas can join the club.”

Part Three

A Meal

“I am torn between the sweetcorn ribs with a lime pickle or the shalgam sabzi. With the shalgam, I get a poached egg and pickled daikon. I’ll go with that.” Melissa lays down her menu. I have already decided on the mutton chops with red cabbage and green chutney with a side of masala fries.

We are sitting in The Raglan on Shernhall Street. The building is a large, red-brick structure. The restaurant is an Irish/Indian culinary mashup. We have seated ourselves at the back in the bright, greenhouse-like extension.

“And what are the girls up to?” Melissa queries. I don’t get to answer her until our server has taken our order.

“I think they might be starting the Fairy-Tale Romance Club, very informal though. It did occur to me, during our silly conversation, that the word ‘romance’ is not usually applied to the term ‘fairy tale’unless they are modern retellings.”

Melissa cocks her head. “I did my master’s dissertation on that word.”

“Really?” I declare. “Please pontificate.”

She takes a sip of water before starting. “During medieval times Romantic literature referred to works not written in Latin, that is to say, the vernacular.”

“Oh,” I say, “the Romance languages, French, Spanish, etc.”

“Exactly, serious writing—philosophy, medicine, religion—tended to be in Latin, the language of scholars. Fictional writing happened more often in the common tongue.”

I nod. “I am thinking of The Canterbury Tales andLe Morte d’Arthur as examples.”

“Right again. Those non-Latin works were adventures, trials, wonders, and things out of the ordinary.”

“Under that definition,” I confirm, “fairy tales are romantic.”

“Yes. Even when the hero and heroine in the tales get married, as they so often do, it is still not so much about loving each other; it is more about the restoration of order, regaining identity, or achieving a goal. The fairy tales are not about ‘boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl back again.’”

Our conversation lapses when our food arrives, but only for a few minutes until Melissa continues.

“I can cloud the issue by talking about the German Romantic Movement.”

“Please do.” I return to my mutton.

“It was a reaction to the Enlightenment thinking. The Romantics felt too much imagination, mystery, and tradition had been overlooked by rationalists. Fairy tales fell well within the Romantic mindset in that they represented the folk voice, their simplicity spoke of authenticity, and they reflected something primordial. The tales were unpolished (although the Grimms put a literary gloss on them) and collective in that there were many versions, but all had a sense of timelessness.”

“Now,” I suggest, “the word means a specific genre.”

Melissa takes a few more bites of her meal, then says, “Devoid of context, people will think you are talking about modern romantic novels. Nonetheless, there are subgenres like romantasy and cozy fantasy that bring the ‘romance’ and the term ‘fairy tale’ back together, but on different terms. Now they are talking about interpersonal love.”

“I find this an interesting topic, Melissa. I was thinking upon your words and have hardly tasted my mutton.”

She smiles, and we finish our meal in silence.

Your thoughts?

Scamming Revisited

I’ve decided I am not quite done writing about my scam experiences. It appears they come in different flavors. I am getting one or two of them a week. I must be on the sucker’s list.

Previously, I wrote about my experience with the book club/promotion deal. I have inquired into “individuals” who offer to promote one of my books for a fee. None offer references or have a website.

I recently got an offer from a real publisher. It was a long, detailed email, which had the feel of legitimacy, offering a “partnership.” At the bottom of the email was the name of the co-founder of the company, with the usual contact information, including the website address.

I clicked on the address, and up came a big red box that said, “Scam Alert! We do not offer partnerships.” Of course, when the scam started, the publisher was not aware, and things looked legitimate. But even now, the unwary might be fooled if they don’t do their research.

Not unlike the scammer proposing to be a real publisher, I got an email that bore a real author’s name: a prolific, award-winning British fantasy writer, who simply complimented me on Sword of Trueterra, giving me an at-a-boy. Nothing more. Nonetheless, I was still suspicious. I returned the compliment and thought this author might get back to me and “suggest” he could help me get the book out into the world. That did not happen. Maybe it was simply a real at-a-boy.

Still, I feel cautious after reading on The Authors Guild site, which keeps an updated list of author scams, the following:

“May 23, 2024: We recently received a report about scammers impersonating bestselling authors in order to scam other authors. The author who alerted us discovered a Facebook page in the writing service category called a “verified fan club” that was pretending to be them and engaging with their followers. Another author reported paying the person behind the Facebook page $499 for a foreword, supposedly written by the bestselling author, with whom they thought they were speaking.”

I will also mention a site I came across while researching author scams. WritersWeekly is an online magazine for freelance writers founded in 1997 and associated with the self-publishing company BookLocker.com. While some people feel they are a little dodgy themselves, they do have an exhaustive and highly opinionated list of scammers.

Oh, and Writers Beware almost goes without saying; it’s probably the premier site for scammer information.

You might also visit Absolute Write Water Cooler, which has a list of scams and lots of other useful information for authors.

Nerds Club

“I object,” Melissa states with a devilish smile.

“What? Already? We’ve just started,” I say.

Thalia and Jini giggle.

I have called together the first meeting of the Fairy-Tale Nerds Club, whose first order of business is to discuss The Battle of the Birds. A week ago, Duckworth and I wandered around Hyde Park, I telling him about this tale and promising to talk about it further.

Actually, I fed them first: Melissa, the girls, Duckworth, and Augustus. Melissa is a vegetarian, and Jini is Hindu, so I made fettuccine alfredo—always a crowd pleaser—with a side salad. I paired it with a couple of bottles of chardonnay. Thalia and Jini shared a bottle of ginger ale, although I suspect Thalia took a sip of mine when I was not looking. Afterwards, we retired to the study with drinks and a plate of shortbread cookies.

The first order of business was for Thalia to read The Battle of the Birds to refresh our memories. Thalia finished, and that is when Melissa objected.

“What can you be objecting to?” I continue.

“You had Thalia read Lang’s version of the tale. I prefer Jacobs’ version.”

“Is there that much difference?” Duckworth queries. “They start and end the same, don’t they?”

“No, they don’t,” Melissa warms to her cause. “Oh, not substantially, but different. Jacobs’ version starts out with a conflict between a wren and a mouse, which escalates. Lang simply says there was a war between the creatures of the earth and the creatures of the sky, and not what led up to it.”

“OK,” Duckworth nods, nibbling on a shortbread.

Melissa is not done. “When the cook’s and the butler’s sons are substituted for the prince in the Lang version—and here we are talking about Leonora, who edited the collection, and not Andrew, her husband—the giant returns the sons to their mothers and demands the real prince. In Jacobs’ version, the giant bashes out their brains before returning to the court.”

“Eeww!” Jini’s nose wrinkles.

Melissa takes a sip of her wine. “Then we come to the magpie eggs. Lang has the giant’s daughter levitating, placing her finger on the tree trunk to give the prince purchase to climb. In Jacobs, the giant’s daughter—identified as Auburn Mary—insists the prince kill her and separate her bones from her body, explaining that the bones would attach themselves to the trunk, allowing him to climb. In reverse, he needed to collect the bones on his way down and reassemble her body, and she would revive. Clumsily, he loses her little finger bone.”

Jini is looking aghast and a bit pale. Thalia chuckles at her friend’s distress.

“And I am not done,” Melissa goes on. “As much as I prefer Jacobs’ version, he does edit out the section where the giant’s daughter cuckolds her suitors.

“And lastly,” she says, “what I don’t find understandable is Leonora’s butchering of the golden pigeon/silver pigeon event. She refers to the golden pigeon with the pronoun ‘he’ when, in Jacobs, it is much clearer that the golden pigeon is a manifestation of Auburn Mary, and the silver pigeon is that of the prince, who benefited from her sacrifices and came close to abandoning her.”

I raise my cup in salute.  “I take particular note that the pigeons rose up in flames out of a wine glass.”

Part Two

Greek Maybe

“Well,” declares Augustus, “I appoint myself as president of this club.”

“Oh! And how’s that?” Melissa challenges, but with a humorous glimmer in her eyes.

“Because I am the nerdiest of us all. I’ve read John Francis Campbell’s Popular Tales of the West Highlands, from which Lang and Jacobs drew their versions.”

Melissa raises her glass before taking another sip. “I will bow to your authority.”

Augustus takes a sip of his wine and commences. “Lang and Jacobs had at their disposal the eight variants of this tale that Campbell collected.”

“Ah!” we chorus.

Melissa frowns. “Was he like Francis James Child and his exhaustive research for The English and Scottish Popular Ballads?”

Augustus pauses. “Campbell was thorough, but his four-volume work, as opposed to Child’s ten volumes, is far more readable.

“Both Lang and Jacobs cherry-picked what they wanted from the variations. I will also say they took editorial license at times but mostly remained true to one or another of Campbell’s versions.”

“All well and good.” Duckworth raises his glass. “But I have a question. You committed nerds go on about motifs. I get the thing about three. There are three tasks, three sisters, and three obstructions during the flight. But what is this getting kissed by a dog all about?”

“Technically, it’s called ‘The Kiss of Oblivion,'” Augustus clarifies. “Which usually follows ‘The Magical Flight’ and is connected with ‘The Forgotten Bride.’ It’s not always a dog. The heroine puts a—let’s call it a geis—upon the hero when he returns home after a long adventure. The hero inadvertently breaks the geis, and as the heroine warned, he forgets his bride.”

Duckworth waggles his head. “Why this device? What is it supposed to represent?”

Augustus rotates the glass in his hand.He really has not drunk much. “I can only speculate. There are scholars who believe the tale relates to Jason and Medea. Medea, a sorceress, aids Jason in his tasks. However, Jason ‘forgets’ her and marries someone else. Unlike our tale, Medea poisons Jason’s wife and also kills their children.”

Jini is appalled. Nonetheless, he continues.

“I really don’t see that there is much of a connection. My thoughts turn toward the status of marriage in the early medieval era, a period during which these tales were incubating. At that time, marriage was not sanctioned by the church, and unions were more tenuous. The marriage vows were made on the church steps. The ceremony did not move into the sanctuary for a few more centuries. I wonder if wives did not, at times, have to go looking for their husbands who may have strayed.

“Still, I have not answered your question about ‘The Kiss of Oblivion’ and the dog. It may not be anything more than a charming image. We expect a parent to try to kiss the hero, but no, it’s the old greyhound that remembers the long-departed hero and greets him.”

“OK, I’ll buy that.” Duckworth reaches for another shortbread. “But I did notice that the task of cleaning the barn comes directly out of the Hercules story. I’m not too quick to discount this as coming out of Greek legend.”

Part Three

The Weeds

I lift a finger in the air to indicate I have a question. “I see this tale as a masterful combination of various motifs. We have the prince visiting the houses of the three sisters in succession. I have read that before or something similar. We have the hero performing three nearly impossible tasks, usually with the aid of a helper or helpers. Nothing new. The magical flight, well, that is an all-time favorite chase, ending in the destruction of the pursuer. Very satisfying.

“But in this story, there is the loss of the little finger of Auburn Mary. Setting aside the fact   that the giant’s daughter has a name, in this case, unusual in itself, I have never come across this notion before.”

“Nor I,” Melissa agrees. “Oh, there is the severing of limbs as in The Maiden Without Hands, the cutting out of body parts in The Three Army Surgeons, and many ‘three drops of blood,’ but a missing little finger I’ve not seen.’

I notice Jini being the definition of squeamish.

“What I want to know,” Thalia chimes in, “is why isn’t a giant’s daughter herself a giant? She doesn’t look like one in either Lang’s or Jacob’s story illustration.”

I see she is scrolling on her phone.

“Oh, goodness,” Melissa grins, “I like that question, although we are getting a little scientific if we get into genetics.”

I decide to come to the rescue. “The fairy tales do not play by our rules. I am thinking of the Nordic god Loki’s birthing of an eight-legged horse, Sleipnir, genetics be damned. We should note that the giant’s daughter was magical; if not a shapeshifter like Loki, she does inherit some magic from her father.

“Got it,” she says, pulling the shortbread plate away from Duckworth and taking one. “So, what about the weird name of Tethertown? It doesn’t sound like the name of a kingdom.”

“The origins of that might be lost in the mists of time,” I suggest.

“I haven’t a clue,” Melissa confesses.

“There was something in Campbell’s note about that,” Augustus muses.

“I’ll check it out.” Thalia’s phone is still in her hand, and she mumbles something into it.

I offer to freshen everyone’s glasses. Augustus still hasn’t drunk much of his, but my other adult friends are lushes like myself.

“OK,” says Thalia, “my buddy ChatGPT says that Campbell gives the Gaelic name of Tethertown as Baile An Teudair. ‘Baile’ means ‘town,’ ‘an’ means ‘of the,’ ‘Teud’ means ‘string’ or ‘rope’ or ‘cord,’ and ‘air’ is ‘one who does something.’ Therefore, ‘Teudair’ means ‘rope-man’ or ‘string-maker,’ possibly ‘tether.’ The name can be easily anglicized into ‘Tethertown.'”

My buddy ChatGPT? Well, so much for my romantic-sounding “lost in the mists of time” comment.

“Hmm,” Melissa has a playful smile. “Being the prince of Baile An Teudair does have a better ring to it than Tethertown.”

“Wait,” Jini protests. “Do we have to go into the weeds? Must we tear it to ribbons? Can’t we enjoy how it makes us feel in the moment?”

“Noo!” wails Thalia. ‘What’s the fun in that? We need to know what it means.”

Jini rolls her eyes.

“Hmm,” I say. “Feeling verses meaning. I will contemplate that.”

And I drain my glass.

Your thoughts?