I'd like to write a "Twelve Dancing Princesses" retelling where the girls can't tell their father where they go at night because they can't remember. As far as they know, they go to sleep and then wake up sore with shredded dancing slippers. They have no idea how it happened, and they're frankly terrified, so they want the mystery solved as much or more than their father does.
It could even be fun to do this in a realm where the eldest princess is already ruling in her own right, so the soldier character is interacting with her during the whole "solve the mystery" plot.
I think this could fit in with my idea for a retelling where the soldier is under an invisibility curse. However, that still doesn't answer the question of why the girls dance every night and why they forget. I'd like to incorporate the version where the princes are given a potion that makes them forget the upper world. In this case, the girls would be offered the drink each night before they leave, and take it because they can't bear to remember what they saw.
Maybe the girls are given the chance to somehow see suffering in this underworld kingdom or in their kingdom, but despair of being able to do anything to help (or the price of fixing it is too high) so they choose to forget. They keep being given the chance, and they keep failing. (Not sure how to make that fit with the whole beautiful enchanted ballroom aesthetic of the fairy tale). The soldier would find the truth and find a way to fix the problem, and it's all very vague, which is why I can't write it, but the concept intrigues me.
I let myself have a brainstorming season where I just daydreamed up a jillion half-baked ideas with no intention or desire to ever turn these into written stories. I have officially burned myself out on this, and I'm ready to dive back into real writing that dives deep into character, plot, setting and theme.
glimpse into my beautiful imaginary world where arthropods are really big and we domesticated them
edit: people are starting to say some "my worst nightmare" or "eeeww no that one is yucky and scary" comments on this like they do on any bug post and id like to say. it's fine if you don't like bugs it's fine if you're scared of bugs but don't put that on MY post clearly talking about how much i like them and how cute i think they are. you can make your own damn post about how much you hate wasps or spiders or whatever. i'm blocking people who make these kinds of comments.
technically this would fall under 595 (arthropods in general), but you could make a case for an in-universe classification under 638 ("domesticated" bugs; honeybees, silkworms, etc) because pets are classified separately from their wild counterparts (636 for animal husbrandry)
If you want to maintain enthusiasm about a story/world, I suggest featuring at least one or two things that you're likely to run across in real life, so seeing those things makes you think of that story and inspires you to develop it further.
After I went back to sleep this morning I spent an hour straight having the most bonkers dreams about Meg and Calvin's time travel adventures (among other insanities my brain came up with). Colin Firth was there playing an evil scientist??
😃 Someone dreamt about my characters? Achievement unlocked!
(At this point they're more your characters than my characters, but I've never had this happen before, so I'll count it).
This is extra amusing, because I was just thinking about how Colin Firth shows up in all the weirdest movies. So of course he'd show up as a mad scientist in a feature film adaptation!
Since I'm frustrated by the lack of writing happening, I'll share a piece of a WIP from my drafts.
The Beaumont "Beauty and the Beast" ends with Beauty's sisters being turned to fully-aware stone statues until they repent of their wickedness toward Beauty. I swear I've read a version that includes the condition that a man must fall in love with her to break the curse (which the fairy is certain will never happen). Even though I can't find that version now, I still want to write a retelling about that sister's story, so here's the opening.
Heart of Stone
Suddenly, you find yourself standing in the sunlit gardens of a royal palace, surrounded by millions of roses. On the edge of a nearby fountain sits Beauty, your youngest sister, wearing the same silk dress she wore when she left home this morning. Her eyes are red from crying, but her smile is luminous as she laughs and cries for joy. She clings to a handsome, dark-haired man who wears clothes fit for a prince, and who murmurs words of gratitude and devotion in her ear.
This, then, is what you've been brought here to see. Beauty returned to the palace, despite your best efforts, and her foolish Beast has become a clever, handsome prince. She will have beauty, riches, jewels, palaces, fine servants, a charming husband, devoted love--everything you wanted to claim for yourself, everything she doesn't deserve, while you have nothing, nothing, nothing...
You rush forward in a rage, not thinking, not knowing what you will do but knowing that you must do something, anything to destroy this universe that has come together so wrong. Push your sister in the fountain, tear that beautiful dress, leave a scar on that face that's always been unbearably, unjustly perfect--
A tall woman appears between you and Beauty. She wears silver-bright armor, and a cloak and headdress of green feathers. She twitches her hand, and you fall facedown on the ground, your limbs soft and nerveless. The next moment, they are stiff as boards, stiff as stone. Before your unblinking eyes, your entire body turns smooth and white.
After the transformation washes over you, something stands you upright. Your legs hold you, but you can't move, can't blink, can't breathe.
The woman--fairy, warrior, queen--looks you in the eye, so you can see the triumphant glitter in hers. With a wave of her hand, a shimmering ellipse, like a falling curtain of water, appears in front of you, reflecting the white marble statue you've become. You are a woman, graceful and elegant, in a flowing dress, holding a marble urn--perfect Grecian beauty, lovelier than your sister ever was. The fairy gives a subtle smirk, as if she hears the thought, mocks you with it--your wish at last fulfilled in the most horrifying way.
"As punishment for your wickedness," the fairy says, "you will serve as a statue in these gardens until you fully repent. You will retain your awareness and reason, but the curse will only be broken when a man falls in love with you."
The harsh glitter in her eyes tells you that she fully believes this will never take place.
You are nearly blind with rage, but you can do nothing. You can't move, cry, scream, fight, beg or plead. You've spent your life feeling powerless, but that is nothing compared to this complete imprisonment.
Beauty tries to plead for you, but the fairy won't hear it.
"She does not wish for your help," the fairy says, and you hate, hate, hate that the fairy knows this. "She has a lesson she must learn--and she will take a long time learning it."
With another wave of her hand, the fairy, Beauty, and her prince disappear. You are left alone, nothing but stone--helpless, hopeless, heartless.
-
You remain in the garden, always still, always aware. Suns and moons rise and set in an endless progression. Your stone body is weathered by sun, snow, sleet, wind, storms, hail, and rain. Millions upon millions of roses bud, bloom, and wither.
In early years, Beauty often speaks to you, begging you to soften your heart, offering her forgiveness and asking you to grant yours. If you were not stone, you would scream at her. What have you to forgive the perfect, generous Beauty? What do you have to repent from that could ever be worth a punishment like this? Something in Beauty seems to sense your rage, because her visits become shorter, fewer, and eventually, stop altogether. She might linger at your side once every five years or so, but she almost never speaks, never makes you look her in the eye.
Before your stone eyes, Beauty and her prince grow old together, raise a healthy family of children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. Some of them hear your story, but most of them don't care. You are not someone to love, not warm and living like their mother. You are nothing but a stone statue, and have been nothing else as long as they remember.
Beauty, with her fairy heritage, long outlives her husband, but even she, with her more-than-half-human heart, eventually goes gray, withers, and dies. On the day of the funeral, as you watch black-clad crowds stream through the rose gardens on the way to mourn their queen, something inside you cracks, and a feeling wells up that might be grief. You spent your life measuring yourself against this woman, always coming up short, always hating her for it, and now she is gone. Without her, who are you?
That pert, beautiful, too-sweet child you plotted against seems like someone from a million lifetimes ago. You have seen her as a woman, wife, mother, grandmother, queen. She got love, wealth, power, belonging--what does that matter to either of you now? She has moved beyond all that. She enjoyed life's goodness, and there is plenty left for those she leaves behind.
Why did you begrudge her this? Why did you try to seize it for yourself? You see the proof before you--love is not limited. It does not take all goodness to itself, but grows, and grows, and grows.
The sister of the queen could have had a wealthy husband of her own. Even the servant of the queen could walk through these gardens instead of standing endlessly in one place. Beauty wanted to share it, and you, in your greed and pride, wanted nothing of it unless you could deprive her of her share.
Stone cannot cry. Stone cannot throw flowers on the grave. Stone cannot pray or beg forgiveness. But you--whatever scrap is left of your soul--can grieve what you were and wish for the chance to be better.
The chance, alas, does not come. With Beauty gone, there are few who remember you are more than a statue. Few who remember the punishment that came along with that great queen's happily-ever-after. None remember the condition that, after your repentance, a man's love must free you from your stone form. No man, of course, can love a woman made of stone
I'm finding that Broken Beauty has a much shakier foundation than I anticipated, so a daily posting challenge is just about the worst possible way I could draft this. I still don't want to overthink it, but if I try to post something daily with no thinking, this will go off completely the rails. It'd be better to post longer sections less frequently, so I have the time and space to make sure each scene is working before I post. This'll also help me to keep this short--this story will fall apart if I let the scenes spiral out too much. It needs a tight focus on Jack.
So the plan is longer parts, less frequent posting, keeping this story in the novelette range.
Apparently, I'd forgotten just how insanely busy this month was going to be, so the Broken Beauty updates are going to be much more sporadic than I'd like. Definitely nowhere near what a daily writing challenge is supposed to be. This week especially, I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to find time for proper writing sessions. I hope I can keep some level of momentum going, but if I write anything at all, they'll probably be very short updates. It feels embarrassing to have to say this two days after committing to a challenge, but I just needed to let you know where I'm at right now.
Broken Beauty: A Sleeping Beauty Retelling, Part 3/?
I'm going to try a project of posting very short excerpts for as many days in May as possible. I will have to edit this and post it in fewer parts later, but here's a very rough scene for now. (Part One here. Part Two here.)
Jack's guards dropped him—none too gently—on Dorothea's pink four-poster bed. Jack swore yet again as pain radiated from his broken wrist and ankle.
Dorothea was kneeling at his side in a moment, examining the swelling and bruising around his wrist, and glaring at the guards. "You need to be careful!" she said. "You'll make it worse." She shook her head Jack's injury. "You're both menders," she told the two men. "Help me fix this."
The dark-haired guard laughed. "We're not going to heal a burglar!"
"He's not a burglar, he's my rescuer!"
The blond guard joined in with his partner's laughter. "Right," the blond guard said. "He was breaking into a Castelo vault in the middle of the night out of the goodness of his heart."
Through a tight jaw, Jack said, "She was cursed before, and now she's not. Sounds like a rescue to me. A lot better than you folks keeping her locked up in a vault that makes Death Island look about as breakable as a paper bag."
Dorothea asked, "Why do you keep calling this a vault? Where are we?"
The dark-haired guard softened, laying a hand on her shoulder and looking like a disgustingly handsome screen star trying to comfort the heroine. "It's for your own safety, miss. And to that end, I should ask you to step away from—"
Her eyes were fire. "I intend to stay here. You do not have to help me, but do not interfere."
The guard's expression hardened, and he glanced toward his partner, silently assessing whether they should move her by force.
Dorothea said, "If we are in a Castelo house, then a Castelo's word should have some authority. Take your hand off me!"
The guard stepped back as though she'd burned him.
The blond guard murmured, "I liked her better asleep."
"I'll bet you did," Jack snarled, then yowled as Dorothea turned up the cuff of his pant leg, jostling his ankle. "Stop that!"
"I need to assess the damage."
"It's broken! Trust me!"
"If I'm going to mend it, I need to know—"
Jack sat up, and put his good hand on top of hers to stop her moving fingers. He looked straight into her perfect blue eyes. Lowering his voice, he said, "Look, I'm glad you're trying to help me." Goodness knew he was going to need all the help he could get in this mess. "But you're wasting your time. I'm a breaker."
"I've mended breakers before."
"Not like me. I'm close to losing control over my magic. You try to mend me here, it'll just break again, probably worse than before."
Dorothea pulled her hands back. "You mean that."
"I won't be any mender's project," he said. "Especially now. You're only going to make it worse."
"Very well," Dorothea said. She stood and looked around the room. "You don't need to heal a wound by magic. There has to be something we can splint it with."
Jack laid back on the pillow and sighed. Just his luck to be stuck in a vault with a stubborn mender.
When digging through my archives, I found the opening of a time travel retelling of "Cinderella" that I'd completely forgotten about. In this retelling, the Cinderella character, Eliana, lives in a small nation that was conquered by larger empire, and whose culture is being suppressed by the ruling powers. On the day of her father's funeral, she leaves her stepfamily and goes to visit a ruined castle on the property that her father loved--and she suddenly finds herself a couple centuries in the past, in the days when the castle was still inhabited.
I never did manage to get very far with this retelling, but it was fun to rediscover this scene (What can I say? I love a talkative charmer.)
A man strode into the gallery. He was tall, with hair that burned red-gold in the bright sun, and his face was animated as he chatted with a shorter, older man. Both of them were dressed in suits—the short man in black, and the taller man in deep blue. The tall man had short boots and the short man had tall ones, and they both wore white gloves on their hands and white cravats at their necks. They looked like they’d stepped out of one of the oil paintings, dressed in fashions that had been popular in Mirowen more than three-hundred years before.
In a panic, Eliana looked for a place to hide. But the hall was empty, aside from the pictures, and her dressed blazed blue against the blank white tiles of the gallery. The short man stepped back through the door he’d entered through, but the moment the door was shut and the tall man turned his head, his gaze lit upon Eliana. He strode toward her, hand outstretched. He’d definitely seen her.
“Good morning, young lady,” he said with a smile. His Oprennish had a strong Mirowesh lilt, and Eliana, dazedly, resented her stepfamily for ever daring to say that her accent was strong. “Are you touring the palace?”
“I...” Eliana stammered. “I don’t know. Where am I?”
The man’s eyes—glowing green in the sunlight—sparkled. “Lost, are ye? We’ll get you back where you need to be.” He placed a hand against her lower back—nearly, but never quite touching her—and guided her toward the door at the opposite end of the hall. “Don’t blame you for gettin’ turned around. I still get lost myself, sometimes.”
“I...” With effort, Eliana found her voice. “Who are you?”
His eyes went wide, as if in mock surprise. “Me? I’m a tour guide, of course.”
Did palaces come with tour guides? Even hallucinatory ones?
“And so long as we’re on questions of identity,” the well-dressed tour guide said, “I may as well ask your name.”
At last, words she could understand. “Eliana. Eliana Varnay.”
“Eliana Varnay. Good Mirowesh name, even if you talk like a ‘pren.”
Eliana was tempted to retort that he sounded like an underhill peasant, but the unreality of the situation, as well as her good manners, kept her tongue still.
“How come you to be at the palace, Miss Eliana Varnay. It is ‘Miss’?”
She held up her wrists, both free of the marriage tattoos and bangles. “Yes.” And then, because unreal situations also made her babble for something to say, added, “You’re a very forward tour guide.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “That I am,” the man replied. “Mother always tried to tell me to leash my tongue, but I’ve yet to learn the secret of taming it. I haven’t tarnished your memories of the palace forever, have I? I promise the princes usually fill their houses with better-bred people.”
Eliana couldn’t hold back an answering grin. This man vivacity was infectious, especially after a day filled with so much death and drabness. “I shan’t hold it against you or the palace.”
He bowed—a smooth and flourishing motion. “I am grateful for your unwavering patience.”
His words—which had flowed so fast that she could barely keep track of them, finally hit her. The princes. Their houses. As if Mirowen still had princes.
“You say this is the prince’s palace?” Eliana asked. “And he lives in it?”
His eyebrows rose. “Not paying much attention on the tour, were you? Yes, my scatterbrained maiden, this is the legendary Castle Eilonrien, home to princes and their families for generations untold. And not only does the prince live here, he’s currently at home. I’ll point him out if we pass him. He’s a mischievous old thing, but he’s got a good heart. Good to his workers, so I’m told.”
“You don’t know?” Eliana asked. “Or he’s not good to you?”
“Haven’t been in employ long,” the man replied. “I’m not the best one to ask on the subject. But I’ve a hard time believing that you want to know about the prince’s reputation as a master. Unless you’ve come looking for work—and if you are, wandering helter-skelter about the palace isn’t the best way to make a first impression.”
“I’m...” Even under ordinary circumstances, such a flow of words would leave her scrambling to settle on an answer. But she was further stymied by the world-shattering revelation they so casually contained. There was no question about it. He believed the prince was alive, that this castle was an inhabited palace, that there were workers keeping it running.
Her legs went weak, and her escort drew closer, his expressive face filling with alarm. “Are you well, Miss Varnay? Only you’ve turned a bit pale.”
What could she say? How could she even speak the suspicions running through her mind—that she somehow stood in the palace, three hundred years before the day of her father’s death? It sounded crazy even in her head.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” Eliana gasped.
“Well, now, you’re overwhelmed. Long day of travel, no doubt. Let’s find you a place...” But the long gallery held no chairs, so he steered her toward a wide windowsill and helped her to perch on the edge. “That better?”
It did help calm her, finding a place to rest, but in another way, it made it worse, as the solid seat beneath her and the very real relief to her legs made it very, very easy to believe that all of this was real.
She had, when she was small, heard tales of things like this, places where time flowed in strange directions, where past and present and future mingled like swirling waters at the base of a fall. Old folks talked of it with a strange reverence. But it was all superstition, barely a step above the ghost stories that she so easily dismissed. Father had spoken of it with awe, but he was imaginative, and she’d always assumed it was a love of folk tales, not a real belief. But what if Father had known—or at least, suspected? It might explain his love of the castle in a way that went beyond his usual devotion to a project.
“Thank you, sir,” Eliana said. “And if you don’t mind another foolish question...”
He grinned. “I tolerate no other kind.”
“A very foolish question,” Eliana continued, apologetically. “Might you tell me the year?”
His smile suddenly softened, then his expression grew almost solemn. “You’re not from now, are you?” His gaze landed upon the small flashlight, still held in a death grip in her right hand, and his expression became even brighter than before. “Are you from the future?”
Eliana’s jaw dropped. “I...I think so.” What a ridiculous response. “I am,” she amended.
His grin somehow became even larger, and he babbled, “I’ve heard of such things—Uncle Lucius tells the best stories—but we’re usually the ones falling back. Or they’re falling forward. We’ve never had a visitor fall back to see us.”
“You’ve seen such things before?” she asked, almost more stunned than she’d been by the initial revelation.
“My dear, we’re in Castle Eilonrien. These things happen all the time. Makes us look mad to the rest of the world, but to us, it’s almost routine. I say almost—because just when I think we’re about as dull as a palace where time flows normally, we get visitors from days yet to come.” He noticed her still stiff expression of shock, then said in a softer tone, “But I’m scaring you, it seems. If you want me to keep quiet, just say the word.”
“Be quiet,” Eliana said.
He closed his lips, then stepped back to lean against the opposite wall.
Eliana put the pieces together, musing in soft tones, “You say it’s really real. That I’ve gone back in time.”
He patted his hands against his arms. “I know I’m real. And you seem real enough.”
Seemed enough evidence to Eliana. She didn’t think she’d know if she were going mad anyhow. “And this often happens at the palace?”
“Not often. And it happens more to people who spend a long time here. Easier to get swept away if you stand in the river longer, I guess.”
“Why have I never heard of this?”
“Would you have believed it if you had?” he asked. “Like I said, makes a man sound mad. We don’t often speak of it to outsiders. Most of the servants don’t even realize.”
“But you know about it,” Eliana said. “And you claim you haven’t worked here long.”
The man’s face turned almost as red as his hair. “A slight falsehood. I’ve told you how my tongue runs away from me.”
The door to the gallery opened, and the short man who’d been walking with her tour guide before came hobbling in. “Your highness, I’ve some matters that need...” He drew up short as he saw Eliana sitting on the window ledge, and the red-haired “tour guide” staring at him in consternation.
At this point, Eliana was numb to further shock, so she answered, more with amusement than anything, “Your highness?”
He bowed. “You’ve caught me out, Miss Varnay.” His speech still had a strong Mirowen accent, but it had gained a smoother, more refined flow as he dropped his tour guide pretense. “His Royal Highness, Corwin Denavid, Prince of Eilonrien, Fifth in Line for Mirowen’s illustrious throne.”
If you wanted to know how the rest of the story was going to go:
In Eliana's roughly 1930s/40s time period, the castle is a ruin on her family's property. Her father was fascinated by the castle, and after his death, Eliana spends time there mourning him, and she finds out about the time travel. She keeps getting swept back in time and meeting the prince. Seeing the castle in its prime inspires her to start renovating the castle in the modern day, and she starts working with a bunch of other locals who are devoted to their Mirowen heritage. Her foreign-born stepfamily is baffled and thinks this is a horrible waste of time and money.
Over time, Eliana falls in love with the prince. She also learns that in his future, the prince unexpectedly became the heir to the throne, but he abdicated because he was overwhelmed by the responsibility. This caused a succession crisis that weakened the nation and ultimately led to their nation being invaded and taken over by the Oprien Empire, which, in Eliana's time, is a tyrannical government that suppresses all Mirowesh culture. As he gets closer to this future, Eliana tries to encourage the prince to take up responsibility, but he remains convinced that he can't take up such a huge burden. In one of her last visits, she learns that he plans to leave the country, and she probably won't see him again.
The fairy godmother figure is a time traveler that winds up outside Eliana's castle. This woman comes from a future when a group of people have learned how to harness the natural time travel ability of places like the castle, and have turned it into technology that allows them to time travel wherever and whenever they choose. This has had devastating effects as people wound up changing history in unexpected ways. (Natural time travel works with the timeline and is supposed to happen. Technological time travel can warp time). The oppression of Mirowen was one of these side effects--the royal line was never supposed to end, and Mirowen was never supposed to lose its independence. The time traveler is now trying to undo some of the harm that she and her friends have done.
Eliana and her friends eventually rebuild enough of the ballroom to be able to host a ball on some major Mirowen festival. It's a wonderful event, everyone's having a great time. Then, unexpectedly in the middle of the party, the prince shows up. The time traveler arranged for him to come to Eliana's time to share this moment with her.
The two of them dance and have their romantic moment, but at midnight, the ball is invaded by Oprien forces, who were alerted by Eliana's stepfamily, and have deemed this an illegal traitorous gathering. Eliana, the prince, and all her guests flee, and the Opriens set the castle ablaze.
The next morning, things have calmed down, and Eliana is gazing sorrowfully at the wreckage when the prince finds her. He's horrified by the future that his country is condemned to, and recognizes the role that his own irresponsibility played in bringing this about. He's decided that he'll take the throne--but he doesn't want to do it alone. The only way he'll have the courage to face this is if Eliana is by his side as queen.
Since the time travel kept bringing Eliana to the same place, she's figured out she's in some ways meant to be there, and she's in love, so she accepts. And as they kiss the landscape changes like the end of Beauty and the Beast. The castle is restored and flying Mirowen's flags. All signs of the occupation have disappeared. They find the castle occupied by their descendants who are helping to rule an independent Mirowen. (Let me fudge the time travel rules for a good dramatic image). Eliana and the prince travel back to his time, where they get married and take the throne and have a successful reign.
The "castle renovation" project felt too big and unrealistic, and I could never think of enough beats to develop the romance, so I'll never write this. But I like the concept well enough to share the outline.
If I were going to write a Little Mermaid retelling, I'd put a heavy focus on the relationship between the little mermaid and her sisters. She's the youngest of six! Yet in most retellings, she may as well be an only child for all the effect her sisters have on the story.
But there's so much to work with here. They all have different personalities. They all are fascinated by different things that they see on the surface--but not enough. They love certain things enough to eloquently describe them and build up their youngest sister's interest in the surface, but ultimately, they all prefer the sea and can't understand their youngest sister's continued infatuation. Yet they visit her while she's on the surface, and they all come together to make a big sacrifice to try to save her. And if we add in the grandmother's role as their primary caregiver, this has the potential to be a story that features a ton of strong female family bonds. And I think it's an angle that hasn't been explored enough.
The human imagination is wild. I can just think up a guy, and he has no physical existence, no presence in this world in image, sound, or word, he's literally just a thought in my head, and I love him.
