I’ve been asked by some inquisitive readers why my novella Shattered Roses tells Rose’s fragmented story. And why this old lady’s story is told through the eyes of 16-year-old Megan?

To answer this question requires talking about the writing process. It can be so much fun to explore new ways of writing — essentially to see if they work. I’m happy with the final effect. Perhaps you’ve read Shattered Roses and disagree. The story came to me in scenes, skipping about with each blink of my eye. I was writing something, but I didn’t know what. I was channelling some confusing emotions at the time, and it was fighting its way out of me. I’d also been thinking about time and whether it was a straight line, a ball of string, or more of a Jeremy Bearimy Timeline (A Good Place reference).

Scene writing

We place structure and meaning on our lives, but who’s to say that our daily lives aren’t more fluid and mysterious … From these initial scenes I began to imagine Rose in a nursing home telling her version of Beauty and the Beast. One of my favourite fairy tales as a child, and, incidentally, (my mum being a carer) I also grew up around nursing homes. It’s not a setting I come across much when reading. Yet one I know by its smell and by its touch.

So far I only had the middle of my story. Megan became my start as she attends an interview for a Saturday job. At first, Megan featured infrequently. I added her only to frame Rose’s story, to force it into a more munchable narrative. One with hints of Scheherazade, here and there. I soon realised that the book was more about Megan’s story. While it is also an uncovering of Rose’s relationship with “the beast”. I began to focus more on revealing Megan’s life to her. The mysteries of her own life she couldn’t see. At an age where we struggle to find our place in the world.

Structure

I also stuck to a novella format to leave gaps purposefully in the story. Yes, I know, I know, sorry! I did it for you, inquisitive reader, to fill, or ponder over, the information I left out. In this way, the book requires a smidge of work on the reader’s imagination. I mean, since you’ll be imaging the whole thing anyway … see what I mean? You can draw your own conclusions about the boundaries between reality and fiction. I know that I would choose to believe in magic every time.

I hope you understand these intentions, for whatever English Crit. Lit. says author intentions aren’t dead. It’s up to you if you wish to carry a fragment of Megan and Rose’s story into your lives… such is the magic of storytelling.

Storytelling?

Oh, yes, storytelling, a theme I’ll return to in the book following A Friendship of Thistles (my current project).

There’s much I could say about storytelling outside my book Young people, learning & storytelling, instead, I’ll leave you with an invitation (if I may). To dip your toes into Shattered Roses to explore the tip of the iceberg of numerous retellings of Beauty and the Beast. A story which captures our hearts time and time again.

Buy Shattered Roses via ebook or print.

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My most recent book has been four years in the making. It was at the start of my PhD in 2012 when I moved to Warwick University that I wrote a few pages about Rose (initially the central character of the book, who later became Lady). I had the idea of playing with a fragmented story to see if it would work. Sarah Moss (my mentor’s) first comments about the story in progress was that it was too fragmented to work. I could see that something was missing. Yet, I couldn’t give up the story. Something about it made me scribble a few more lines now and then, and ponder where to go with it. 

I knew I needed a third character to pull the fragments together. In this way, the story could be fragmented, but it would also create a sense of order. Megan came into being. Though I took a long time to choose her name. She originally also had a brother. Then later I decided after a discussion with my friend Heidi that there are enough stories with male characters, and from a male perspective. This was to be a story about women told by women, so Megan’s brother became a sister but with all the same traits, because why not?

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Red and Ralph

Red’s story

There were certain words that Red’s mother repeated ad nauseam, ‘Don’t eat on the path. Don’t leave the path. Don’t forget your bow and arrows.’ As if any self-respecting young woman on her way to visit a sick relative would prance about picking flowers in the wood, or speak to strangers. Besides the basket was heavy and the path was long.

Red’s mother often reprimanded her, ‘You add insult to injury.’ So when Red saw Ralph trying to act casual just off the path, she thought time to have a little fun. ’Hello,’ said the wolf. ‘Hello,’ Said Red. ‘What are you up to?’ ‘Oh, nothing, just taking in a nice day,’ the wolf replied. ‘What are you up to?’ ‘Taking some provisions to my sick grandmother.’ ‘That’s very kind of you.’ ‘I’m not kind,’ she said. ‘And I’m armed, in case you are thinking of trying anything funny.’ ‘Me?’ said the Wolf all large eyes and big smile. ‘Yep,’ said Red. ‘I think we understand each other. So this is how it’s going to go.’

And she told him the story of a wolf that visited her grandmother’s house, ate the little old woman, and tried to trick the little girl but ended up with an arrow in his skull.

‘Right,’ said the wolf. ‘Is there any way to negotiate this ending?’ ‘tell me a story and we’ll see,’ she challenged him. So, he talked about woodsmen, and a wolf that felt bad about what it had done and left with a small scar on his belly.

Red laughed, ‘Or we’ll fill it with stones and throw you in a river.’

‘You’re very blood thirsty,’ said the wolf.

‘Look at me,’ smiled Red, the rich velvety cloak, the red slippers, the bow and arrow slung across her back.

‘I believe we have reached an impasse.’

‘I need to take this thing to grandmother.’

‘Goodbye then.’

She scrunched her forehead, ‘Aren’t you going to offer to carry it for me.’

‘I’m not supposed to go on the path.’

‘Just once won’t hurt,’ she coaxed. ‘I would be very grateful. Just don’t get any ideas.’

He eyed her dainty ankles her bared throat. ‘I really shouldn’t, but okay then.’

She let him carry the basket. It left her arms free to collect any stray flowers that dipped onto the path, onto which she kept her feet planted at all times.

‘How much further?’ said the wolf.

‘very far.’

‘What’s in this thing? It’s heavy.’

‘I think something is leaking,’ she said. Little ruby droplets scattered the path behind him.

A red smear had appeared at the bottom of the wicker basket, as some creamy red liquid seeped through.’

‘It’s the cream.’

‘Red cream?’

‘The wolf did it.’ Red said. And they cut his stomach open.

Ralph’s story

There were certain words that Ralph’s mother repeated ad nauseam, ‘Chew your food properly before swallowing, sit up straight and little girls tend to arm themselves with weapons.’ If one wandered off the path however she was fair game. Even folks in the village on the edge of the wood said that people who wondered from the path got what they deserved in the end. Besides, even wolves had to eat.

Ralph’s mother often reprimanded him, ‘Your eyes are too big for your belly.’ So when Ralph saw Red skipping along the path his belly rumbled. ‘Hello,’ Ralph said, ‘What are you up to?’ ‘What are you up to?’ Red said suggestively, the tip of one red shoe playing with the dust at the edge of the path. He swallowed, ‘Nothing.’ She smiled, ‘My mum is forcing me to take this basket full of goodies to grandmother’s house.’ ‘That’s kind of you.’ ‘I’m not kind,’ Red said, ‘I’m not good, and I’m definitely not stupid. So whatever excuse you have for me to step off the path this time, be aware I am armed.’ She let the basket drop onto the path and drew an arrow. Ralph’s tongue felt too large for his mouth as he swallowed.

She told him a story. That’s not the way I heard it, he said. Red sighed, go on, I like a good laugh.

And he told her the story of a little girl who got to grandmother’s house and though the cat and the goose tried to warn her she ate the blood of her blood in the rust-tinted milk, and the warm stew. But then escaped the danger herself.

‘I prefer your story,’ she said. ‘Though I wouldn’t eat my grandmother.

‘There’s something everyone in the village knows about the Red family. Don’t mess with the women.’

Red laughed. ‘You’re funny. Don’t take that as encouragement.’

‘I wouldn’t presume,’ said he.

‘Help me carry the basket,’ she said, taking one of the thick handles. He took a cautious step onto the path. The basket was heavy.

‘What’s in this thing?’

‘Food for grandmother: bread and milk, cheese and ham, tomatoes and spinach, green beans and potatoes.’

‘It must be the potatoes that make it so heavy.’

‘And the cake.’ She said

Ralph’s stomach rumbled just before he died.

Like Beauty and the Beast?

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