(The Importance of Women in STEM Representation in Fictional Works.)

Still, something was missing. My tribe’s stories are sacred, so I was reluctant to stretch tradition too far, but early drafts lacked cohesion.

Then, in 2020, Covid afforded me the unsolicited opportunity to wait in school car loop lines four hours a day with my kids. I listened to hundreds of hours of kids’ audiobooks. This was when I encountered Chinese-American author Grace Lin.

Grace Lin’s novels, inspired by Chinese folklore, sounded like traditional stories that could have been. Just like that, I found the missing ingredient—a way to write from tradition without cannibalizing my tribe’s stories. I wrote a capstone myth for Undrowned in the rhythms and imagery of traditional Chickasaw tales. My story stood apart yet honored its origins.

I knew feedback from my tribe’s leaders was essential. I may be Chickasaw, but I don’t represent every tribal member, after all. I shared Undrowned with Chickasaw Press and eventually came to be a Leaning Pole Press author. What I learned from tribal editors and elders reinforced my opinion of the importance of traditional stories.

Why is traditional storytelling so alluring?

Simply put, because it’s revealing. Tradition speaks of dietary habits, resource availability, priorities, landscape, how time is spent, family dynamics, how problems are solved, and what is worthy of celebration. Storytelling reminds us that solutions often come from unexpected relationships, like the eight-legged spider who brought fire to two-legged Chickasaws by protecting the ember in a web. It would behoove you not to overlook others, the story intones. Traditional storytelling is chalk full of cultural values. And culture is fascinating.

Storytelling is a portal to a past when oral tradition framed the way in which information was disseminated through clans. Within the Chickasaw Nation, storytelling remains as fun as it is formative, and storytellers continue to shape the way Chickasaw values impart to the next generation.

Though some Chickasaw stories have been written down, tribal memory is alive in oral storytelling. Our stories are defining. They answer the million-dollar questions: Who am I? What am I to do? They are sacred, our stories, and storytellers are revered as keepers of the flame.

Because traditional stories speak to identity, retelling them without a relationship to the tribe is ill-advised. I’m talking, of course, about the cringe-worthy awkwardness of cultural appropriation.

My story has Native American characters. Will you take a look and let me know what you think?

Since I first began writing, I’ve been asked this question in every writing group. I welcome such good faith questions. Most writers are not trying to perpetuate stereotypes, after all. Usually, writers ask because they have no tribal connection, they want to feature a diverse cast of characters, they believe they are showing appreciation for tribal heritage, or they’re looking for a sensitivity reader.

So, at what point does writing from a different cultural perspective become cultural appropriation?

Cultural appropriation occurs when marginalized groups have no control over their cultural expressions. A nontribal member borrows a cultural element and strips it of all but one dimension. Markets it as Indigenous. Sells it. Never confers with tribal elders. You see it with music, dance, regalia, literature, art, you name it. Culturally appropriated artistic expressions are often poor imitations of the original, cheaply made, lacking context, and sold outside the tribe without consent.

This pattern of cultural appropriation is neither new nor unique to First Nations tribes. It occurs across all marginalized groups the world over. It’s why tribal elders protect their most sacred rites with the same zeal that major corporations defend their logos.

So, I can’t write anything Native American?

True appreciation begins with curiosity, listening, building trust. Not just borrowing stories. If you have no tribal connection, you might start by reading Native authors. Become familiar with the tribe’s history. Then, when you reach out to tribal literary groups, you’ll understand the context. Share your genuine curiosity, be respectful, and explain your intentions are to collaborate, not appropriate. Retelling traditional stories, whether they’re yours or another’s, requires nuance.

If given the opportunity, share your writing not just with recognized tribal members but respected elders. Be ready to have your literary characters and themes challenged. And don’t be surprised if tribal relationships enrich far more than your writing. In seeking to honor the tradition of storytelling, you may find yourself heartily uplifting the Indigenous voices, not of strangers, but friends.

Check out G. M. DiDesidero’s Undrowned here:

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In this interview, Alana discusses learning everything she could about tequila and mezcal while writing her new romance novel, My Fair Señor, her hope for readers, and more.

Name: Alana Quintana Albertson
Literary agent: Jill Marsal
Book title: My Fair Señor
Publisher: Berkley
Release date: November 25, 2025
Genre/category: Romance
Previous titles: Ramón and Julieta; Kiss Me, Mi Amor
Elevator pitch: A gender-swapped My Fair Lady second chance romance featuring a playboy influencer and his tequila bar owner ex.

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What prompted you to write this book?

I wanted to set a book in my hometown and talk about the world of tequila.

How long did it take to go from idea to publication? And did the idea change during the process?

I sold this book as the third in the series, but this one was harder to write. It was initially another Shakespeare retelling. I first drafted it in 2023, but it won’t come out until 2025.

Were there any surprises or learning moments in the publishing process for this title?

I learned SO much about tequila and mezcal. I didn’t know there were so many different types and the processes of making each.

Were there any surprises in the writing process for this book?

This is my 33^rd book. I keep thinking each one will get easier, but this one was very hard to write.

What do you hope readers will get out of your book?

I hope readers will learn about the process of making tequila, think about cultural appropriation, and also realize that this book is a retelling of My Fair Lady and that Jaime was purposely written as a character who needs growth.

If you could share one piece of advice with other writers, what would it be?

Read in your genre and write daily. Never give up because this industry is very tough.

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(3 Things to Consider When Retelling Myths.)

Retellings are everywhere—from gritty reimaginings of Greek tragedies to fresh takes on medieval folklore to contemporary spins on Victorian novels. Some of your favorite songs, movies, and novels are probably retellings. Bridget Jones’s Diary? A retelling of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Oliver & Company? A retelling of Charles Dickens’ Oliver Twist. The Fate of Ophelia from Taylor Swifts latest album? A retelling of a character from Hamlet.

At first glance, a retelling seems easier than creating an original story. After all, the plot structure is already there, and the characters are familiar. But anyone who has tried to write one knows that retellings come with their own unique set of challenges. Striking a balance between honoring the source material and crafting something new requires precision, creativity, and courage.

The central dilemma of a retelling is how faithful it should be to the original. Lean too heavily on the source, and the new version risks becoming redundant; just a reheated version of a story that’s already known. Diverge too far, and the connection to the original may feel tenuous or gimmicky. Readers often come to a retelling with expectations too; they want to see the familiar beats and themes but experience them in a surprising or refreshing way. For instance, Margaret Atwood’s The Penelopiad retells The Odyssey from Penelope’s perspective. The bones of Homer’s epic remain, but Atwood brings in modern wit and feminist critique, providing a story that is both recognizable and revelatory. Achieving this kind of balance is one of the most demanding parts of the process.

Readers can also be fiercely protective of beloved stories. A retelling of Pride and Prejudice that alters Darcy’s character too dramatically may upset Austen purists, while a reinterpretation of Cinderella that eliminates the magical elements might frustrate readers expecting enchantment. Writers of retellings must anticipate these expectations and decide how to engage with them.

Some authors lean into controversy, deliberately subverting or dismantling the original story to spark conversation. Others tread more cautiously, layering nuance without discarding the essential spirit. Either way, the challenge lies in navigating an audience that comes armed with prior knowledge and strong opinions.

Another danger is leaning too much on the familiarity of the original tale. It can be tempting to assume that readers will fill in emotional or narrative gaps, but a retelling must still function as a complete and coherent work on its own. This means developing characters with depth, constructing arcs that feel earned, and crafting a narrative voice that doesn’t depend entirely on the reader’s prior knowledge. A retelling should reward those who know the original but remain accessible and compelling to those encountering the story for the first time.

Many tales were born in times and cultures vastly different from our own. Retelling them involves deciding how to handle those contexts. Should the story remain in its historical setting, potentially preserving elements that modern readers may find problematic? Or should it be transplanted into a new context that reimagines outdated norms?

For example, many traditional fairy tales contain gender roles, punishments, or moral lessons that clash with contemporary sensibilities. This was something I wanted to particularly address in my novel Spellbound, a retelling of Sleeping Beauty. I was uncomfortable with the lack of agency that the princess—and all the women in the classic fairytale—are afforded, so I set about subverting it. Instead of being a passive figure awaiting rescue, my version of the princess becomes an active agent in her own fate, wrestling with the curse and making choices that shape the trajectory of the story along with the women around her. This required careful thought: How much change would still allow readers to recognize the bones of Sleeping Beauty, and how much change was necessary to make her feel like a fully realized character? In the end, retelling is often a negotiation between tradition and transformation; respecting the echoes of the original while daring to let the silenced voices finally speak.

Retellings also exist in a crowded literary ecosystem. The most famous stories of Greek myths, Arthurian legends, and Shakespeare’s plays have already been retold countless times. This raises the bar for originality. What can you say about Achilles or Hamlet that hasn’t been said before? This challenge can also become an opportunity.

Writers often find fresh angles by shifting perspective, genre, or tone. Madeline Miller’s Circe takes a minor figure from The Odyssey and builds a rich, character-driven narrative around her. Some authors lean into genre-bending: a cyberpunk Beowulf, a horror-infused Little Red Riding Hood, or a science-fiction King Lear. Distinguishing a new retelling from the vast body of existing adaptations requires ingenuity and a willingness to take creative risks.

Retellings demand a distinctive narrative voice. When the broad strokes of the plot may already be familiar, the voice becomes even more important in drawing readers in. A lyrical retelling might emphasize atmosphere and emotion, while a sharp, humorous version could bring new light to familiar events. The challenge is ensuring that the voice feels authentic to the story being told while also showcasing the writer’s unique style. It’s this alchemy of melding the old with the new that makes retellings vibrant and worthwhile.

Finally, retellings are challenging because they are conversations between past and present. They require a deep respect for the original text while daring to innovate boldly. Writers must wrestle with questions of fidelity, originality, cultural sensitivity, and reader expectation, all while producing a story that stands confidently on its own. But it is precisely because of these challenges that retellings remain such a vital form of storytelling. They allow us to revisit familiar tales with fresh eyes, uncover overlooked perspectives, and remind ourselves that no story ever truly ends, rather it evolves, reshapes, and continues to speak across generations. For writers, the struggle of the retelling is also its gift: an invitation to participate in the living tradition of storytelling, to join a centuries-long dialogue, and to discover anew why these stories endure.

Check out Georgia Leighton’s Spellbound here:

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(5 Tips for Giving Your Character Powers.)

Frequently originating in the oral tradition, the retelling of these ancient tales has always fascinated authors—and none more so than the stories of Camelot and King Arthur. Writers as diverse as John Steinbeck, Kate Mosse, J.R.R. Tolkien, Meg Cabot, and Bernard Cornwell have all found inspiration in these centuries-old stories that themselves have their roots in a fusion of ancient Celtic folk tales, Graeco-Roman legends, and early British socio-political histories.

What Appealed to Me About the Arthurian Legends

The fact that they have a semi-historical setting—taking place within the so-called “Dark Ages” where even today very little is known about the actual history of Britain, gives an added frisson of possibility, which I think enhances their enduring appeal and explains why, to this day, people are still seeking the Holy Grail.

I have always been fascinated by these stories, but as I have come to know them more intimately, I have become far less interested in the quests and the sorcery, and much more intrigued by the characters that sit at their heart—and with one in particular—Igraine, the mother of Arthur and his two half-siblings Morgan Le Fay and Morgause, Queen of Orkney.

I have become more and more convinced that to understand both the beauty and the tragedy of Camelot, you need to understand the origins of the stories—and for me, these do not begin with a callow youth plucking a sword from a stone, but with a much darker tale of murder and deception, at the heart of which is Uther Pendragon’s rape of Igraine, resulting in both the conception of Arthur and a blood-feud as dark and powerful as any Greek Tragedy.

When I decided that I wanted to retell the stories of Camelot—beginning with the story of Igraine—I immediately realized that choosing to retell an ancient and familiar story provides both challenges and opportunities to a writer. On the one hand, there is a narrative framework which provides you with a welcome structure to work with, but on the other, there are constraints placed upon you because of the established characters and storylines.

An added complication within the Arthurian canon is that there have been many versions of the stories—some of them hundreds of years old—and these versions are frequently inconsistent. I turned this to my advantage by deciding that this gave me the freedom to determine which version was more in sympathy with the story I wanted to tell—whilst still remaining true to my source material.

4 Tips for Retelling Classic Myths and Legends

This approach has also helped me to come up with my top tips for other writers who may also want to retell or reimagine ancient stories taken from myths and legends:

1. Do your research—Understand the different versions of the story, note down where the differences lie, and think through how these differences impact both your characters and your plot. For example, in some renditions, Igraine dies on giving birth to Arthur, in others she lives on to marry Uther Pendragon and have more children with him, whilst in yet more versions, she is transported by Merlin to the enchanted castle of Carbonek, where she will ultimately be reunited with both Arthur and her daughter Morgan le Fay.
2. Plot your story—Yes, you have a framework to work with, but you also have the freedom to decide which elements of the story are important to you, to build your own narrative so it tells the tale in the way you want to tell it. For example, I decided to create a “behind-the-scenes” focus on the machinations of Merlin and Vivian, who I have portrayed as puppet-masters, responsible for so much of what happens in The Chosen Queen.
3. Get under the skin of your characters—Who are they? What motivates them? How do they feel about each other? Particularly if you are working with established protagonists within a classic story, you need to have considered exactly why they behave as they do. For example, I decided to make my Merlin more a political than religious adviser to Uther Pendragon, with his primary motivation being the unification and security of the Realm, for which he was prepared to do almost anything—including engineering a civil war and aiding and abetting in the deception, rape, and imprisonment of Igraine, a woman he had known since early childhood, and for whom he actually harbors an underlying affection.
4. Be clear about perspective and “twist”—Whose story are you telling? What is their point of view, and what is unique about the version of the tale that you have chosen to tell? I have never read another book in which Igraine is centerstage, in most narratives she is mentioned almost as an afterthought. My intention in writing The Chosen Queen was to redress that balance. I spent many hours mulling on her thoughts, behaviors, and responses, making sure I was seeing each scene from her perspective. This was the primary reason I chose to write the story in the first person, so her voice is being heard throughout.

These are my top four tips for anyone wishing to retell/reimagine an established story, myth or legend, and as with all such suggestions for writers, these can never be more than pointers. There is neither a right or wrong way to write a book, but I hope that sharing my own experiences and learning may help you in your endeavors!

Check out Sam Davey’s The Chosen Queen here:

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We all suffer too.

(Fracturing Fairy Tales to Jumpstart Your Writing.)

Pain, trauma, tragedy are all parts of life. Mine included. My childhood was not an easy one. I faced poverty, domestic violence, racism, homophobia, abandonment, and home instability. So when I started writing, all I wanted to do was craft other worlds full of magic mages and rowdy robots and awesome action-adventure apocalypses. I wanted to escape the real world. But after my first 14 novels were rejected (and we’re talking hundreds of rejections from agents, editors, and lit magazines), I decided to try something new. I decided to embrace the hard stuff. It was time to stop running from my childhood. Instead, I chose to pull it in close and give it an uncomfortable hug. 

That’s when I wrote Free Lunch, a memoir of my first sixth grade semester confronting violence at home, my parents’ difficulties finding work, and being put on the free lunch program. As my 11-year-old self would have said: “Life sucked.” Though I tried to find some humor, for the most part, the book was not a fun read. But it felt necessary, and unlike anything I’d written before, it felt important. So when I went out with it (fingers crossed), I hoped for a book deal. Instead? Rejections across the board, though three came with caveats…

The first said, “Why are you writing this for children? Make it for adults and I’ll take it.” 

The second said, “Graphic novels are hot. Let’s make it a graphic novel. Of course we’ll have to take out all the violence. We can’t show that in a middle grade book.” 

And the third said, “Wow. Great story. An important story. But let’s scrub all the heavy stuff out and make it fun!”

As difficult as it was, I said, “No.”  

Holding the Line for a Difficult Story

Why? This was a chance to get published! To finally have a book deal! And I’m not a diva. Compromise and collaboration are an important part of the publishing process. (After all, a good editor will make you look a lot smarter than you are. And I know because I was an editor for 15 years, and now I have some of the most amazing editors and am grateful for them every day.) But changing my memoir would alter it from a true story to a fictional story. And more importantly, it would be just like so many other books already out there that are “made for kids,” which is just code for “nice and easy.”

I pushed back with the third editor, saying, “Clean it up? It’s not a dirty story. It’s a true story.” 

The editor’s reply? “Kids don’t want sad stories. They want happy stories. They want stories that they can laugh at. They can’t resonate with a heavy, dark, painful book like this.” 

In my head, I thought, “But I lived through it… does that mean my story—and my childhood—are not valid?” Why did this story deserve to be ignored? Because it needed more jokes? Maybe a fart? Which, by the way, there is a fart in there, with disastrous and hilarious results. But it was the truth, and sometimes the truth is grossly hysterical. And sometimes the truth is just painful to witness.  

So I read that editor the statistics: Today, in the United States, there are 3.5 million who face domestic violence on a weekly basis. There are 4.2 million living with homelessness or home instability. And there are 11 million children living below the poverty live.

The editor ghosted me after that. 

The Best Stories Are a Spectrum

As a kid, I wanted to be with the Hardy Boys on their ridiculous adventures. I wanted to skip along the yellow-brick road with Dorothy, the Lion, the Scarecrow, and the Tinman as they faced flying monkeys. I wanted to fall alongside Alice down the rabbit hole and into another world. I wanted to join Calvin and Hobbes on their imaginary escapades. I wanted to escape. But that’s because I felt so utterly alone. There weren’t any stories out there that I could see myself in. So I opted for fantasy. 

But as an adult, I was writing stories for the younger version of me. And yes, I wanted adventure and I wanted laughs. But on occasion, I wanted tears too. Because tears are part of life. Life is, at times, hard. But it’s also fun and sad and angry and afraid. Life is a spectrum of emotions. And I believe that the best stories are a spectrum too. They encompass all of it: the good, the bad, and the ugly. And of course, the farts. 

In children’s literature—especially among educators, librarians, and booksellers, there is a common metaphor about readers either seeing themselves or seeing others in literature. This concept was originally coined by Emily Style in 1988 and then applied specifically to children’s books by Dr. Rudine Sims Bishop in her 1990 article “Mirrors, Windows, and Sliding Glass Doors.” Kids love fart jokes, but they love seeing themselves in books just as much. Maybe more. Because if they see themselves in stories, they feel seen too. 

That’s why creating strong narratives with universal emotional arcs is so important. It’s no easy feat, but it is possible, especially if you draw from your own life experience. In baring your soul and your pain, you become vulnerable—which, trust me, is an uncomfortable feeling—but you also become a hero to these kids who so desperately want to know they aren’t alone. 

So whether I’m writing superhero comics, fantasies, reimagining classic novels as modern-day teen graphic novels (full of foolish drama and trying to decide what outfit to wear), or memoirs about trying to pop a zit on my back… whatever I write, I try to build well-rounded characters living in a real world. Being honest, being raw, being truly open with the hardest parts of living, matters now more than ever. Especially in literature for young readers.

But there should be laughter too. There should be hope. And—if you’re so inclined—there should be smelly, stinky farts, especially the ones in public when everyone smells it. Cause farts are funny. 

Check out Rex Ogle’s (as Rey Terciero) Dan in Green Gables here:

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(What Are Creepypasta Stories?)

Combine this early love of disturbing true stories with my grandmother’s inclination toward the Grimm Brothers’ original faerie tales, and my imagination was primed to engage with whimsical stories handed down through generations.

As an adult, I dove headfirst into legends and folklore. While studying history at Old Dominion University in Norfolk, VA, one of my professors introduced me to the academic study of folklore, highlighting the background and biases within the dark tales most of us know through sanitized Disney adaptations. Later, when I relocated to Appalachia after years of being away, I found myself digging deeper into local legends and the whispers of strange sightings across the region that are now fixtures on social media.

Inspired by other researchers such as folkloric expert John E.L. Tenney, I fell down a rabbit hole swirling with cryptids, ghosts, witches, faeries, and goblins. I chased after the bumps in the night, the voices on remote trails, and the rumors of creatures in the deepest hollows. Appalachia is the place where faerie tales reside, and my debut novel, Nowhere, is drenched in these rich oral traditions and legends.   

Inspiration From Our Past and Present

When people talk about ‘folklore,’ they often think of tales buried in books or shared amongst historians and age-old societies. That couldn’t be further from the truth. Folklore is a living, breathing entity. It evolves alongside humanity, incorporating modern themes and fears regardless of our position in time.

Often referred to as ‘urban legends,’ or now, ‘creepy pasta,’ these stories are just as valid and relevant as works by the Grimms, Hans Christian Andersen, and other cherished legends passed down through centuries. For example, Slender Man—born from an online contest—has officially entered our zeitgeist, embodying isolation, the perpetual outsider, and our need to belong to something greater than ourselves. The legend of this tall, long-fingered monster continues to terrify large swaths of the population despite our collective knowledge that the beast is entirely an invention of the internet.

Other modern legends’ origins are rooted in age-old tales passed down and modified for the present day, even if we don’t recognize it at first blush. For example, the popular internet stories of Black-Eyed Children reflect a clear through-line with Celtic faerie lore. Just as Black-Eyed Children are described in online forums, Changelings—or faeries who have replaced human children without the knowledge of their parents—are clearly out of place to the observer. Their cadence is off; their clothing is aged; their requests are bizarre and even dangerous, leading unsuspecting adults into peril. These children in both online legends and Celtic lore are not what they seem, and even their physical appearance screams something otherworldly is at work. They want you to believe them, allow them inside your home, welcome them into your life which inevitably ends in mayhem.

Meanwhile, entities such as Bigfoot and Wendigos have roots with indigenous Northern American populations. Shadow people are linked with the Jinn of Islamic lore. The infamous Hat Man is a shared legend across the globe. Folklore, modern or not, is more linked than we often recognize.

Ultimately, whether you are drawing inspiration from tales that are hundreds of years old, or a story you found intriguing on an online forum, chances are you are drawing from folklore. Rather than limiting yourself to a few tomes containing stories that have been analyzed and rehashed a thousand times, allow yourself to explore legends that intrigue you rather than focusing on the so-called validity of the tale.

Write what inspires and thrills you instead of setting a goal to write fiction based on folklore. If you aren’t driven by the material, the reader will catch on quicker than you think. Once more, you’ll be miserable attempting to write a manuscript that does not resonate with you. Your sandbox is larger than you think. That bone-chilling story you found on Reddit is just as heady and worth your time as an ancient tale that academics have studied in depth. Let your imagination play and expand.

Click to continue.

Researching the Strange

If you’ve landed on a folkloric tale that sparked a story, you’ve won half the battle. Now, it’s time to roll up your sleeves and get to investigating. If research isn’t your bread and butter, this step can seem intimidating. However, it’s far more approachable than you may realize thanks to the internet.

Forums are overflowing with new legends as well as sources on classic materials. Libraries, of course, contain row after row of books on lore across the world. However, picking up your favorite author’s newest novel may also provide you with leads. Many writers are now incorporating folklore in their work, and often cite those sources.

Further, those of us who work with legends and odd stories are usually eager to share our discoveries with others. If there is an expert in a folkloric story that you would like to speak with, take a chance and send them a respectful email. Worst case scenario, they are either annoyed or ignore you altogether which speaks volumes about that person rather than you. More often than not, you’ll end up connecting with someone who has a wealth of information they are eager to share. If nothing else, you can always begin by asking them if they have any recommended sources for your project.

And don’t forget my personal favorite tactic for researching which is also the scariest for introverts like me: Talk to the locals. Ask questions. Have they heard of any stories in the area? Have their friends or family members experienced anything strange? Remember to be considerate and never press someone when they do not want to share, but do not discount the value in simply talking to your neighbor or even the gas station clerk about their experiences. Chances are they have stories to share that are just as enthralling as what you will find in a decades-old book.

Bottom line: If you do not explore, ask questions, or put in the time to research whatever lore has piqued your interest, you will not have the tools to craft a solid narrative that connects to the legend in an authentic way. Be brave, take chances, roll up your sleeves, and dive into our collective weirdness.

Writing the Dream

Here comes the hard part. No, I’m not talking about putting words on the page. It’s likely you already know how to do that better than you realize. The challenge is to let go of everything you just learned and allow your story to unfold without judgement. I know, that sounds like madness. After all, there are formulas to be followed and time-tested literary structures which should be considered. Writers want to be sure they are true to the source material and that their message is conveyed clearly. Without a doubt, that is important. However, that is not going to help you build effective, enjoyable, epic worlds.

Take a step back. The information you gleaned during the research process is now embedded in your mind. Trust that your creative brain will spin those tales into whatever story you want to tell. There’s little use in trying to adhere to a collection of notes if you don’t have your own take on the tale. Allow yourself space to expand the lore beyond its boundaries, to customize legends to your voice, and to breathe life into tales long dismissed.

Only you can tell your story even if its core is rooted in the words our predecessors passed down. Your version or implementation of the tale is contributing to the overall legacy of that story, extending its life for yet another generation of readers. And when you think of it that way, giving your voice its proper credit, working with folklore becomes a badge of pride as you contribute to the same patchwork that unites humanity like none other.

Check out Allison Gunn’s Nowhere here:

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(2 Things Writers Should Know About the Future of the Novel.)

If there’s one thing I’ve spent a lot of my early 20s reading, it’s fairytale retellings. So when I decided to pivot genres and start writing fairytale retellings of my own, not only was I familiar with the rules of the genre—I was ready to break them and create stories that differentiated my work in the marketplace.

Ever since then, I’ve been intentionally combining two existing fairytales into one, per duology. My first series where I did this (Kingdom of Sirens and Monsters) is a dual retelling of Snow White and The Little Mermaid, incorporating elements of both stories to weave a both familiar and completely unknown storyline.

The end result has launched my bestselling series to date, with nothing but positive reviews, and a fanbase that just keeps on getting bigger. People love the creativity of how the fairytales are combined. And in my upcoming duology, Blood Magic (which combines Rapunzel with Sleeping Beauty) I’ve repeated the process by blending two fairytales into an engaging mystery with a shocking twist that seamlessly incorporates both stories.

So, ready to break some writing rules? Here’s how I take the rules of what makes a fairytale retelling excellent and break them to create retellings that are distinctly different, but still tick all the right boxes.

1) Embrace the familiar and swap concepts to create the unexpected

The most important rule of writing a fairytale retelling is that it needs to be similar enough with the original, public domain work to create a sense of comfort and familiarity, yet unique enough to offer an unexpected twist that gives the story a fresh breath of air.

Many popular retellings to date (such as A Court of Mist and Fury, by Sarah J. Maas—a Hades and Persephone retelling; Cinder, by Marissa Meyer—a Cinderella retelling; and A Curse so Dark and Lonely, by Brigid Kemmerer—a Beauty and the Beast retelling) have similar and recognizable brushstrokes to the original work. These could be a play on character names, familiar key events that occur, or character relationships that mirror the original fairytale.

When I go to create the unique twist, I often do it by swapping character roles or key events across each fairytale and exploring alternative realities that could happen.

For example, in Kingdom of Sirens and Monsters, my protagonist takes on the role of the Little Mermaid persona, and ends up falling for the Huntsman persona from Snow White. My villain of the series, who takes on the Evil Queen persona, also has ties to my Sea Witch persona, which takes some events from The Little Mermaid and re-imagines them with Snow White characters.

It can be incredibly fun to combine character roles and see how different character arcs and storylines may play out differently with an expanded set of key events and rules to weave into the overall story. In some ways, it often feels like writing a crossover story.

Check out Pagan Alexandria’s Kingdom of Sirens and Monsters here:

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2) Don’t be afraid to combine different concepts across stories

A really easy way to make a retelling fresh and different is to take an existing concept and combine it with the other fairytale’s source material.

For example, in Kingdom of Sirens and Monsters, the story starts off on an island, but when the protagonist escapes the Evil Queen (aka: runs from the Huntsman and comes across the Seven Dwarves) she’s in a forest. So, to tie in The Little Mermaid with the events of Snow White, I made the ‘forest’ the entire Undersea—a new world set underwater.

This is a really clever way to combine two fairytales at once; it essentially allows you to see the story of Snow White unfold through the lens of a Little Mermaid setting, which helps engrain the feeling of experiencing both fairytales at the same time. I do this in all my duologies by ensuring that there’s something linking one fairytale to the other, even if it’s just a character dynamic I can flip, a part of the setting I can swap, or a piece of the magic system I can re-imagine.

3) Take the source material and use it to expand your world-building and magic systems

The third thing I have a lot of fun with is taking a known concept from a fairytale and incorporating it into the magic systems of my stories.

This allows you to go beyond the original fairytale and create an entirely new and fresh world for your readers to enjoy (and for you to have fun writing within!) while still planting seeds of familiarity along the way.

The best example is in my upcoming duology, Blood Magic, where my protagonist does not dream, but instead enters an ‘alternate dimension’ when she sleeps. This plays into the concept and integration of Sleeping Beauty, as my protagonist has the power to put certain individuals into an endless sleep in the real world—which transports them into her alternate dimension until they are awakened again (or at least, that’s the shorter, spoiler free explanation).

The reason I love this approach is that you don’t risk straying so far from the source material that it’s no longer a retelling, but you also don’t feel confined to the existing world rules. You can essentially reinvent known concepts to play out in brand new ways, while ensuring readers still have that familiar “ah, I get it!” moment.

Click to continue.

4) Map out your major plot points and cherry pick your key events

Something I have done with all of my books, regardless of whether it’s a fairytale retelling or not, is get clear on my ‘major plot points’ throughout the book writing process. This provides a framework to guide me from A to B, even if I’m pantsing a lot of what comes in between.

So, this could be stuff like ‘the princess gets kidnapped by a dragon’ or ‘the prince and the princess realize they have feelings for each other.’ I’ll have anywhere from three to five major events in my initial roadmap that determine the overall direction and intention of the story I’m telling.

Then, when it comes to combining two fairytales into one, you don’t have to try and include the whole of each fairytale into the plot line. You can design a completely unique story using just some of the key events from each fairytale as your guide.

When I was mapping out Kingdom of Sirens and Monsters, my story starts with my protagonist escaping the Evil Queen and entering the forest (aka: The Undersea), then shifts loosely into the events of The Little Mermaid as she explores the concept of never being able to return to land if she can’t break the Huntsman’s curse. In the end, we find our way back to Snow White, where she frees her sister from the sleeping death.

Additionally, in Blood Magic, the story incorporates more Sleeping Beauty elements at the beginning, then gradually reveals more brushstrokes to Rapunzel as we approach the major plot twist of the book.

In conclusion

Breaking the rules of writing can be a lot of fun, but it also requires you to know what already works within your genre.

When you know this, you’re able to identify the line that both differentiates you, but also helps you write for the market and hit on the reader’s core desires for that type of story.

I know what readers are looking for in a fairytale retelling because before I ever wrote retellings, I was an avid reader of them. I knew what I enjoyed about them, as well as what let me down. This also shed a light on what I wanted to see done differently… and then I went out and did it.

Knowing the rules before I broke them allowed me to carve out a niche for myself, giving me room to explore and experiment with concepts in my writing, while also incorporating all the elements of a retelling that tick the box.

I knew readers expected familiarity, but also didn’t want to essentially re-read the same story they could find in the public domain. As such, the blend and balance between familiar and new is key to a retelling’s success—and when you combine two fairytales, it’s nearly impossible to predict how a known story might pan out since all the expectations are re-imagined.

So my final advice? Know your genre… and don’t be afraid to find a new edge within it. Think outside the box, try something different, and follow the ideas that spark and light you up most.

Then go and break some writing rules!

Check out Pagan Alexandria’s Blood Magic here:

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(A Conversation With Chris Grabenstein on Writing for Kids.)

When I wasn’t watching “Fractured Fairy Tales,” I was reading MAD magazine, which often included a quick cartoon about “Fairy Tale Scenes We’d Like To See.” A classic by the genius illustrator Don Martin goes like this:

• Frame 1 – A sad princess sits alone beside a pond.
• Frame 2 – A pair of reptilian eyes pop up in the pond. The princess immediately imagines a charming prince in need of a kiss.
• Frame 3 – The princess leans in, lips puckered, aiming for her frog.
• Frame 4 – Oops. Turns out those frog eyes were actually attached to a crocodile who’s just had a lovely meal of sappy princess.

What makes these stories work so wonderfully is that we, the viewer or the reader, already know the back story. You title your story “Leaping Beauty” and I already think I know what’s going to happen. I see a comic strip with an opening frame of a princess pining beside a pond, I know she’s looking for some amphibious love.

When my wife J.J. and I set out to co-author “Stinky’s Stories,” we knew we wanted to start with well-known stories and tales. Something that our 6-10-year-old readers were already familiar with. The Boy Who Cried Underpants, of course, starts with the classic Aesop fable about the boy who cried wolf. Jack and the Beanstink uses Jack and the Beanstalk as its springboard.

But, in our books, the kids sitting on the library rug listening to their librarian read these classics aren’t thrilled with how the stories end. For instance, what happened to the sheep after the wolf attack? Were they okay?

With the help of Stinky, a skunk stuffie who lives on the school library’s shelves, they are able to use their imaginations and spin a wild new ending.

A lot of my middle grade author friends have had fun fracturing fairy tales. Grump, by Liesl Shurtliff, tells “The (Fairly) True Tale of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.” A Tale Dark & Grimm, by Adam Gidwitz, has Hansel and Gretel walk out of their own story and into a bunch of other fairy tales penned by the Brothers Grimm. Cinder & Glass, Melissa de la Cruz’s story for a slightly older audience, is a fantastic retelling of Cinderella.

This list goes on and on.

Reimagining a classic tale is always a great way to get your writing flowing. A lot of the back story and character development work is already done for you. It’s a lot easier to write West Side Story if Romeo and Juliet already exists.

When you see the title Jack and the Beanstink, you already know how Jack chopped down the beanstalk and the giant fell to earth. In some versions, sadly, the giant dies. In others? Well, the narrator never really tells us. They’re too busy showing us how Jack and his mom are living happily ever after.

But, what if the giant got stranded on earth? What if there was no way for him to get back home to the clouds because Jack had eliminated the one direct access route to his castle (the beanstalk)? What if the poor giant had to fend for himself and find a job, not to mention a ready supply of six-foot-long hero sandwiches to nibble on? (Luckily, in our retelling, he winds up as the big man on a basketball team.)

Check out Chris Grabenstein’s Jack and the Beanstink here:

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With the characters and inciting incident already established, J.J. and I could use our imaginations to dream up what might’ve happened next.

Working with a known story can free you up for a good creative reach and stretch. Some of the expositional heavy lifting is already done, so you can move on to new twists and turns. You just have to add all the “what ifs?”

Why did the boy in the Aesop fable cry wolf? What if it was because he was bored counting sheep all day. Hey, it’ll make a kid drowsy. Maybe he craved excitement and adventure. What if, when he lost his job in the sheep meadow, he set off to the big city to seek new adventures and fun new things to cry out?

We’re hoping that our Stinky’s Stories series will not only be a lot of fun for early readers but will also, hopefully, inspire kids to use their imaginations to see what alternate endings or twists they might give to classic tales.

And if a few adult writers did the same thing to jump start their creative flow? Well, that would be fun, too!

Check out Chris Grabenstein’s The Boy Who Cried Underpants here:

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(4 Tips for Writing a Modern Retelling.)

I read through that book, cover to cover, several times. Within were gods and monsters, tricksters and heroes, and adventures with every turn of a page. I went on to read other books of mythology. The Mabinogion, in particular, ended up being particularly formative for my writing. But I still fondly remember that first book of mythology. I must have lost it in a move at some point, because I have no idea where it ended up.

However, I never lost my fascination with myths and legends. And, considering the state of the publishing market, the average reader hasn’t either. You can find mythology-inspired fiction on nearly every bookshelf, whether it’s romance or fantasy or science fiction or literary fiction. We’ve been retelling the same tales, putting our own spin on them, for thousands of years. Several of my young adult books are inspired by Welsh folklore, and over the years, I’ve learned a few ways to use myths and legends in my writing.

DEFINE YOUR NARRATIVE

I believe the reason myths remain a popular narrative is because there is a universal element to them. The protagonists are often larger than life—they might be half-god, trying to escape a prophecy, or building a giant horse to ransack a city. But at the heart of every myth are human qualities: desire, fear, anger, and regret. 

By distilling a myth down to those core emotions, writers can get at the most relatable elements of a story. Do you want to tell a story about finding one’s place in the world? About tragedy and regret? Or perhaps a great journey? Dig into what makes a myth so well-liked, and you can improve the relatability of your own writing.

LOOK BEYOND RETELLINGS

In Welsh mythology, the Cauldron of Rebirth is a magical cauldron that does exactly what it advertises: raises the dead. The risen dead could not speak, but they were a deadly army. I remember reading this tale when I was young, and my first thought was, “So they’re zombies, right?” 

Years later, when I began outlining a Welsh-inspired tale of an undead uprising (The Bone Houses), I remembered that cauldron. It was the perfect plot point: a magical item that could kick off all of the events of the story. By borrowing ingredients from a famous Welsh myth, I deepened my connection to the folklore-inspired world.

Taking inspiration from myths and legends does not limit you to a simple retelling. You can use settings, plot points, or characters from mythology and include them in anything from a modern literary short story to a zombie horror novel. Lore, by Alexandra Bracken, Blood Scion, by Deborah Falaye, and the Percy Jackson series, by Rick Riordan, are wonderful examples of authors using elements from mythology for modern stories. Your only limit is your own creativity!

FIND THE HUMAN ELEMENT

Do you have a favorite myth? Think of it, right now. I’ll give you a moment.

Now, what did you think of? Perhaps it was Persephone or Loki or Medusa. But you’ll notice one thing about this list: It’s about the characters involved. Great myths stay with people because we get invested in the characters. Whether they’re a hero or a villain, triumphant or tragic, it’s always about the people. Readers want characters who are memorable and relatable.

At first glance, mythological heroes seem removed from us mere mortals. After all, what could we have in common with demi-gods and magic and prophecies? Quite a lot, actually. 

Every mythological figure is driven by something: love, ambition, revenge, desire, hunger, loss, or loneliness. All of those emotions are incredibly human. Whether you are writing from the perspective of a famous mythological figure or creating your own character, determining their motivation will make them compelling to your readers.

FLIP THE PERSPECTIVE

Not all stories have to be about the heroes! If someone mentions The Odyssey, Beowulf, or Norse mythology, you probably first think of Odysseus, Beowulf, and Thor. But you are not limited to writing about the leading characters. By looking outside of the myth’s main characters, you can discover whole new stories. Circe, by Madeline Miller, Grendel, by John Gardner, and The Witch’s Heart, by Genevieve Gornichec, are all great examples of taking those respective myths and flipping them on their head.

In my book The Drowned Woods, I pulled inspiration from the Welsh myth of Cantre’r Gwaelod—a lost sunken kingdom off the western coast of Wales. There are several variations on the tale, but many of them mentioned that a young woman was responsible for the kingdom being drowned. Either through carelessness or malice, she sank the kingdom. But I wondered what the story would be like if it were told from her viewpoint. Would she still be a villainous figure? Or would she prove to be sympathetic?

HAVE FUN!

Many myths are deeply serious and carry heavy themes. Others… are not. One of my favorite tidbits of Welsh folklore is that corgis were believed to be steeds, spies, and messengers for the fairies. That inspired me to write Trefor, a magic-sniffing dog in The Drowned Woods. He proved to be an invaluable part of that book—and a fan favorite character.

Not all myths have to be serious! Sometimes they can be silly or funny. Look for tales and myths that amuse or intrigue you, and then play with them! Seek out the stories that entertain you. If you’re having fun, odds are that your readers will be having fun, too. 

Check out Emily Lloyd-Jones’ The Wild Huntress here:

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(6 Tips for Writing a Contemporary Ghost Story.)

We may not be battling gods and monsters in 2024, but we can relate to the core of the struggles the heroes of these stories go through. The way mythology continues to strike a cord with us is why I chose to retell the Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice in my newest YA novel, Death’s Country.

But how do you decide the way you want to retell a myth? How do you make such old stories fresh while still keeping the elements that make them so resonant intact?

1. Tell the myth from a different POV

One increasingly popular way of retelling myths is to adopt the perspective of a secondary character or even one who is traditionally villainized by the narrative. By doing this, we can offer the reader a new story that is nonetheless familiar.

Joanne Harris makes the trickster god Loki from Norse mythology into her protagonist in The Gospel of Loki. Angrboda, the mother of Loki’s three monstrous children, is the main character of Genevieve Gornichec’s The Witch’s Heart when she’s barely mentioned in the original stories at all. Spin by Rebecca Caprana makes Arachne of Greek mythology into a sympathetic figure instead of a woman who was arrogant enough to challenge the gods. Kaikeyi by Vaishnavi Patel centers the villainous queen in the Ramayana, while Margaret Atwood turns Odysseus’s wife Penelope into the heroine of The Penelopiad.

2. Tell the myth through a diverse lens

In the last 10 years, readers have become vocal about their desire to read books by marginalized authors and to see marginalized groups accurately represented in the stories they pick up. As a result, we’re seeing more and more diverse protagonists—including in retellings.

The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller is told from the perspective of Patroceles, the lover of Achilles from The Iliad, and their epic romance is the heart of the story. In Maya Deane’s Wrath Goddess Sing, Achilles is a trans woman rather than the cis male hero we’re used to, and the events of the Trojan War are seen through her queer gaze. In Legendborn by Tracy Deonn, a Black teenager must embrace her heritage as a descendant of the Knights of the Round Table—and the burdens that come with it.

In Death’s Country, I have not one but two Orpheus figures: a pair of queer Latine teenagers. To retrieve the third member of their polyamorous triad, they descend into a Miami-inspired underworld using ancestral magic and connect with a version of Death who resembles Santa Muerte more than the European Grim Reaper.

Drawing from our own diverse experiences can give new life to old tales.

3. Modernize the myth

Myths have a timeless quality, even if the original stories are rooted in a specific culture and history. By bringing these myths into the modern era, we can use them to talk about our world and make them even more relatable to our readers.

Neil Gaiman retells the story of Odin’s son Balder as a road trip narrative in American Gods. The Ground Beneath Her Feet by Salman Rushdie recasts Orpheus as a doomed 20th century rockstar. In Love in the Time of Global Warming by Francesca Lia Block, Odysseus is a teen girl in 21st century L.A. who is trying to find her family after a natural disaster. The musical Hadestown takes place in a setting heavily inspired by the Great Depression in America, with the underworld as a factory.

4. Reinvent the myth

What makes certain myths fascinating to you personally? Focusing on those elements instead of retelling a story beat-for-beat can take you and your readers surprising places.

I’ve never been overly interested in the tragedy of Orpheus’s story; I was far more interested in the idea that he loved Eurydice so much that he was willing to go into the ultimate darkness for her, without knowing if he’d ever return. And it was that element that I chose to focus on in Death’s Country, using the bones of the myth as inspiration for the book. I also drew from other stories about the underworld, such as Dante’s Divine Comedy and Jewish folklore about the purgatorial afterlife, Gehenna.

Mythology endures because we are always reinventing it and making it relevant to our lives. And I think it will continue to endure for that very reason. 

Check out R.M. Romero’s Death’s Country here:

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