New Project: Snow White and the Real Heroes

working cover for DWARVES OF SEVEN

Folktales (or, fairy tales) are a convenient source of inspiration. Adaptations of the Grimm Brothers’ tales are especially good at inspiring new stories. Whenever I read one to my daughter, I think of ways to absorb familiar elements into retellings.

Most of the time, I jot down my ideas in a few lines for for later. One of these stories poured out into an eight-page outline that could result in a 30,000- to 45,000-word story. This novel (or novella) will feature iconic characters from “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs” and the friendlier “Snow-White and Rose-Red” within a fantasy world based loosely on Germany in the Twelfth Century.

Here’s a logline I’m playing with.

A magical family of dwarves save a princess and overthrow her evil parents to reclaim their rights among humans.

You can read about the main characters and watch for updates on the Dwarves of Seven (the working title) page.

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15 Every 15 in Review

My short series of 15 Every 15 story bites allowed me to share my work after the latest quiet spell.

Did you see the posts? Here are all seven story graphics from the series!

"Growth" © Ann M. Lynn
Growth © 2017
"Rape" © Ann M. Lynn
Violation © 2017
Fly © Ann M. Lynn
Fly © 2017
"The Good Story" © Ann M. Lynn
The Good Story © 2017
"Nightmare" © Ann M. Lynn
Coping © 2017
© Ann M. Lynn
Shine © 2017
"Humanoid" © Ann M. Lynn
Humanoid © 2017

Thank you for reading. Writing without an audience is like swimming without water. You make the motions more meaningful.

15 Every 15: The Good Story

My daughter is a storyteller. She collects words as readily as rocks and plant seeds. While bits of nature fill her pockets, her mind fills with tools for her stories.

As soon as she knew how to speak a sentence, she recounted her observations in rambling detail and her dreams in disturbing clarity. She not only tells the story, she performs it. Her hands wave in the air and her voice changes to set the mood.

This is the micro version of her favorite story to tell when she was four years old. She insisted it was “the good story”. I would try every time to rewrite the story into a happier version, yet she held on to the key points that gave her versions a darker tone.

Her versions are better, anyway.


This is the last part of my 15 Every 15 series. Keep an eye out for the graphic cards all together in an upcoming post, and please feel free to comment on your favorite part of the series. Thank you for reading!

“I’m not a writer…” says the exhausted mother.

“I’m not a writer. I’m not a writer,” I would tell myself more often in the past few years. The truth was, “I’m not writing.”

Giving birth to and caring for my daughter took more energy and time than I had ever imagined. She was one might call a “high needs baby“. Now that the trauma of her birth and her first few days have faded, I can joke about how the hospital kept us for an extra day to ensure we would survive at home without the staff and volunteers who would take turns holding and entertaining her. I was told that they hadn’t before seen a baby born with so much “personality”. (I suspect the word was really “obstinate”.)

I love that she has been telling us since Day Zero what she wants, but why does what she want have to be so different than every other babies’ wants?!

Anyway, after a couple of years, I started to sleep most of the way through the night. I could eat a full meal without having to hide from a child who possesses incredible smelling and hearing. (The truth is, she’s really a dragon. She had fangs and fighting instincts to prove it.) My daughter learned to talk (in a language we could understand, thank you very much, Miss Have-to-Make-Up-My-Own) enough to explain why she would cry until she stopped breathing.

My life started to settle into a new mode of normal.

The problem was normality no longer included writing.

When the urge hit hard to hide away with a pen and notebook, I would think, Writing is selfish. It takes time away from higher priorities. Yeah, priorities. Family, the small business I maintain with my husband, working, paying bills, keeping house. All that fun stuff. Writing was about as high as vacations (whatever those are).

What about if it made money for my family? Could I justify it? But…I avoid sharing my stories with others. My writing is selfish.

I thought, I won’t write much. Eventually, the urges will go away. The characters will go silent, and I can figure out ways to prevent other people’s stories from inspiring new ones. Someday, I won’t pick apart everything I see for potential story material.

Except nothing changed. Years I tried! I even attempted to give up reading, so that I wouldn’t want to respond to new ideas. That backfired, of course.

What I realized was I don’t want to lose the part of myself that writes stories. The only version of me I love is the one who speaks through the written word.

I can’t like the me who doesn’t write. The person stumbling through each day, shoving down and tying up every craving to move words from the mind to the page– she felt like death. I’d been through that already as a child, when I would hide away my notebooks. Why did I think I could deny that part of myself forever? It was suicidal.

The person who leaves essays and poetry and stories and notes all over the place, who stumbles through plots and agonizes over the rhythm of a sentence, who arrogantly declares what’s right and wrong in a piece of art, and who scatters magic for a future me to find when I no longer remember creating the spell– I love that person.

That’s when I started to remember that my daughter was going to learn how to live life by watching me. What I did not want her to see someone who dragged herself through each day after trying to cut off a part of who she was.

So I have to write. Even if it kills some other part of me, I will write.

After all, there is always sacrifice for love.