Grimmerye

Grimmerye is a project I've been working on for the past two years, so it's near and dear to my heart. In Grimmerye, I played with the backstory for two Grimm villainesses. I wanted to discover what else could be under the surface, to find the human side of the women who did these terrible things with seemingly no provocation. The challenge I posed to myself was, under what circumstances could their murderous, thieving, kidnapping ways not only be justified, but in the traditional hero(ine)'s best interest?

Note that I'm not telling you which stories I based mine on, because it's not meant to be evident at first. Discovering which story you're in as a reader is part of the fun.
I had the opportunity to run the first few pages and query by an agent recently, and got some interesting advice. He said that it was good, but because it's a series of stories, it would be a hard sell for a first time author. I had to agree--short story collections are a hard sell unless big-name authors are involved, and that's what Grimmerye currently is at its lowest level.
Enter the advice of my best critique partners: find a way to take the two stories and unite them into a coherent single narrative. So while one of my other manuscripts is being looked over by Pitch Wars mentors (check out for info on Pitch Wars if you don't know what it is), I'm working on finding a way to loosely tie the first two stories together with a third. I have a crazy idea up my sleeve that just might do the trick, and it will be challenging to write. Exciting!

Anywhooo...Here's the first 213 words of the first story. I throw you right into the story with a bang on this one, appropriate to this particular antiheroine's narrative.

I lay awake in my bed, unable to sleep, dreading the morrow.
My birthday. My stomach churned at the thought of it.
For as long as I could remember, the Woman had celebrated all of our birthdays—and there were many of us—in the same fashion. She would wake the unfortunate child in the morning with a clawed hand grasping the poor girl’s throat, screaming in her face, spittle dripping like venom from Her lips as she recounted Her story. The Woman had no use for boy-children; they were sent away to their fathers as soon as they could be weaned. She kept those of us who were unfortunate enough to be girls and paid just enough attention to us to make sure we didn’t die—at least, not until after She’d discovered if we would prove useful to Her schemes or not. After that, She didn’t care about our fates; most of the older girls had been dragged off in the night by nameless village men whose faces blended into one dark, leering grimace that haunted my sleep. On occasion, girls simply vanished, and if one of us dared to ask the Woman where they had gone, She merely shrugged indifferently.
None of us would have dreamed of calling Her “Mother”.