One of the worst decisions I made in my life (first boyfriend excepted) was to take an English Lit degree. It totally destroyed my love of wide wandering reading, undermined the aspirations I held in my true place, gave me misleading goals, and did the unforgivable: made me snooty about childhood fairy stories.
Now I have outlived the grisly consequences of the EngLit degree, I have my stories back. I love fairy stories, folk tales, Grimm reading and Perrault. These stories contain wisdoms about the dynamics of relationships, fears about knowledges of women, and the minefields of sexual normalities and transgressions.
I want to stitch the fantasy note book where little red riding hood might have written her story. I want to touch the bark of the magic tree where the treasure is buried. I want to turn the pages where the evil goblin records the people whose hearts he has clawed. I want to make the book owned by the witch in the woods, the one who eats children, where she keeps her spells safe.