by Laura I. Miller
Celebrated fairy-tale author and founder of Fairy Tale Review Kate Bernheimer once said to me: “Fairy tales are tales of survival, first and foremost.” Even after reading through The Grimm Reader (ed. Maria Tatar) for a class Kate was teaching at the University of Arizona, I didn’t get it. What did geese, swans, devils, elves, princesses, kings, and kittens have to do with anything, let alone survival?
I’d been researching magical realism—a literary technique in which unrealistic or incredible elements are introduced in a matter-of-fact way into an otherwise realistic narrative (Beverly Ormerod)—for about a year. From the moment I read stories like Amanda Davis’ “Fat Ladies Floated in the Sky Like Balloons” and Kevin Brockmeier’s “The Ceiling,” I knew I had to figure out why and how magic appeared in the everyday lives of these characters.
Eventually, I began to see a link between these questions of magic and survival. I landed on a theory that magic transcends communication—magic does the job when words fail. If you can’t talk to your wife about the affair she’s having, the slowly descending black sky will do it for you (“The Ceiling”). If you can’t tell your husband that you’ve beheaded his only son, a red-and-green-feathered bird will sing it in a song (“The Juniper Tree”). Survival hinges on our ability to communicate.
In his book The Fairytale as Art Form and Portrait of Man, Max Lϋthi says of fairy tales: “Everything internal is so far as possible translated into something external.” That’s the real magic—making some abstract thought or emotion inside of you apparent to other people. And if fairy stories are meant to achieve this, to be spoken and remembered, to survive, then magic—without motivation or explanation—necessarily takes the place of more nuanced techniques like interior monologue and exposition.
When I began looking, really looking, at fairy tales as an art form, I began to see more craft techniques emerge. Techniques like abstraction, flatness, repetition, symbolism, beauty shock, and the eucatastrophe (i.e. happy ending), to name a few. More or less a list of what not to do for most students of writing. And yet, I see these techniques come alive in the hands of literary masters like Kelly Link, George Saunders, Angela Carter, and Shirley Jackson. Fairy tales are our own secret language. When a wolf walks into the scene, I see its legacy sweep out behind it; when the woods open out to a cottage, I know what dangers may lurk there.
I often teach fairy tales to beginning writers, and they, too, very quickly grasp the rules of a fairy-tale narrative. The dread of story-making disappears from their faces, and they have no trouble figuring out where to begin and how the story will end. They also understand, albeit unconsciously, more complex techniques like symbolism and metaphor. They intuit the difference between a swan and a duck, a stick and a bone. And, most importantly, they no longer question whether their stories matter because in fairy tales, underdogs triumph, women are powerful, children have agency, and mice are on equal standing with kings.
Fairy tales are about survival not because everyone survives (that’s rarely the case, in fact), but because, like all stories, they’re about solace, a shared experience. Maybe your mother didn’t abandon you in the forest (“Hansel and Gretel”), but you can identify with this story because you grew up hungry. Maybe your father didn’t cut off your hands after making a deal with the devil (“The Girl with No Hands”), but you can understand this story because you forged your own path (earned your own silver prostheses) in this cruel and enchanting world. We keep living despite poverty, abuse, and deception because our stories, everyone’s stories—be it poor miller or dancing cat or witch in the well—connect us to the world, to each other, and that magical bond makes literature (and life) worth surviving.
This post is part of our annual Lit Matters series, in which writers and readers express why supporting and elevating literary arts—the mission of Lighthouse Writers Workshop— is important to them. If you agree, consider supporting Lighthouse on Colorado Gives Day. Mark your calendar for December 8 or schedule your gift now. Thank you!
Laura I. Miller is the program coordinator at Lighthouse Writers Workshop. Her stories have appeared in Mid-American Review, Cosmonauts Avenue, Necessary Fiction, Specter, Spork Press, and elsewhere. Reviews and editorials appear in CutBank, Electric Literature, Lit Hub, and Bustle, among other places. She received an MFA in fiction from the University of Arizona and is at work on a novel.
