Reviewed by John David Harding

If you have ever attended an author Q&A, you have probably heard a variation of the same question: "So . . . where do you get your ideas from?" For many, the question is old hat and probably beside the point. How would the answer change our enjoyment or understanding of a literary work? But maybe the question shouldn't be dismissed outright. After all, writing is a difficult business, made even more challenging by the pressure to write something original from scratch. The most common answer, I suspect, is that a writer has no clue as to where their ideas come from, just as neurologists don't fully understand how the human brain works. Pinning down the origins of a writer's work might limit what should be limitless, thereby stymying the creative process altogether, lest a writer becomes, like Agatha Christie, strapped to a character or a genre or a set of reader expectations, miserable and unable to break free.

But there can be something freeing in returning to a familiar story and using it as the foundation for something new. Think of Donald Barthelme's Snow White, Jean Rhys' Wide Sargasso Sea, Geraldine Brook's March—these retellings make us reconsider what we thought we knew about certain characters, stories, and forms. To be clear, this literary tradition does not operate in the same vein as fan fiction, a form of fan service. Allusion becomes a point of departure, something that makes the blank page seem less daunting. Maybe the promise of satirizing social norms or righting past wrongs is also the appeal. Maybe the challenge of invention is more engaging when the writer's materials are well-known or beloved.

The central characters of Jen Fawkes' short story collection Tales the Devil Told Me are certainly well-known: Rumpelstiltskin, Medusa, Professor Moriarty. Whether you love them or love to hate them depends on who you are. But what do we really know about these characters? Fawkes' stories are necessarily referential, but they do not subsist on allusion alone. Rather than restricting ingenuity, the source material acts as a catalyst for fresh, unexpected revisions of familiar tales. Fortunately, no story feels like an apologia or an excuse for bad behavior. Instead we are asked to see what these characters' struggles reveal about who they are, not as archetypes but as people . . . or in one case, as a whale.

"Dear Ahab" is written as a direct address from the whale Moby Dick to the deceased captain of the Pequod. Offering a delightfully brief summary of Melville's meganovel in just two pages, the whale suggests that Ahab's obsession with him was in fact mutual: "It wasn't that you were the first man I'd tasted. I'd eaten my share of whalers and had developed a thirst for the blood of man. Or not blood so much as fear. Or not fear so much as reason. There is something about the way a man shrieks as his flesh is torn and his bones splintered, about the way he begs and pleads." Perhaps the whale longs for human consciousness so that he might understand why Ahab is bent on destroying him. Casting the whale as a tragic hero, the story begs us to consider who the real monster is.

In "Never, Never," Fawkes imagines a world in which Captain James Hook retires from swashbuckling and takes a job at the post office. Hook doesn't concern himself with that meddlesome Peter Pan anymore. He is married, has a stepson, and is working with a therapist. Nevertheless, Hook continues to be dogged by the hand-swallowing crocodile, a relationship of mutual obsession not unlike that of Ahab and the whale. Also troubling, Hook's first mate, Smee, is still hanging around, attempting to put together a crew, which eventually includes Hook's stepson. Now a protective father, Hook can't stand that his stepson plans to follow in his footsteps, but even threats of walking the plank won't make him change his mind. The story concludes on a surprisingly tender note. In the end, Hook is neither pirate nor scoundrel: he is a man who traded love of marauding for the love of a woman. "Given the choice between death and life without her," Hook says, "I'd walk the plank without hesitation."

Another story of obsession, "Penny Dreadful" retells Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca, paying special attention to the villainous Mrs. Danvers. Spending her childhood orphaned in a boarding school, Mrs. Danvers escapes poverty by taking a job as Rebecca's nanny. Known then as Danny, she raises Rebecca and turns a blind eye to the girl's turbulent flings. Later, Danny follows Rebecca to Manderley when she marries a rich Englishman. Not long after Rebecca dies tragically at sea, her husband returns from Monte Carlo with a new wife. So begins Danny's campaign to destroy this "mousy, awkward thing." The second person point of view makes the reader feel like Mrs. Danvers' coconspirator: "Make things as difficult as possible for the would-be replacement. Never miss a chance to point out her inadequacy—to make her look like a fool. Remind her of the superiority of your lady. . . Watch her squirm." Much of "Penny Dreadful" tracks with what readers of du Maurier's novel already know, but its power derives from showing Mrs. Danvers as a whole person, someone whose actions seem plausible, even reasonable, when considered in the context of her humanity rather than her lack thereof.

Readers who despise the Disney-fication of classic stories will feel relieved that Fawkes never adopts their saccharine tone. Her prose is deliberate and finely wrought. Only once did I think that a story—at nearly 50 pages—tested the limits of the short story form. Even so, I turned the pages, partly because the story, about Shakespeare's Claudius, differed in style from the others and also because the author fearlessly expands upon Shakespeare, whose work is considered by some to be sacrosanct. Let's not forget that even The Bard himself garnered inspiration from outside sources: myths, legends, poems, plays. Joining this age-old tradition, Fawkes tells us tales that we have heard before but gives new life to villains who largely existed as archetypes. In a way, it can be even more unnerving to know what makes these characters tick. For instance, if the old witch from "Hansel and Gretel" isn't strictly a cannibal—if she is also a grief-stricken woman who is starving and abandoned—perhaps we can feel compassion for her. It is both moving and unsettling to realize that she might not be so different from the rest of us.