Why I Wrote It

You know, I honestly don’t remember the day when I said, Hey, I’m going to write a novel of The Twelve Dancing Princesses. But I do remember suddenly jotting down notes, and telling my husband, my editor, my agent, that I was working on a novel that would have knitting patterns in it, because the man character was a BOY who KNITS.

This is not all that strange around my house. My maternal grandfather was a knitter. My husband’s close friend and former roommate knits, and he looks like he just rolled into town on a Harley. And I knit. I knit like my life depends on it, because if my hands aren’t typing, they have to be knitting or I’ll go crazy with pent up energy.

But enough about the knitting.

As I got into this book, I realized that I was throwing a lot of my interests into it, as though attempting to fit in all the things I hadn’t been able to do with Sun and Moon. I’d written a book, set in Norway, and chock full of trolls and polar bears and wolves and magic. Now what?

Now what, indeed! Now I needed to write a book with a knitter and a gorgeous garden full of flowers of every type, but especially roses. And where was that garden? Why in Germany (or a sort of Germany, anyway)! Germany, where I have spent many happy hours walking around drinking in the sights and smells. Germany, where stuccoed houses are painted pink or decorated with scenes from the Bible. But when would it be set? In the early 19th century, when Britain’s Regency was in full romantic swing! And there would be a mysterious underground palace, too, carved of obsidian, where strange pale princes danced forever with their captive brides. There would be jokes, and dancing, and mysterious old women, and pastries, and all good things.

And somebody, absolutely, had to be stabbed with a knitting needle.