A Question: A Guest Post by Ayana Gray

A story of power and politics, monster and myth, this is the spellbinding tale of a historically misunderstood figure. Read on for an exclusive essay from author Ayana Gray on writing I, Medusa.

I, Medusa began with what I thought was a simple question. I was a lifelong fan of Greco-Roman mythology, and I was curious about where Medusa would have lived on a modern-day map. As I fell deeper and deeper into a rabbit hole of research, I soon learned that—like many elements of Medusa’s myth—the answer to my question was rife with contradictions. Over time, my interpretation of those contradictions formed a myth unto itself.

Many will (understandably) shelve I, Medusa as a retelling. For me, it’s also an origin story, a way to fill in some of the blank space left by the ancient Greek and Roman poets who never gave Medusa a true backstory. You don’t have to be a mythology whiz to recognize Medusa—her snake hair and petrifying glare are infamously enshrined in pop culture—but so often Medusa’s story is diluted down to feminist rage, assault, and murder without engaging with any other part of her narrative. We all know about Medusa the icon; I found myself more intrigued by Medusa the girl.

In opening, we meet a young and extremely sheltered “Meddy” teetering on the line between girlhood and womanhood, and desperate to leave her island to see the greater world. As the only mortal daughter of two primordial sea gods, we meet a version of Medusa who experiences bone-deep insecurity, and also a blatant lack of control over her own life. When, through a series of unexpected events, her underlying anger drives her to violence, she garners the attention of Athena, goddess of wisdom, war, and craft. Athena invites Meddy to the city of Athens, where she’s given the opportunity to at last find purpose in her life as a priestess-in-training. Little does Meddy know that her decision to go to Athens will be the first among the many that ultimately doom her.

I’m asked often why Medusa is, two thousand years later, a character who has such universal appeal and continued relevance. My take is that Medusa remains one of those singular and distinct literary figures because she acts as a bridge. There are so many ways to connect with her. While she’s certainly become a feminist icon and popular symbol of female rage, I think if you’ve ever felt powerless, inadequate, angry, or disenfranchised, you can relate to the Medusa in this story. Her myth—one full of tragedy, heartbreak, and redemption—is a mirror readers can look into and recognize pieces of themselves within. I have hope that, through this story, Medusa will continue to be a mirror for many years to come.