Imaginary Tea with Anna Akana – How to be Alone

anna akana

So…

I love characters (and people) that have something to say but don’t shove it down your throat with some kind of moral authority, add that with a quirky personality and you have my heart. Right now my major internet crush is Anna Akana, here’s her youtube page.

The video that moved me this week is here: How To Be Alone

As a child I was not a social person. I preferred my own company because it required too much effort dealing with other people and I hated small talk (still not a fan). I wanted to talk about “serious” things and other kids really didn’t, so even if I hadn’t chosen my own company, it would have been thrust upon me anyway.

One of my teachers thought I was abused at home because I was “too quiet”. My mother was grilled about my “home situation” during a PTA meeting when I was in the third grade, and afterwards asked me if I was OK (and happy). At the time I couldn’t think of why I wouldn’t be happy, everyone had problems including me but I was OK. In the end, what I took from that conversation was that I (and how I presented myself) was a problem, and I needed to fix that. My solution? Become more involved. After the third grade there wasn’t a year that I wasn’t involved in at least three extra curricular activities, in some kind of leadership role and smiled while doing it. Thing is though, I would much rather have just gone home early, read a book or written some story about something that was vaguely true and been internally satisfied. Instead I saddled myself with a perpetual people pleasing that I still struggle with. All because third graders are supposed to be noisy.

I only started fighting my people pleasing ways in university. Which isn’t really a good time to be fighting what defines you and led to my degree taking place at two universities and took twice as long to complete. Not fun when everyone has you pegged as an over achiever, so in the end, you appear to be a failure.

Letting other people’s observations become your reality is guaranteed to keep you wrapped in unhappiness. I really just should have learned how to express my desire for alone time instead of pretend I didn’t engage in it (if that doesn’t sound suggestive)…Obviously not in third grade but after then, instead of devising more methods to prove how social I was when I would rather not have been.

Over and Out!

{Imaginary} Sunday Tea

 Cozy Up!
Cozy Up!

So…

Welcome to my weekly segment: Imaginary Tea on Sunday.

This Sunday slot is reserved for my observation on something that happened online and usually will be brief and “light”.

These posts will either have a video,music or alternative “visual” inspiration from elsewhere on the internet and not my own head.

First post coming up shortly.

Over and Out!

Surviving Marriage with a Chance of a Happy Ending

 

 Love!
Love!

 

So…

The part of the world I am from family is a big deal and I mean knowing your cousin’s cousins and their neighbour’s nephews, which wouldn’t be a problem if there weren’t so many siblings to begin with. For example, my Dad is the middle child of five children and my Mum is the eldest of eight, most of their siblings married at least once and had children… I tried to make a family tree when I was about twelve but ran out of motivation when I realised I didn’t actually know as many members of my family as I thought I did and asking my grandmother for information filled me with fear.

I am 28 years old, not married and don’t have any children. My parents line has no fresh blood in it and my Dad is getting antsy for some young ‘uns to fold into the Muchindu fabric. Being the oldest child alive it is up to me set an example (not sure I want or need to be setting examples on making babies but let’s not dwell on that). My older sister died a few years ago without any children of her own. None of my younger siblings have children and aren’t rushing towards the altar.

During my last visit to my parents farm, the subject of marriage came up (as it is prone to when your parents think you are wilting your eggs on purpose to spurn them their rightfully earned joy), and I got to really thinking about what marriage means for me. I know what I would like it to be: a partnership, a team moving in one direction towards a common goal (whatever that is, is up to the two people in the relationship because people get married for different reasons and it isn’t our place to judge them, even though judgements are a reflex reaction and will happen anyway). But I digress… Very rarely do I see examples of couples getting married because they are on the same page on what they want out of their future together. Sidenote: I attended a lovely wedding this past weekend with a bride who actually cried with joy and I have never seen that before but the couple seemed united before the wedding day and the wedding day itself didnt seem like the end of grueling planning but rather a beginning of a life together which is what I think weddings should be.I would like to wish them a long and full life ahead together.

Marriage usually happens because it is “the right time” more often than not. Either through a child that wasn’t entirely planned or the couple have been dating so long they may as well be married and decide to officiate it. Both of those scenarios don’t often have happy endings.

I realise my definition isnt romantic and makes marriage sound like work but the truth is, it is, work. It is work you choose to get into with a tag team partner you will be “stuck with” for the rest of your life, and sadly we are so focused on the wedding day we forget about what happens afterwards.  The problem with that is on a balance of equations there are too many unhappily married people giving the institution of marriage a terrible name. Random question of the day: Why do women in the movies when proposed to not react until they have seen the ring? There is rarely any evidence that the poor fellow proposing gets on his knees (in public) yet there will be zero “joy” till that box opens or is produced.

One day, I hope to get married and build plans around and with another person (as different as his opinions of those plans sometimes are), I believe in the weight of vows and the promise of eternal fidelity but its become almost “too easy” to leave a marriage than to work at making it what you want it to be.What I disagree with is the expectation that who I am needs to change because I am now a wife. I fight with that idea very strongly. Pretending to be something else shouldn’t happen with your life partner because they have more of you than anyone else. Its easy to pretend with parents because you need to keep them proud of you, or with your siblings because you want them happy or with colleagues because you dont want to get fired but with the person you want to spend forever with? Everyone else has a shift schedule with you, they really don’t.

I hate confrontation and will avoid it like its an STD infested keyboard (let that fester a minute) but when you share your life with someone, confrontation is bound to happen. Apparently, the trick is not to let it evolve into something else. Let the conversation about discarded socks in the kitchen floor be about that and ONLY THAT not about his desire to spend less time with you or his new “odd” bedroom requests (although I can see how one thing could lead to the other). You need to “nip things in the bud”, is what I am constantly advised but sadly its easy to let little things slide, because why should you sweat the small stuff or worse, nag? Unfortunately, if you wait till patterns have developed, switching out of those patterns appears like a rejection of the person you are with.

What I hope to remember the day after my wedding is, I picked the person I am now waking up next to and as wonderful as he is most of the time, there will be moments I would prefer to club him on the back of his head than talk. That’s not a problem, it makes me normal, I should just talk to him about it and not actually club him, no matter how tempting that would be. Maybe that will be my chance of a happy ending, I will still be me, he will still be him and we will now just live together and make babies.

Over and Out!

Killing My Hang Ups

Gorgeous lady but not me
Simply Cyn captures my mood in this shot and looks GORGEOUS doing it

So…

When I started this blog, I had a schedule laid out of what I would post and how regularly I would put my overflowing ideas into the world and boy do I have ideas… If I could mine them I would be A LOT better off than I am now (because I am certain that they are valuable ideas… I may suffer from delusions of grandeur).

But then ‘Life’ got in the way (as it normally does when you are “playing” above your station), and then I started making excuses… many excuses. At first they were logical… then creative… “I can’t type right now because I am researching self publishing on amazon (by buying books)”, or “my hair is more important right now so I think I’ll embark on mini twists instead of getting another story down, besides it will allow me to think.”.

Truth is, I got scared. I put a blog out and it started getting some hits (more than three is some!), and there wasn’t any hate, a significant amount of spam but no hate, and people other than family and friends were starting to look at it. Enter Stage Fright. I was now publicly attempting to bring my dreams to life. This would mean I would now no longer have any excuse on why I wasn’t where I thought I should be. Bringing me to my hang ups… or rather the one major one.

But before that, I am not deluded to think everyone who reads what I write will like what they find, I want to be a writer but I need to do a lot of work because I am not dedicating enough time to my art and I should. This I know (“It is known”, hee hee). Its like having exams coming and not prepping but literally praying it will work out. If you don’t put in the work, how can you expect it to?

So, my major hang up. I would rather be an ace at something I hate doing than fail at something I want to be doing. This is a little crazy and counter intuitive because it leads to me cementing myself in things I don’t actually want to do. Like stay in a relationship longer than I should or study a course I didn’t really have any love for at the time (that did eventually change) and host of other oddities that I could have saved myself from that led me to being dissatisfied with what and who I am.

Failing at a desire seemed a lot less desirable than succeeding at a chore. Because you chose it as opposed to “dealing” with what was thrust upon you.

Which points out that my main fear is failure. I fear that I am ordinary. That I do not have nearly as much exposure to interesting things to make me interesting (because interesting is like a bug, you catch it and pass it along). That my life has been too comfortable to damage me into being great. I fear being mundane or *the horror*, forgettable. I want to be remembered. I want to be interesting. This in my mind would mean I matter (see above for possible delusions of grandeur).

So how do I get over my hangups and fears? I haven’t the foggiest idea. Late last year I felt the walls of boredom and inadequacy closing in so I decided I needed to make at least one dream come true. “See Japan. No excuses”. I had been thinking about it for years and every time I saved enough money something “practical” came up and it would be gone, plus I never could get enough time off work. But I got a crazy buzzing in my head that I was running out of time. I spoke to a friend and she decided to join me in my mad quest and we somehow planned a two week trip to a country we had never been to and didn’t speak the language of. And it was WONDERFUL. I would gladly go back for another trip if only to sit on benches and watch people. So next time I get a crazy desire to travel, may it be summer!

The way I am hoping to get rid of my hang ups is to voice them and then bludgeon them. It seems to be the only way. Simply refuse to be mundane and don’t forget.

This is not a particularly helpful article if you were looking for a how to but its my story. Maybe it will help you. Make one dream happen (at a time). Even if it is something as simple as saving a certain amount of money between now and the end of the year, growing a certain plant or smiling more. Its your dream. Stop with the excuses.

Bludgeon the hang ups.

Over and Out!

 

Love and Doing Nothing

sisters

So…

I live with two of my sisters and I love them dearly. I am trying to figure out the best way to describe them but the only thing that comes to mind is if we were a litter of puppies, we’d all be the runt. Which defeats the purpose of a runt like description… we’re all round pegs trying to force our way into square holes. I have a brother too but seeing as he’s the wrong kind of peg for this story I need to omit him for the time being, don’t worry brother. I’ll have a post up just for you!

We suffer through each others joys, groaning on the inside because we know the value of spending time together. For example, the youngest and myself LOVE Asian pop, the middle one groans every time we squeal about a new video (right now I cant wait to share EXO’s “Wolf” video, if you haven’t seen it and Kpop is your thing, check it out). The youngest loves soppy romantic stories and vampires. The middle one and myself groan through such movies, while the youngest and I lament every time the middle one gets excited about a new fitness regime or extremely loud pants… seriously, if she could, you would HEAR her pants, but I digress (and I am not always the most common denominator).

You can “easily” lavish money on people but time, that’s a different playing field and even if the time is so miserable all you want to do is bash each other’s heads in, it still trumps not spending time together. Well, for me anyway, they may probably want to slink away but as the oldest I get commanding rights which they cannot escape {insert evil laugh}.

Its not always laughs and yoga poses in the kitchen though (that actually did happen). I have (once or twice) pretended to be asleep just so I can have a few moments of peace or pretended not to hear a call so I can have some quiet. This does not mean I love them any less but we’re not the same kind of round and sometimes that means we each need our own times and methods of re-booting.

The point of this ramble is basically to remind them and anyone reading this that simply “buying” something isn’t always enough, you need to “know” the person you live or just deal with. We are always so busy “proving” our affections with things that we don’t share ourselves. I am not a mother yet but I remember hating having to share my bedroom with my sisters. My parents forced us to share not only our bedroom but communal time as well. All I wanted was my own space, and because I am a selfish human being I still do on occasion, but being forced to smell each others morning breath and argue over underwear space I know their cries even when they aren’t being vocal about it and I also know when I am the wrong person to address their problems but knowing that you aren’t the right person doesn’t mean “do nothing”. It means find a way to help that doesn’t involve your own hand making movements, it means finding a voice to say the things you wish your voice could, it means pointing them in a direction that may be the complete opposite of yours. Love is never doing nothing, love is never being OK with a state less than contentment.

Do something.

 

Always.

 

Over and Out!

Peaches and Apples – A Short Story

 

Tree on the Sky byryka
Tree on the Sky by ryka

by Claudie Muchindu

I have a story to share. It’s a less than charming tale of a peach and an apple that grew in orchard and somehow got entwined.

Shall I tell you about the peach first? He is and will always be the only entity that has the power to bring her to less than she is and she has willingly given that power to him. I cannot say whether she had a choice or not but that’s often the way life works, isn’t it?

I‘m  not sure if it’s the way his mouth moves when he isn’t  speaking or the way the air around him moves to accommodate his less than natural ego. Its all of these and none. It’s the way he makes her feel together when he is around and bits and pieces when he leaves. Yet too many nights she has woken up in an empty bed because he couldn’t bring himself to spend the night with her. Too many nights she hasn’t cried because crying is beneath her but the tears have always needed to be shed. They both are what they are. They’re one and yet less then that. How can one be so powerful and yet seem so powerless?

Today will be different. She knows it will. It has to be. She knows she cannot let him put her whole self in a wringer simply by walking through the door. She wonders why she ever gave him her spare key. They pass each other in the corridors as though they were nothing more than two walls coated in different paint not seeing each other from opposite views of the same courtyard; and they might as well be. They have different paint and different textures underneath it all. He will be more than she ever can and they both know that, peaches don’t grow on apple trees and my dears, he is a peach. Apples aren’t necessarily less than peaches but they cant grow on the same branch. Late at night before she nods off she will tell herself that its still all right for them to grow in the same orchard though. There are no laws against peaches and apples in the same orchard.

‘Jon. This bed isn’t big enough for us anymore,’ she whispers. She whispers because she knows he is almost asleep. She can also tell from the line of his back that he is now wide awake. He fakes a moan and she cant resist a smile. Her smile lights her up from within yet she doesn’t know. He’s never told her. She thinks she knows him better than he even knows himself but what can an apple know of being a peach? She places a hand on his back, her fingers are always cold but he’s never flinched to her touch. The warmth coming off him makes her feel she has been living a solitary winter and that there may be a summer at the end of it after all. He makes her heart smile as only he can, when he is being himself without trying. She doesn’t see the beauty in that simple vision, her hand on his back that is. She knows not the warmth of her cocoa essence on his paler than pale torso. He’s never told her that he’s never felt the cold in her fingers. He feels only the heat that her earth tones capsized his sails with long before he knew her name. He’s never told him he would stop being a peach for her and her being an apple, has never thought to ask.

She sees nail marks and a frown creases her flawless face before she can stop it. He has told her she should frown less but all she can think is she shouldn’t have gotten carried away this much. The marks on his back will leave an unsightly mass in the morning, she stares at her nails. Yes. There’s skin under there. A final testament to why she should learn to tone herself down. She kisses the marks even though she knows her lips wont take them away. It’s a beautiful yet less than beautiful sight to behold and there’s a magic in the path she lays on his marked back. He doesn’t yet know that those welts have blessed him but he will when he has a shower and he wont feel their pain though. He’ll feel agony caused by the fact that she isn’t in the shower with him.

You see, while peaches and apples aren’t able to grow on the same branch, sometimes, when they are in the same orchard they reach out to each other and even though neither can know what it is to be the other, they understand what it is to not fully be what they are meant to. But as I said in the beginning, this isn’t a happy love story, it’s a tale of apples and peaches and how they can reach out to each other and yet still hold back and not completely give into to making an altogether new fruit salad. These two have and they both know that they have gone beyond where they should have allowed it to go but they don’t know they words to say to each other to make the transgression survivable. Peaches and apples don’t speak the same language but they can sometimes hear the same voices.

He turns to her now and her heart leaps in her less than fleshy prison. He takes her less than freezing fingers and hold them to his lips. ‘I can buy you a new one.’ he whispers into her hand and she looks at his eyes. He means it and she knows. He is trying to speak apple and that doesn’t make her happy.It makes her eternally sad because she knows that he could never really be one. ‘No bed will be big enough for us.’ she murmurs into his face as she nudges closer to him and he blinks. Twice. Quickly. He does that when he’s thinking of what to say to her. She takes her free hand and tries to print his face on to it. He has warm brown Asian eyes; eyes that speak when his mouth doesn’t know the words to say. His nose is strong but unassuming; his mouth is wide but doesn’t swallow his face. When he lets himself laugh it’s a magical sight and one she has burned onto her mind. He isn’t smiling now though. His lips are moving but words aren’t coming from them and that’s ok too.

She pulls her now more than warm hand away and he gazes into her more than Godly face. No, there are no known Goddesses’ who have come close to the  vision that shares her less than large bed. She has eyes that are lighter than his, in a face with a mouth that often twinges in an attempt to smile. Its almost as though her eyes and her lips were constantly engaged in some form of mythical warfare. To see her eyes on their own you would see dancing tales told in wisps of vibrant colour and they would draw you in before you had a chance to save yourself. He is a bit deluded to think that his eyes could have been saved from the insanity of hers. He had no hope that first day when she sat at his table. Their branches crossed then and became entwined. Yet now, it seems time has come to release the vines from the more than healthy hold.

They lay there wrapped in their world of impure madness. Their lips touch one last time as they both know it is that final embrace before they have to let go. His fingers lace around her more than slender neck and her hands wrap around his back. They have already forgotten not to cause too much damage. Bruising is the least of their concerns. One last time the peach and apple dance in the wind and then let go. There’s some lingering. He wants her to ask him to stay, he will if only she will ask. She never will though. She’s never asked a man to share her bed and she never will. It just can never cross her mind.

He clothes himself as she lays in her now too large a bed. Her burnt mahogany skin looks like a dessert against the white cotton sheets; a sweet indulgence you’ll soon wish you could forget. Her hair is a tussled mess and her face shows the love it has just been subjected to. He leaves his key on his pillow; for it will always be his even though he will no longer lay there. The door closes behind him without a hint of restraint.  The peach has left the apple alone on her branch, or so it seems.

She lays back, the cold has returned to her fingers as she places them on her belly.

‘Daddy was a peach
Mummy was an apple.
Before they had a chance to rot
The apple told the peach to go
They both wanted him to stay
But he had to leave.

Little one,
You can never be either
Fully a peach
Or fully an apple

If I could wish and pray I will
I’d ask you not
To become an apple like your mother
And instead to
Be a peach like your father’

She chants lyrically to herself as she rolls over. She will tell her little one about her peach of a father but the peach himself will never know that he planted a peach seed in an apple and it had begun to grow.

Lust and Second Place

Broken Heart by nox-moonLover.
Broken Heart by nox-moonLover.

 

Mind Games

by Claudie Muchindu

Thinking I could play, no manual in hand
I rolled my die and watched them land.
Honesty they proclaimed, no truths shall be hidden
Discretion, they whispered, no truths to be shared

Convinced I was of seeing what only the blind can affirm
I let my heart fly, not knowing if I had enough room to land.
It wasn’t a virgin journey, I know this path
I’ve walked it once before.

I cannot love in moderation.
Shy away not from my loose tongue,
I’ll spell the words I refuse to write
Love has impaled me and blood shall run its course.

I cannot sit in the shade of a seed,
Planted only yesterday.
I have waited for you before,
I’ll wait for you still

I imagined what I hoped I could hold
Hate cannot flow in your direction
For you have wronged me not
Keep it that way, silence may you give me.

Make me not the woman who wretches you from another,
I’ll demand not what I cannot even voice,
I know the game now
And the truth, my dear sadly is…

I still want to play.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So,

A long time ago, in a land not so far away. I thought I could accept second place in a  love game. It didn’t matter, I said to myself, as long as I was on the podium… Sadly, this was a lie I was telling. A tall tale about how “advanced” and “evolved” I was to not be a selfish lover. In a love game I need to own the podium and be first, second, third… heck, I need to be the only person in the race!

I can freely give love but I cannot share it.Sometimes life’s lessons show us how unevolved we are.

Over and Out!

Self Harm and Secrets

 

Self Harm in the ShadowsSelf Harm in the Shadows by brain-slug.
Self Harm in the Shadows by brain-slug.

Blade

By Claudie Muchindu

 

Palms hide no secrets
Wrists do nothing,
But tell

I’m having an affair,
An affair with a blade
He hides under my pillow
Waiting for my call

His caresses grace my palms
Hot, wet and painless.
I don’t allow him near my wrists
And he allows me to open my soul

My life isn’t diminished
I do not desire The Afterlife
It isn’t worth racing to

My affair isn’t hidden
It’s in places
No one bothers to look.

Its not enough to just matter,
You need to have meaning too.

You see…

I’m having an affair,
An affair with a blade

Palms hide no secrets
And wrists?
They do nothing
But tell

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So…

This is not to glorify self harm or belittle anyone’s intentions.

Not everyone shares the same reasons for inflicting pain on themselves.

This piece does reflect an episode I went through a long time ago and if life is simply a journey, this patch was a ride on a gravel road with the widows rolled down and blaring heat both outside and inside the car. Sometimes we’re so focused on the misery of our entrapment we fail to see the oasis hiding behind a rock we’ve just ridden past.

Nikaah – Underneath the Veil

The Veil by AP1708
The Veil by AP1708

 

Nikaah

by Claudie Muchindu

I haven’t stopped loving you. That isn’t even possible. You are, will always be the one… No, not the one: My one. The undeniable and absolute key to myself.

As we lie here in this cold and frigid room with just each other to keep ourselves warm. We both know it is over. Endless? It will never be. Our hearts burn strong and true but they cannot beat side by side. This isn’t a sad farewell, merely a necessary parting of two lovers that shared their souls but shall not be able to share them anymore.

You hold me closer, why? You know I will have to go. There is no pain now. There shouldn’t, this is what must be and I will not have you mar this for me. I turn to face you. Face to face, heart to heart. Bare.

My secrets you hold and I trust you to never share. I am not sad, I am not happy. This is what must be. I reach for you. I shouldn’t. Must not. I can’t linger here. We will not share these silent moments anymore. Yours, I am and always will be, yet with you I am destined not to be.

A tear is shed, it carries no sadness. Longing fills the room with words we know we cannot say. I can never call your name, you shall never sigh mine. From hereon you shall be a memory and I shall carry you within.

You part your lips. I cannot allow you to speak, I have to leave and if you ask me
to stay I shall. My eyes tell you what only your ears can hear. No more whispers, your tongue shall never map a course over my body. We cannot feel the cold anymore, there is nothing but us, for one last time.

I give you my hand, the hand that will soon belong to another. You take it, the way you took my heart. Softly and gently but firmly yet.

My chador lays strewn across the floor, a sign of my disheveled heart. I cannot allow you to embrace me again, but your arms call to me. I can only answer.

One last dance I shall give, one last song will I sing, one last duet shall we play. Yours
mingles with mine and neither knows where the other begins nor ends. Within and
without: I am yours, undeniably and absolutely. Sweat upon sweat, sigh upon
sigh. One last chorus shall we play, I am your instrument and you, my
conductor.

I cannot lay beside you. My heart can take no more. With heavy breaths but a light heart. I depart. My hijab covers the crown you ran your fingers though, my chador tells no one of how you conquered my body and staked it as your own.

My nikaah is tomorrow. I shall leave
you here, in our den of madness and not return. Tomorrow I belong to another,
chosen for me but you shall always know that I chose you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So…..

I originally wrote this story in 2007 . We usually believe our own set of values and choices are best  and this belief clouds us to the opportunities other choice sets provide.

Simply because someone else’s choices do not reflect our own does not mean theirs are any “less” than ours.

I wrote this story to show that Islam isn’t an ugly religion, and you can be devout in your faith but still make mistakes but you can choose within those parameters to fight or to accept certain situations. This is about how a marriage isn’t forced on a girl but arranged and she accepts it.

Oh, I am Catholic but I have sporadic attendance (at best). But faith fascinates me.

Over and Out.

P.S. Certain phrases that most might not know:

Chador – traditional outergarment for Islamic women
Hijab – traditional head scarf worm by Muslim women
Nikaah – traditional Muslim wedding ceremony

Memory Lane isn’t Yellow Brick

{Memory Lane isn’t Yellow Brick by Claudie Muchindu}

So…

I recently had a conversation with my mum over love of stories in general (I told her I was reading A Song of Ice and Fire and she refused to see the enjoyment in reading “the same story” that spans seven books).  I asked when I started to read, she said “early”. When I was five, apparently I was happiest with a book on my lap figuring out the world that lay in front of me tucked within crisp pages, she said we’d share books together sometimes. I have no recollection of this though. I don’t have many childhood memories and not because of any trauma (unless I have forgotten that too), I just don’t remember any strong emotions and that’s what makes a story live. For me anyway.

Some memories I do have though are of lying. In fact I may have led myself to believe I was some kind of demon child because my lying knew no bounds and people seemed to believe me, no matter how grand said lies were. For example: I have some scars on my back from a wonky infection (that story shall be told on another day), and when one girl at a new school asked me about it (we must have been in grade four or five), I told her it was where kidnappers had hidden emeralds in my back when they held me hostage. Her eyes bulged as I narrated this horror story to her and I have no idea if she believed me or not but we became fast friends, until as most girls do, we grew apart and in different directions. The point is I knew very early on that I could weave a tale that caught other people. I knew that telling stories was what I wanted to do with my life when I discovered that other people had “real” stories that I could re-tell and adapt, I was in heaven. While other girls played with dolls I perched in trees and dreamed of far off lands with warrior princesses and talking animals.

Unfortunately real life got in the way and being a writer just wasn’t practical in my environment so I shelved my ambitions and pursued an economics degree because “you can do anything with it” and eventually got a “proper” job that helped finance the last stages of my degree. I was decent enough to get a few promotions but while my head was entirely dedicated, my heart just wasn’t, still isnt. I had dabbled with the idea of teaching, but wasn’t sure I had enough patience to be a good one and I needed to be good at whatever I was doing. Its not enough to just “do”, you know? Then I thought maybe a psychologist because you can “what if” the hell out of other people issues but dropped that because I didn’t think I’d be able to separate their problems from my own. Studying languages also wasn’t feasible because there was no “career path” and I was “talented” in math so it was considered a “waste” to pursue words, especially when you couldn’t find a job in them. I still dreamed of seeing my name on covers and I have spent an obscene amount of money on new books so I can smell the new pages as I dive into new worlds.

This brings us to what this blog is all about. This is my little patch to showcase my work. I dabble in poetry, short stories and various opinions I may have. I am not genre specific, I am after stories that have some kind of journey and evoke some kind of emotion. My attempt at a novel sits obstinately in a corner and snarls and pouts in alternative measures when I approach. Not entirely certain when I shall tame that beast but in the meantime I am simply seeking the joy in stories, mine and those I find trawling the web.

Over and Out!