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!

It’s Alive!

Hello World!

My name is mwiings and I claim this patch of the interwebs as my own.

As dramatic as that sounds (in my head), I thought I would hear epic angelic music and harpstrings but all I hear is the thrum of my fingernails hitting the desk as I wonder “WHAT HAVE I DONE?”.

So world, I am here and I look forward to a long, “wordy” future.

Over and Out!