My name is Marda. When I was little I wanted to be a witch. But not a cackling, haggard witch who stirs potions in bubbling cauldrons and flies madly across midnight sky on a broomstick, summoning a cacophony of banshees and horror and darkness.
No. I wanted to make people like me. And to cast spells and conjure a magic that would turn life into the exact version that existed in my head. Whimsical. Majestic. Enchanted. And maybe I’d wear a hat and stockings and live in the woods.
But … during the summer before grade four, something else happened.
I was plunged into writing by a powerful sorcerer (let’s call him dad) who forbade me to play outside with those whom I was trying to enchant until I first crafted him a story. Imagination, he said, was what would set me free.
That was when short stories became my thing. My creative power, in all its profundity, was unleashed.
I discovered a different sort of magic. And it’s never left me.
If you head on over to the What page, I’ll tell you more.“You have to be a bit of a liar to tell a story the right way.” -The Name of the Wind