My name is Marda. I’m a writer.
When I was little I wanted to be a witch. But not a cackling, haggard witch who stirs potions in bubbling cauldrons, gifting poisonous apples to unsuspecting waifs before flying madly across midnight sky on a broomstick, summoning a cacophony of banshees and horror around her.
Nor did I want to be like Glinda the Goody-Two-Shoes.
I just really wanted magic to be real. And to be able to enchant things. And perhaps wear a hat and stockings and live in the woods.
I didn’t ask for much.
During the summer before grade four, something else happened. Instead of enchanting the neighbourhood kids with my best JEM impersonations, I was locked indoors and plunged into writing by a powerful sorcerer (let’s call him dad) who forbade me to play outside until I crafted him a story. Imagination, he said, was a necessity to a fulfilling life and an important tool to cultivate at my age. Apparently so was getting it down on paper. Friends could wait, he said.
I want to say that I fell in love with writing then but I didn’t. It took time and like real magic, it ensnared me when I least expected it. As a bonus, I also learned how to become a really good liar.
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