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, 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 Good.
No. I just wanted to have the ability to control things. And to make people like me. And maybe to cast spells and conjure a magic that would turn life into the exact version that existed in my head. Whimsical. Majestic. Enchanted. And perhaps I’d 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 charm and wit, 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 healthy life and an important tool to cultivate at my age. Friends could wait. This “write me a story” became a weekly thing.
I want to say that I fell in love with writing then but I didn’t. All I learned was how to become a really good liar. That, is an entirely different sort of magic.
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