As I am writing away on my Children's story I am being reminded, again and again, of my childhood. It is even creeping into my dreams. I had a very fruitful childhood, and was so lucky with everything I had. With three brothers, there was always someone to hang out with, even if I was having friendship problems at school.
Most importantly, there was always someone around to listen to my stories. My little brother, in particular, used to hang on to my every word. He was my audience for puppet shows I wrote. He was also the first person to ever read one of my stories when I was about 10 years old. I never really appreciated that.
Some of the fondest memories I have is that of climbing trees and exploring the forest behind my grandparents' house. Mountain Ash trees are difficult to climb, not having any branches, but we gave it a go. Bruises, scrapes and scratches; all a part of our active childhood and not considered a hindrance at all. We would build bark huts. pretend to build a camp fire, and imagine ourselves in other times, places or worlds. I know I am a storyteller because of those times. The tales just rolled off my tongue, as natural as breathing.
You might say I was bossy; I say I had initiative. Although I often conferred with my older brothers I led the way more often than not, and let my wild imagination run wild.
I wish I could go back to that forest. Give me a week up there and I think I would have a completed novel. I don't think it's a coincidence that, when I had offers of jobs thrown at me, I chose to commute every day to work in a place in the heart of a mountain forest. It helps me breathe easier, and I feel more alive.
Hmmm, me and my nostalgia. Maybe I'll go for a drive to the mountains this weekend?
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