Writing, a major character in my life.
It started off as an early reader. I wanted those signs, known as letters, which I learned much later, to align—according to me, they couldn't be anything less than sorcery, those ornaments, capable of making sound, voices—even creating an entire plot—making sense.
My father blessed with the thickest, most lustrous, blonde hair falling in waves beneath his shoulders, obliged to visit a barber in a fortnight is to be accused of making me a reader and writer. Reading itself, I learned at those appointments at the age of five.
A picture book of sheep, at the salon, intrigued me, the most beautiful one's ever seen, a little herd. I urged to know what their adventure was. Attentively, listening to my father reading out to me while waiting for his turn to get his hair trimmed. I memorized their story by heart. Followed the shape of his mouth, the angles formed by his lips, performing a plot, a wonder. Magic again. I became literate. Before I could read, I marvelled only at the pictures, my lovely sheep, their expression, their colour and much more and created my own imaginary plot.
The origin of my strong belief in picture books as a stepping stone for children. That day marked my conviction about the huge impact of picture books. Imagination always will lead to fascination which will ignite adaption and flow into creativity and education. A bond was welded. The chain reaction was successful.
I knew all books by heart, so my job became reading out advertising to my father to improve my skills. No written word ever was safe in our household.
Meanwhile in school I rendered all novels I came across; I modernized, scrutinized, adapted, extended, implemented, new endings, different characters, changed settings even Eras I shifted. I entertained class, families, friends but most of all my own self and my dear offspring. Realising I will be parenting my child solitarily and juggling my jobs and somersault between several demanding shifts a longing was deeply awakened to depict a mother's endeavour.
Writing, especially for children crystallized after tenacious 3 am shifts and numerous kid's sleepover. Typically, some could not find rest and asked for a bedtime story. Far beyond exhausted to get up and fetch an appropriate book from the shelve, I made up everything. A ritual was shaped until they noticed significant modification in my storytelling, it became a highly anticipated game to spot my alterations pointing out my mistakes until they demanded a blueprint, the original.
As a mother, my only free time of consecutive, uninterrupted 45 min., one way, was public transport and as a passionate commuter, scribbling down my scripts on bills, receipts and whatever was handy became a habit.
That's how it started, my debut Mother work.
