For as long as I can remember I have been enthralled by stories: the first ones were told or sung to me by my mother, and only later did I realise that some of these existed in books – Peter Rabbit, or Fox went out on a chilly night. But even more fascinating were the stories my mother told about people I knew: stories of myself when I was younger, or of her own childhood, stories of my grandparents, places far away, stories in which she wove detail and memory indelibly to create a rich picture of another time, never to be forgotten.
I began to read, and write myself, but one of the stories that was always retold was how my appalling spelling as a ten year old added unintentional humour to a dramatic tale – my knees ‘quacked with fear’. As a young adult I began to explore writing creatively – poetry, journals and fantasised about writing a novel but never thought I would have enough patience to ever write a book. As an adult student at university I struggled with the demands of academic writing, and cursed how the critical analysis ‘ruined’ the pleasure of reading fiction. But I did learn a few things along the way.
in 2010 I kidded my children to buy me a genealogy program, and suddenly the world of family history research was at my finger-tips. I decided that maybe I should to write this up for my children. My mother kept telling people I was writing a book. And so six years later I have found myself sending off a manuscript to the printers, and realise I can also call myself author.
Cynthia
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Written in Ink and Stone 