I have fat folder filled with one-page scenes. There was a time I looked at all of them and thought they were stories, even though they were hardly scenes. Except one.
It must have been second year of writing, when I reached for one of those old blank application forms I kept around for writing. They were in the size of a letter, so I had these old church sheet music covers and a clamp to keep them all in place. I wrote with pencil, for someone showed me a notebook written in 1910s and all the ink had been smeared, but the pencil work was still intact. I wanted them to last.
The story was 13 handwritten pages long with very small illustrations scribbled on the sides – two portraits, a hand, a birch tree and somewhere was a fountain.
Continue reading "My First Story" here.
