This is a special Monster Meditation. It’s my contribution to the ParaYourNormal Blog Party…
This is a true story—or as true as any story can be when the events took place a long, long time ago at a particularly formative stage in my life. If you know me well, you’ll probably think, “That explains her.”
If you define writer as storyteller than I was a writer before I learned how to read or write. Even in nursery school, I used to entertain other kids with my made up stories. My favorite audience was a boy named Peter and his little brother Robert. They lived exactly around the corner from my family and, with the aid of a parent, visiting Peter was as fast as a lift over the fence into their yard.
Peter’s family was in the midst of a huge upheaval and I somehow conflated various bits and pieces into the story I told myself about Peter’s mother falling in love with a circus acrobat and running away to become a trapeze artist. She actually left Peter’s dad for a man who was a psychiatrist, but Peter’s dad did have entertainer friends and there was talk about circuses in the range of my little ears.
I knew that Peter and Robert loved stories that were scientific in nature, so I made up a story about mosquitoes and told it in a grave and authoritative tone. Unfortunately, an adult overheard my chatter. He was a friend of Peter’s dad and he took me on for my fanciful version of natural science. He simply didn’t understand the difference between science fact and science fiction. My story was pure science fiction.
“Little girl, if you don’t stop telling lies the witch who raised me will come and visit you tonight and you will be sorry.”
That’s what he said, “The witch who raised me.” His mother was a witch and he threatened me with a visit from his formidable mom.
That night I had a horrible nightmare. The kind of nightmare that necessitated calling my dad for help. I tried to explain, but the witch did not understand the different between LIES and FICTION. I was caught in a scary corner of the universe where stories and storytelling were forbidden. That nightmare shook the foundations of my life and, in a funny way, cemented them too. I’m still defying the witch and, although the prospect of another visit scares the little girl inside me, I’m going to keep on telling my fanciful “lies” as long as I have ideas for stories.