I was seven when I wrote my first collection of short-stories. It was a three-month project, involving a Windows 97 desktop computer and dial-up internet research for inspiration. At the time my characters were restricted to personified fruits and vegetables, interspersed with the occasional animal.
Sitting on the floor of my family’s entertainment room, I cut out faces, letters and maps from my parents’ magazine collection, making a collage for a book cover. I pestered my mother everyday for a week until she agreed to take me to a printing shop.
I took it all very seriously. I selected a sample of font types, sizes and colors and tested them on my target audience — a handful of neighbors and family friends. With 10 bound-copies in hand, I went door-to-door, trying to sell my self-published tales. Even then, there was no doubt in my mind one day I’d become a storyteller.
Sixteen years later, with a Master of Journalism and four years of professional experience telling stories, I am fulfilling that childhood dream. I have met individuals with great stories — a traveling hatter, a retired marijuana grower, a Marathi cotton picker and a 92-year-old tailor.
This blog is an attempt at sharing some of the stories I’ve been so privileged to hear.
