I could talk to my fellow English speakers before I learned the English alphabet. When my family immigrated to the West, I was thrust into the nearest mulch-laden playground and told to 'just talk'. And talk I did. I spouted utter nonsense that I presumed to be English, which seemed to intrigue the children so much that they trailed me to every slide and swing.
In senior kindergarten, my teacher solemnly informed my parents of my poor performance in English, predicting that I would not only require additional assistance in grade school but also be doomed to never properly speak the language. Today, with a couple of short stories and poems under my belt, and an ongoing novel in progress, I proudly throw my chin up in defiance.
ABOUT ME
So, yes, I could talk to the English speakers before I learned that the letter Q does not exist in my mother tongue.
Take that!
I can still recall the phenomenal author who birthed my voracious hunger for literature: Aleksander Sergejevič Pušhkin. He was my family's beloved poet and novelist. When I think of my childhood home, I think of my grandmother's inheritance lining the shelves of our old office. Tomes upon tomes of poetry, with Pušhkin prevailing among them. In fact, Pušhkin's tale of Ruslan and Ludmila is precisely what nurtured my love for fairytales.
Amid the dreadful lockdown of 2020, I took up reading properly. Ironically, this was around the time I was learning to draw digitally, hence I devoured more audiobooks than I could count. The Headless Horseman, Dracula, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow...
Perhaps these novels awakened something extraordinary within me, a part of me that yearns for the thrill of a cozy ghost story. I crave a life steeped in intrigue, mystery, and excitement. I admit, that I am guilty of deliberate daydreaming, conjuring voices of my beloved characters and speaking to them far more frequently than my friends, I blush to admit. My childhood was an infinite anticipation of an owl landing on my windowsill, delivering my Hogwarts letter, or discovering I was a demigod, or wishing I would eventually wake in the mystical land of Camelot. To be quite honest, I am still waiting for the last bit...
In March of my junior year of high school, I began work on When The Raven Cries Grief. What started as a simple DND campaign developed by my partner and me, blossomed into a riveting world teeming with enticing characters, bone-chilling ghosts, and ominous curses.
The characters within my story have entirely consumed both my slumbers and my waking hours, and have become ingrained in every fiber of my being. I can no longer quell my desire to share my creation with the world, to draw an audience beyond my family into the chilling horrors of Sable Village, the innermost desires of Urian, and the hidden secrets of his brooding confidant, Elzer Abbot.
When The Raven Cries Grief is a story that aims to blend themes of horror and loss, desire and friendship, betrayal and love. It explores the nuances of belonging, unveils the destructive nature of grief, and is all set against the eerie backdrop of an intimate, peculiar Victorian-era village. Something is not quite right in Sable.
And you, dear reader, will soon find out.
"When a door closes, another opens." - Alexander Graham Bell.