From behind a small Venetian mask - a cheap knock-off of a replica, of course - peaks a tome of Shakespeare's works. Next to it volumes and volumes of anthologies sit, their spines all turned to me as though they are critical of my words.
‘We’ve all been written before, my dear,’ some seem to say from the closed pages, while others dare me to read between their lines and find a different meaning for them.
‘What story could you possibly have to tell?’ a thick and haughty book with elaborate letters in gold-coloured relief sneers down at me from upon the dusty shelf, the five letters of the name ‘Grimm’ half-faded, barely legible from use.
I stare at my blank page and wonder exactly that. I’ve always loved stories big and small, murder mysteries and vampires’ broodings, spells and spelling, tales and tellings. Ever since that the great spinning wheel first began to thread the fabric of fairy tale around me, I was lost inside an imaginary world that was all my own.
And then it hits me. ‘What stories could I possibly have to tell?’
Why, my own, of course.
Sandra's blog can be found at http://en-blog.creativedifference.nl/