BlisteredEnvy Profile

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Location: Staffordshire, United Kingdom

Member Since: January 2012

Open for read requests: Yes

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By any means, I do not class myself as an author. The velvet bag slipped from fate's hands at an early age and blessed with the skill of producing auditory ambrosia, not the beauty of the written word. This being said, I have always been fond of the idea of creating an entirely new world from the depths of my imagination that could captivate somebody. It all started as a mandatory curriculum during my literary classes in primary school. At a tender, timid age of ten, my teacher had set upon the class of fifteen the task of writing an original story that we would then read out to the rest of the class. We would all sit in silence with our workbooks and pencils and write for the whole hour of lesson time, then the following lesson, before we wrote more, we'd read out our work dependant on the teacher selecting one of us. It took three lessons before I was picked. Being a shy boy, I hated standing up infront of the class to read out The Quest. It was a tale of a young boy named Calpy with his mischevious yet devilishly loveable friend Kendry. They were the same age as me at the time (so much for stepping out of my comfort zone. Give me a break, I was ten!) and they lived within a small wooden-hut community within the deepest most remote, unexplored depths of the rainforest. It was overseen by an elderly man only known as Wizard and the story was based upon a quest to the edge of the rainforest to collect a herb grown with the aid of the sun's raise (hence it being at the edge of the rainforest, not within the shadowy, dark mass. Only ten and I had a brain! Not so embarrasing anymore!) and return with the herb to cure a sudden illness that swept through the community. The story was a hit. I remember looking up and seeing classmates with their head resting on their hands, staring at my intently and awaiting the next words to leave my lips as i read from my paper in a nervous, non-narrational tone. My teacher, Mrs. Howell, was just as excitedly staring at me. The weeks went on, the story got longer and the beginning of each lesson, my fellow classmates would request I continue on with my story. They wanted to know what happened. I got more comfortable with reading my story to my classmates and teacher and even began doing the voices and little actions, making them laugh, making them sit on the edge of their seat, being a little cocky and leaving it off with one heck of a cliffhanger. This is where I found my love for the written word, and what you will read here, if you choose to, may not be as light hearted and child-friendly as my past work may have been, but simply the musings of a writer trapped within a musician trapped within a very obscure mind with plenty of stories to tell. Thank you for reading. You may call me Steve.


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