Short Version:

Stephany / 30 / Storyteller / a lot of darkness, hope, love and passion in a little body / ever struggling to create/ always ready to be weird / living in the Midwest of the United States for FAR TOO LONG / constantly cold / finds a lot of joy in small things / you have to when you are depressed all the time / really only wants to write to read her own stories / FIGHT ME.

Favorite Author: Robin Mckinley (all of her work is gold.)

Genres I love: Fantasy (including Young Adult and Juvenile works), Horror (especially Japanese horror), Manga (many series), Supernatural, Non-Fiction, a smattering of Poetry.

Concise Version:

Truth be told, I had owned this website for some 5 years and I have yet to share it with people close to me. I have gone through a constant loop of writing in spurts then crashing in on myself for months, only to revive at some point and delete everything I wrote because I never felt like I wrote what I was really thinking. At some point I realized that the way I had been trying to write was to appease imaginary critics who think they own language or belittle others because they consider a certain style of writing to be superior (unfortunately, these critics have not always been in my imagination). In private, what I wrote spoke to me. In public, I only knew how to erase myself.

This space, Rose Heart, Lion’s Roar, is where I want to start my journey into my imagination in the hopes that I will finally be able to bridge my inner and outer worlds. To me the paths of my mind are difficult but often times still magical, heart opening, strengthening and honest. I have always felt that facing the dangers and fears in my mind will be the only way I can write authentically.

One of my biggest wishes is to write without constraints. To write as I desire without thought to ‘How one should write’, or the constant thought of how others will judge me. I have started viewing writing as a constantly growing practice, rather than a goal of finally being a good author. I really don’t even like to use the label of Writer. Thus, I choose Storyteller, which requires no external validation for me to hold it.

I like expressing myself in many different mediums other than writing and hope to use this as a platform to enjoy the process of opening up and shaping my art.

Long Version:

The first time I thought ‘I want to be a writer’, was in the 4th or 5th or 6th grade (childhood memories really don’t like to categorize themselves in chronological order). It was on the school bus, sitting next to my best friend. A few pages of a first chapter I had written for a school assignment were crinkling between her fingers. After a few minutes she looked up and exclaimed something along the lines of “Oh my god!” or “Holy Fuck!” (ahhh youth. When swearing was such a part of our budding identities. Not to say that anything has changed since.) followed by “You should turn this into a book!”

I took those words to heart, as I did most things my friend said because I love her dearly and trust her wholly. Ever since, the dream of being a storyteller is something I cannot let go. Do I still have those pages? Dear goodness no. That story was imagined at a time when we both loved Haunted House tropes and when I thought that being called a Lesbian was humorous. That joke is on me now. But I remember the blue ink that I loved to use and pages littered with scribbles and random drawings, written with a pen that came with an “eraser”, promising to remove any mistakes. That pen was a fucking liar and it should be ashamed of itself.

The enjoyment I found in creating had been there before in small bursts. I remember that I always enjoyed books as a little wee Stephany, but it wasn’t really until the end of elementary school that I became dependent on books as a safe space. I know a lot of people who make the claim that they were always going to be writer since young, but I am not really in the business of portending a child’s future outcome at such a young age. Especially when your childhood is intensely based on the wish fulfillment of the adults around you, prodigizing every inkling of talent.

I have had a lot of encouragement to write throughout life, which was often unbalanced by the pressure to make a career out of it. How frustrating to have spent so much of my life trying to commodify every little thing I enjoyed. In the 4th/5th/6th grade and beyond I thought I wanted to be a writer. Looking back with the experience of years, I realize that ultimately I just wanted to be a kid.

Stories had been blooming in my mind since my earliest memories. They were a huge part of play to me and I was often satisfied enough by these stories just spending time with myself. But most importantly, I brought to life the stories I wanted to read. Engaging in their creation created such an intense feedback loop that I dreamt worlds with such intensity as to inspire me to create new ones. Even my avid nightmares, no matter how hellish, inspired me.

However, most of my beloved stories, I have never written. Most of my stories have never left my head.

Somewhere along the way the feedback loop changed. No longer was it just dreams and inspiration that cycled through me, but internalized judgment and self hatred. I have always struggled to translate the detailed images from my imagination in to words, my mind often working so quickly that I couldn’t complete a sentence or my arsenal of words not being enough to express the emotions they took me by. This was different. Because my mind was on fire and my heart had given up hope. I felt shame any time I gave myself attention or care. I felt guilt anytime I participated in joy.

I would love to be able to finish this post by telling you with flourish how I defeated the big bad story hoarding dragon. But I haven’t. Even with an intense knowledge of learning disorders, trauma and depression, and a hell of a lot more self awareness, I have yet to move more than a few inches forward as a person who invests in herself and ultimately chooses to prioritize time spent on participating in things that bring me joy.

But I will take those few inches, which I gained when I realized that I don’t give a single fuck about success or titles as an author that many others wield with grandeur. Bringing my stories to life is about so much more, because when I bring even small pieces of the worlds in my mind to fruition, I feel so at home in my body and find peace when there is a little more room for something new. Or just a little more room for me.

The Storyteller Version:

I think of my mind as a Forest. One that is not open to all and barely accessible to me.

Hedges protect the fringes of my cognition, tree tops barely visible over the mass of their guard. Their hostility speaks “You will never see all of me. If I don’t show you, then you can’t take it away.” (The true essence of how I have always protected my beloved dreams from young.)

Even if they were not as tall as giantesses (maybe a personal perspective, as I am very, very small), I still would not climb. Not because I am without courage (lack of height is made up for in an overabundance of tenacity), but because in recent months I have finally learned that if I want others to respect my boundaries, I need to respect them first (and respect often means using the the door). Sadly, having lived outside of myself for so long, I am no longer as connected to that which these walls protect. This is why I choose to stand at the entrance today.

There is an iron gate, bound by vines where roses once bloomed, under-nourished and dormant in the decades since they were last appreciated. Near death, but still holding fast to bar entry to what lies within. Even if I can get past the thickly interwoven blades without blood sacrifice from the flesh of my hands (an impossibility, I believe), the screech of the opening gate will announce my daring to all (Yes. Entering my own thoughts, I am still branded a trespasser). But I must enter.

My name is Stephany.

A Creatress, Storyteller and hopeful Friend.

Welcome to all passing through and thank you to those who stay.

-S.I.B.