How My Love of Stories Began


My exposure to the magical world of stories began in my childhood. My mother would read bedtime stories to my brother and I. She would read from books and we heard tales like The Elves and The Shoemaker, Snow White and Rumplestiltskin. It was hearing the canon of the works that had gone before.

Adam West and Burt Ward as Batman and Robin

My father took a different direction. He made up stories on the spot and put us in them. We would start chipping in ideas on what direction the story should take. Our particular favourite was the story our dad told about Batman and Robin bringing us to school in the batmobile (we were crazy about the old Adam West Batman TV show). Sometimes, my dad would say it was too late to continue the story despite our protestations. (He would always finish with: “I had a little doll, I stuck it in the wall, that’s my story after all.”) The next day in school our imaginations ran riot with the possible turns the Batman story could take later on. I was starting to write my first story.

In school itself, there were more stories. I remember my teacher reading from Roald Dahl’s James And The Giant Peach. She read the words and I put the visuals to it in my mind. I would look from the book to the teacher’s face. The book was some sort of incantation read aloud to us, holding us spellbound. Then the teacher would close the book and say it was time to move on to another subject. I didn’t want her to close the book. I didn’t care about the other subject. I wanted to hear the rest of that story. As a writer, I don’t get distracted from stories now and it is very satisfying to me.

A Banshee mourning

In grandmother’s kitchen, once the housework was finished, the women in my mother’s family would sit down with cups of tea and swap stories, jokes and gossip. My grandmother recalled how the Banshee attacked her father in the wilds of the country. The story went that his bicycle tyre got punctured. He was pushing the bike along a narrow country road when he heard a woman crying. There, on the wall, was a woman combing her long, bedraggled hair and sobbing. My great-grandfather approached the woman and asked her what was wrong. At that moment, she threw her comb at him, striking him in the foot. His foot swelled up as a result. The moral of the story is; if you hear the Banshee crying, you mind your own business and don’t interfere with her spectral mourning. She was crying for families with O’ or Mc in their names. As a child, I didn’t question the veracity of this story. It was 100% real, terrifying but also enthralling. This wasn’t just family history I was hearing, it was the words of eyewitness testimony to a supernatural incident. I have tried to do the same thing with vampires in my novel The Vorbing. I wanted to make the vampires real creatures to see how that society operated, hunted and functioned. I also wanted to treat vampirism as a pandemic.

My grandmother also related an incident to me that may or may not be true. She claimed to have witnessed an attempt to dispose of a murder victim’s body possibly through cannibalism. Before I relate what happened to you, you have to understand what life in rural Ireland was like when my grandmother was a child. She was born in 1910 and there was no electricity in the countryside then. The Irish government’s Rural Electrification Scheme didn’t come along until the 1940s. It was a dark land where the even darker worlds of superstition and criminality flourished. My grandmother was told to get something in the shop by her mother. It was dark outside and if it wasn’t a moonlit night, you wouldn’t be able to see your hand in front of your face. Pitch darkness. She set out and soon came to a house with its front door wide open. My grandmother thought she saw what looked like a human body roasting on a spit over the fire. She crept inside to get a closer look. Her fears appeared to be confirmed. It was a man’s body. She spun around to get out of there and something or someone hit her on the leg. She managed to escape and lived to tell the tale. My grandmother died back in the 1990s, so we’ll never know if any of her story was true. Was it mistaken identity? A bad dream? Something she made up? Or was it real? It was related to me as fact when I was in my 20s. There’s a little nod to my grandmother’s experience in my book The Vorbing, I won’t give away how I work in the reference. So you’ll all have to go to school and hear about Batman later if/when you buy my book, he he. I had a little doll, I stuck it in the wall, that’s my story after all.

The Vorbing is available exclusively on Amazon Kindle from Thursday, October 29th, 2015 and can be pre-ordered at this link now; http://geni.us/1bza

© Stewart Stafford, 2015. All rights reserved.

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