Trish St.Hill

I remember from the age of 9, that I would find a quiet valley above our house. I would sit quietly on a rock and gazed off into the nearby village of Kearton’s, nestled serenely on a hilltop. I dreamt of far-off places like America and wrote short stories. My mother often thought I used daydreaming as a way to escape chores. I did hate chores, but my escapism was truly based on my curiosity and a desire to write and take my mind to far-off places.

My handwriting was the worst. At school, I would put my heart into a short story only to have my teacher give me a failing grade. One day he called me to the front of the class. “You are a great storyteller,” he said. “but little girl, why do you have so many scratches in your writing? You scratch out just about every other word. I have been failing you all this time because I couldn’t make out what you were writing. I forced myself to read this story, and except for the scratches, it is excellent. Why do you scratch stuff out so much?”

“I don’t know,” I responded nervously, wringing the hem of my uniform.

“Maybe you are thinking way faster than you write. Slow down and take your time and try not to scratch out so much.”

I walked back to my seat elated as if I was walking on a cloud. My handwriting was never the best, but I took my time and stopped scratching out every other word. My confidence was boosted and my passion for writing short stories grew.

I read everything I could get my hands on and wrote stories every chance I got. I began to engage in people watching, which together with my overactive imagination, fueled my writing further. After high school, my sister and I started a new business until I left for the U.S.A. As with most young ladies, I soon met and married my first husband. It was the trauma and pain from that marriage that propelled me to write my first novel. This was truly a case where my imagination saved me from insanity. Stay tuned to how I came to write my first novel, “Beneath The Golden Mango Tree.”