As I was walking to school something happened in my mind. A little girl's name, Miranda, started its journey through the synapses and collected many other words and names with it. They created a story, and told me to write it down. The whole day I was trying to remember all the details that once had been so clear in my mind. I do not know if some of them disappeared, but as I got home I could immediately start writing, not having to stop to think.
The story, as I realised while writing, was about a five-year-old girl, Miri, who had only one friend. Naturally, Miri was sad and lonely in the nursery, but as soon as she got together with Ella, the plot had at least one happy scene. After that, though, the end was even more tragical, because I found out that Ella only existed in Miri's imagination.
I sent the story to the magazine Koululainen and got it published in a collection of children's short stories. Though I didn't like the style it had been shortened, I was proud of my first publication.
As I now take a look at the story, I don't want to read it at all. It just can't be me who has written all those meaningless sentences, those clumsy paragraphs, the whole stupid story. I hate the story too much to even try to rewrite it.
Writing short stories gives me a peculiar feeling, as if I was just a typewriter reporting what the people in my mind do. Many would call this an early symptom of insanity.