Recently I stumbled across an old domain name in my browser history — skazochnitsa.ru. The site disappeared years ago, but the name still carries weight. “Skazochnitsa” means storyteller in Russian, and I claimed that title at eight years old. The homepage still makes me smile: “Hi! My name is NASTYA! I’m 8 years old (still 8). I love describing events and making up stories. Maybe I’ll be a writer. Or a veterinarian. Or…”
That uncertainty feels authentic now. Eight-year-old me hedging bets between creative ambition and practical career paths, already sensing writing might not guarantee stability. But the impulse to create stories dominated even then.
The site featured my early tales with wonderfully literal titles: How Petya Got a Tan While Garfield Caught Mice, My Losses, Cats… These stories mixed everyday observations with fantastical elements — pets became protagonists, minor disappointments transformed into epic narratives.
Starting a writing blog as a child feels absurd now, but in those early internet days, creating websites seemed as natural as keeping diaries. I wrote because stories demanded telling, not because I expected literary recognition. No workshops to impress. No publications to pursue.
What strikes me about that archived homepage is the absence of self-consciousness. The photo shows me posing at a table with complete confidence in my storytelling mission. Before craft became conscious technique. Before themes required philosophical justification.
Those early stories followed predictable patterns, but I recognize seeds of themes that still occupy my work. Characters who didn’t quite fit their worlds. Everyday situations that revealed deeper complexity.
The domain expired long ago, but the impulse remains unchanged — transforming internal experience into shareable language.
— Writer Anastasia Dubinina