Storytelling at the crossroads of Story, Soul, and remembrance.

Once, people lived closer to the dark…

They sat together in winter, when the nights were long and the fire was the only light, and they told stories. Not just to entertain. Not just to fill the silence. But because story was how they made sense of things too large and too frightening to name directly.

They told stories about death so they wouldn't have to say I am afraid of dying. About loss so they wouldn't have to say I don't know how to carry this. About the one who enters the dark forest and emerges changed — so that when the forest came for them, as it always does, they would know: no one dies there.

We emerge. We always emerge.

My grandmother told stories from memory. Never from a book.

Her mother had told them to her, and her mother's mother before that — women passing something hand to hand across centuries, in the dark, by firelight.

I grew up inside those stories. I didn't always know what they were for.

I know now.

Ravensong is a home for that kind of work.

Paths through Ravensong

If this work resonates and you need someone who writes with this kind of care — for your organization, your project, your voice — I'm available.

 

🪶 Meet Martina

I have been telling stories since before I knew that's what I was doing.

My grandmother told them to me from memory — no books, just her voice and the particular way she held the dark at bay with words. Her mother had done the same. I grew up thinking that was just what stories were for.

I spent years on the edges of creativity — studying it, teaching it, organizing it, supporting it — because I wasn't sure I was allowed to claim it for myself. I completed an MA and all my PhD coursework in literature. I wrote a thesis on women whose stories were told by others.

I'm claiming it now.