So. It's officially my first day of vacation, and I'm still up before noon. In fact, I was woken at eight fifteen, if you can believe it. We're having our septic pumped or replaced or something that deals with big machines, so I woke up to the beeping of something large backing up. I thought it might be an alarm, but no. It was just sweaty men working with poop.
Anyhoo. I worked yesterday. I was down in the adult section, where I feel quite out of place. I should probably get to work on reading some adult novels. I worked with a girl named Clea, who I think is absolutely positutely amazing. I like her. I'm working again tomorrow, but I'll be upstairs with Lindsay. Who is another one of my favorite people.
Okay. I think I'm going to go for a bike ride to work off the ice cream and bagel that I had for breakfast.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
Summertime, and the livin' is easy...
After tomorrow, I am officially On Vacation. At least from school. I'll still have to go to work, but it's nice to pretend. It's nice to pretend sometimes that I'm one of those girls who is thin and beautiful with long legs and gorgeous hair with even greener eyes who tans, and fills out a bikini in all the right ways. One of those girls who has the ability to let the days all run together during the summer, because the most stressful thing in her life is picking out which pair of earrings go best with her new dress.
Instead, I'm me. A bit too pudgy to be thing, but too thin to be constituted as fat. My legs are a bit longer than average, but not noticeably long. I'm too plain to be beautiful, the most I'll ever be is pretty. The only time I was satisfied with how I looked in a bikini was when I still had a feeding tube. [Albeit, I wasn't completely happy as I had the feeding tube and that illicited quite a few stares.] My eyes are, and always will be, a murky pond-like green, and no greener. If I'm out in the sun for too long, I turn into a speckled lobster. My hair is soft, but it just lays there, dyed into submission. And to top it all off, I couldn't even tell you what the least stressful thing in my life is, even if it is summer.
So. Here's to fantasies.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Something I'm working on.
It's three pieces, but I only have two of them semi-done. I'll probably add more to them later.
I.
I am that girl. That girl you either don't look at, or look at for a moment too long, because there's something about her that you can't quite identify. I'm that girl who you'll love and hate, because she won't make you talk about your feelings, but she'll probably make you uncomfortable with her blunt assessment of her life and inability to care if someone hears her or not. I'm that girl who either says too much or not enough, and is constantly looking for things she can solve for anyone but herself. I'm that girl who never leaves her house, content to keep her adventures in her mind, at least for now. I'm that girl who will mop the blood off your face and tell you that you're still a hero in her eyes, even though you lost the fight. I'm that girl who will keep going even when she can't, when the tears are pouring down her face and her body is tattered and worn. I'm that girl who you either don't look at, or look at for a moment too long.
II.
Hannah is the rain that kisses your limbs on that hot summer day. Hannah is that cup of tea you curl your hands around and smile because the steam hits your face. She is that feeling of craving something you don't know the name of, and the feeling of when you finally find it. Hannah is the arms that embrace you when you return from a long trip. Hannah is the blanket you hide under during a thunderstorm, sure that the simple cover of cloth will keep you safe. She is the color your lover's eyes turn when they see you, and the spark you feel every time your hands touch. Hannah is the smell that hits you as soon as you hit a bookstore, when you can't help but smile. She's the adrenaline that floats through your veins each time you do something that you're not quite sure is allowed, and the whirring of your computer each time it starts up.
I.
I am that girl. That girl you either don't look at, or look at for a moment too long, because there's something about her that you can't quite identify. I'm that girl who you'll love and hate, because she won't make you talk about your feelings, but she'll probably make you uncomfortable with her blunt assessment of her life and inability to care if someone hears her or not. I'm that girl who either says too much or not enough, and is constantly looking for things she can solve for anyone but herself. I'm that girl who never leaves her house, content to keep her adventures in her mind, at least for now. I'm that girl who will mop the blood off your face and tell you that you're still a hero in her eyes, even though you lost the fight. I'm that girl who will keep going even when she can't, when the tears are pouring down her face and her body is tattered and worn. I'm that girl who you either don't look at, or look at for a moment too long.
II.
Hannah is the rain that kisses your limbs on that hot summer day. Hannah is that cup of tea you curl your hands around and smile because the steam hits your face. She is that feeling of craving something you don't know the name of, and the feeling of when you finally find it. Hannah is the arms that embrace you when you return from a long trip. Hannah is the blanket you hide under during a thunderstorm, sure that the simple cover of cloth will keep you safe. She is the color your lover's eyes turn when they see you, and the spark you feel every time your hands touch. Hannah is the smell that hits you as soon as you hit a bookstore, when you can't help but smile. She's the adrenaline that floats through your veins each time you do something that you're not quite sure is allowed, and the whirring of your computer each time it starts up.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
I am a writer.
That's how people know me now. No longer am I the cancer girl, the victim, the one everyone tiptoes around.
But I find that with being known as "the writer," there are more and more things expected of me. "Hannah, can you read this over and tell me if you think it's any good?"
"Can you proofread this for me?"
"Can you help me with an idea I have?"
"Can you tell me what you think of this speech? And if you don't like it, can you help me rewrite it?"
Etcetera. Most of the time I don't really mind, but then there are the times when I just want to scream. I wonder if these people even have any idea what being a writer means. On the second day of being in New York last summer, the teachers sat us down to tell us what our classes will be like. One of the most powerful statements I heard during those two weeks was from Lisa Reardon: "Writer's are the keepers of humanity." While that sounds heady and self-promoting, I agree.
Think about it: we watch people, we see what they do. Then we write, preserving feelings and situations and people for all of time. [Or at least, until all the copies of our books are gone. (:] And as a result of this, we feel more. We become the people that others go to to vent, to tell about their problems, and instead of pretending that we know what it's like, and that we're feeling it with them, we do. Because by writing characters, we feel each of these emotions as strongly and as painfully as if they were our own.
And while being a writer means feeling all of those things to the nth degree, being a writer also means that we have to write. You can't be a writer without writing, and then rewriting, and then rewriting a bit more. And these things take time. So excuse me if I don't want to read what you wrote because I'm too busy writing my own shit so that maybe I can actually make it. Excuse me if there's no way in hell I want to sit down and proofread a million and one mistakes because I'm doing that to my own.
I'm a writer. So just leave me alone and let me write.
But I find that with being known as "the writer," there are more and more things expected of me. "Hannah, can you read this over and tell me if you think it's any good?"
"Can you proofread this for me?"
"Can you help me with an idea I have?"
"Can you tell me what you think of this speech? And if you don't like it, can you help me rewrite it?"
Etcetera. Most of the time I don't really mind, but then there are the times when I just want to scream. I wonder if these people even have any idea what being a writer means. On the second day of being in New York last summer, the teachers sat us down to tell us what our classes will be like. One of the most powerful statements I heard during those two weeks was from Lisa Reardon: "Writer's are the keepers of humanity." While that sounds heady and self-promoting, I agree.
Think about it: we watch people, we see what they do. Then we write, preserving feelings and situations and people for all of time. [Or at least, until all the copies of our books are gone. (:] And as a result of this, we feel more. We become the people that others go to to vent, to tell about their problems, and instead of pretending that we know what it's like, and that we're feeling it with them, we do. Because by writing characters, we feel each of these emotions as strongly and as painfully as if they were our own.
And while being a writer means feeling all of those things to the nth degree, being a writer also means that we have to write. You can't be a writer without writing, and then rewriting, and then rewriting a bit more. And these things take time. So excuse me if I don't want to read what you wrote because I'm too busy writing my own shit so that maybe I can actually make it. Excuse me if there's no way in hell I want to sit down and proofread a million and one mistakes because I'm doing that to my own.
I'm a writer. So just leave me alone and let me write.
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