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With an H on the End

 

With an h on the end

 

My name is Hannah, but you can call me H.

 

"All I need is a sheet of paper and something to write with, and then I can turn the world upside down."

-Friedrich Nietzsche

 

Based out of Seattle, WA USA.

For now.

 

H.

 

 

 
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Raconteur

 

/ˌräˌkänˈtər/

noun

A person who tells anecdotes in a skillful and amusing way.

 

I was born on a Monday.

Monday. Of all the days of the week I could have chosen, I picked Monday. I used to have a coffee mug that read, 'I hate Mondays.' Firstly, I don't drink coffee and secondly I really don't hate Mondays. I don't think I hate anything, to think of it. 

I can't complain though, it was a nice mug. It got the job done. I even took a shot of vodka from it more times than I'll admit.

"Oh you hate Mondays? Join the club, sister." I remember a professor telling to me. "Hmm" I'd hum, smirking. "I was born on a Monday." Sister.

"Born on a Monday? Wonder what that could mean!" Please don't make a Garfield joke.

"You and Garfield, one and in the same!" There it is.

I don't know where this mug even came from. It's like it just showed up one day. It didn't bother me though. Not like I'm bothered by mysterious mugs, don't get me wrong. But it's like when you're doing laundry and you pull out a red top knowing good and well you would never wear such a red top and you yourself in that moment became Nancy Drew and went off to find its owner and wouldn't rest until it was returned home. 

But then I got six roommates.

And an 'I hate Mondays' coffee mug.

So I don't really do that anymore. 

 

It was December. A week until my 22nd birthday. 

I was late for a final exam. I made a cup of tea and hurried out the front door. For the first time in weeks I took the time to make myself look like an actual person. Probably why I was late. As soon as my feet made it onto the front porch, I was looking up at the sky. 

Grey. Typical. The weatherman said it was supposed to be sunnier. Liar. 

"Han? You all right?"

Ah yes. Roommate #4. Good morning.

"I've seen brighter days" I mumbled, pushing myself up off the ground.

"Sorry about your mug, Mondays am I right?" she said as she ran to her car.  

And there it was. My wildly misguided 'I hate Mondays' mug, in pieces on our front steps. 

I sighed.

I was born on a Monday.

 

Writing for me began when the mug broke. I've always been driven, I've always pushed myself. That hasn't changed. But when the mug broke, I started wondering what I was pushing myself to become. What was I working towards? For as long as I can remember, I've been a very specific person. What if that was changing? 

My words are powerful and precious, and I've found passion and morale in them. I stopped living in the perception of others and doing what I knew would be practical. I've always wanted to create, to leave behind something beautiful and daring. I want to challenge myself and challenge the world. 

I was afraid. Afraid of what others may think. Would they be surprised? Gasp at the tea they took to be coffee in my 'I hate Mondays' mug? I say let them. While they're at it, they can toss in a sugar cube or two. 

In the face of apathy and distain. In the midst of crisis and defeat. During times of great sorrow and unbelievable joy. For the sake of myself and others.  In the best of times, in the worst of times; I will write. 

I believe I can. After all,

I was born on a Monday.

 

 

H.

 

 
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When I was 8 years old, I won a poetry award.

My book of poetry was the best of all the second graders in my town. It's a small town, but still. I would say there was a decent amount of second graders. Enough to justify my pride, at least. I don't remember much about what I wrote about, and don't have the book anymore. After several moves, it was lost to God knows where. My sentiment for things like that came in my later years, apparently.

It was the first time I began to cherish words. When I began to write this book of poetry I remember stressing, as much as you can as an 8-year-old, about how I would be descriptive of things. One line in particular I can recall very explicitly read, "hot, fiery leaves." Again, I couldn't tell you what in the world I was writing about (leaves obviously, but beyond that I'm open to suggestions) but I remember the word fiery. Fiery. Oh, how I loved that word. It was perfect. They were red leaves, I wanted everyone to know that, but how red? Noticeably red? Dumb. Very red? Stupid. Fiery leaves? 

Cut, print, sell. 

Fiery red. I can picture it in my mind as if I was holding the leaves in my hand. Yes, yes that will do just fine.

I learned a lot from words growing up. I cherished them in a way of expression and creativity--my first love affair. Instead of great, superb. That outfit is awful! That outfit is horrendous. 

Very few times have words truly failed me. When I write, I find excitement in choosing the most excellent word. It's like a strange game at times. How can I tell a story as if the reader is living it, feeling it, exactly how I've written it to be. It's a sick thrill. Many times I write to remember. Years from now I want to remember how I felt on the first sunny morning after weeks of rain, or just exactly how that first kiss tasted with the boy who told me I was "very cool." Very.

Words gave me a way to feel.

My second love affair with words began shortly before I graduated high school. A month or so before commencement students were encouraged to prepare a speech, and if a panel of peers liked it enough you would be the class speaker.

My relationship with words was still my own then. My teachers would give me quiet compliments every so often in passing or after class. Somehow I think they knew that my writing, my imagination, was my sanctuary. It was not yet ready to be an amenity of others. A few days before auditions, I was reflecting on my high school experience. I enjoy writing about it now, but at the time I was bewildered. I so desperately wanted to share my words but perhaps the fear of rejection was stopping me. No one knew me as a writer. Writers were serious. I wasn't serious. 

I wrote a speech. I wrote it trying to keep in mind I was a wary teenager, in a sea of even more wary teenagers. I began to feel a curious sense of obligation. What would I need to hear on that day my closest friends and I have worked towards? I needed to hear something, anything, that would make me feel like I wasn't a terrified girl stepping blindly into the sun. I needed assurance. I needed to know that I meant something to someone and someone meant something to me. I needed to know that I was more than the mistakes I made and the challenges I faced. The challenges I would continue to face. I needed to know that I genuinely learned something. So did my peers. 

A month later, I walked up to the podium in front of my friends, family, the boy who would break my heart a few short months later. Please, I begged. Let them hear me. Really hear me. At the end there was a moment of silence. Not even half of a second where the air was still, and all I could hear was my short breath release. A girl in the front row was the first to strand. And then her friend. And then a boy in the back. Soon my entire class was standing, they were whistling. They were cheering. I looked up at my family, my dad was crying. 

Words gave me a way to act. 

My third love affair with words is happening now. Through out most of high school and college, I was so sure of what I wanted to do. I strived for my goals and did everything I could to achieve and find my place in the world. My words took a backseat, something that I will never stop wishing I hadn't done. I would still scribble every once in a while. Of course I wrote for the sake of being required to do so, and I still got those quiet compliments from those who read my work. There was no specific coming to Jesus moment for me that I knew writing needed a place in my life. I think it was more of a snowball phenomenon. After years of choosing to not show my creativity, show my versatility, I began to see the toll it took on me. I was missing a part of me. The world deserved this part of me. I deserved this part of me. I cherished words and I needed to remember that. I relished in my imagination, in my own experiences. 

So I began to write.

And here I am. 

 

There's so much more I want to share, and will share through my work. Life deserves to be expressed, and words demand to be written. I have so many passions in this world, who I am to keep them to myself. I want to grow, I want to share. I want to be a creator.

Words gave me the chance to do that.

 

H. 

 

Hello!

I'm so glad you're here. Kindly direct your line of vision slightly downward and you will see two links at the very bottom of the page: "ESSAYS" and "WITHANH"

In ESSAYS, you will find r̶e̶c̶i̶p̶e̶s̶ essays that I have written through school. I've included essays where I wholeheartedly enjoyed writing and researching the topics, as well as being given the creative go-ahead on choosing the topic and/or thesis (to a certain degree). 

"WITHANH" is where I post my drabbles, stories, general thoughts and mind clutter or ideas for writings that I would like to do. 

Disclaimer: The post date may not coincide with the actual creation of the writing. More so directed to "WITHANH"

 

As always, all of my love and appreciation. If you'd like to read more about my typical style of writing/more about me, please mosey on over to the "H" tab. Or just read below. Your call.

 

H. 

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For me, writing and creating is an expression of my experiences and an interpretation of my interactions with the world around me. I enjoy writing about experiences that have happened to me (to a certain extent), taking in other aspects of my life or circumstances and adding them to the story to create something unique. In all of my stories, there is at least one element of truth or personal experience. I think that this is important in writing a story because it allows you to relate to your work, even if you are writing something completely different that has never happened to you. It may be as simple as adding a certain character flaw, or an object that you've seen before. It gives me the chance to flex my imagination while still keeping a special connection to myself. 

An important part of writing this way for me is that my audience, whoever it is, can find some personal connection in my writing. Again, whether it be a certain feeling or a memory, this makes the piece that much more special and memorable. Part of being human is being able to share and relate to each other's experiences, especially in story telling. It's also important to me creatively to try and write about experiences I don't have. It helps me think about how I would feel, or what I would do. It's fun or me to write pieces and have people read them not knowing what part of the story is true about my life and what I've made up. As someone who studied history, I love writing and learning about the stories of peoples' lives and affects that they leave. 

My writing style is constantly evolving, which it should! Inspiration is all around us if we take the time to look for it and learn from it. 

H.