sarah HANNAH gómez

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I’m starting to feel incredibly stunted. It’s a good thing I leave town on Friday. I feel small in large groups, which is nothing new, but these are groups that I should not be uncomfortable with. It’s time for me to go.

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I keep telling myself that today is the day I start doing 500 words a day, and then it doesn’t happen. Things come up, and I’m just a lazy procrastinator. Today I had a lovely afternoon with my niece, who only flipped out a couple times, and then I went grocery shopping, then I had a kind of crappy workout, and now I’m home, watching “Grey’s,” which I hope I will be sick of soon, and I’m also outlining and working on characterization for a book project! It’s not the book I should be working on, the more literary book, the book I want to use in my workshop that starts in less than two weeks, but it’s something, and with all the bits and pieces I already have, it’s around 12,000 words.

I just made an outline of all the stories the book will include, and then I decided that it’s been so long since I worked on it that I need to get to know my characters again. There is a lot of them. Clearly my television watching has infiltrated my writing, because this book has an ensemble cast. It is “Grey’s.” It is “Lost.” It is my high school experience, just with slightly fewer characters. But only slightly few. My graduating class numbered 44. Anyway. I’m filling out character personality sheets for each one, so I can know her again. And I will finish this book before my 22nd birthday. And then I’ll get an agent again, and we’ll sell it. And that’s just the way things are going to have to be.

I may just be on track again. Hurrah!

April 4, 2008, I ended my composition book journal with this quote from Brave New World :

Actual happiness looks pretty squalid in comparison with the overcompensations for misery. And, of course, stability isn’t nearly so spectacular as instability. And being contented has none of the glamour of a good fight against misfortune, none of the picturesqueness of a struggle with temptation, or a fatal overthrow by passion or doubt. Happiness is never grand.

I was looking at it because I just finished my 30th journal today. That’s 30 since I was 7 years old, and I still have all of them except my first one :-( I also have an additional 12 completed that had specific themes, like just letters I wouldn’t mail, or just poems, or just lists, or whatever. And that number may be off, because they’re not all filed away. Some are just lying around my room.

I definitely thought I had more. But I guess that’s not a bad number.

I’m not ready to read them yet (except the really old ones, which are fun, because they say things like, “Hi! I’m Hannah. I’m 7 years old. I’m glad I have this notebook, because I really like to write.”) because I feel like I’m still not really any better than I was a few years ago. Everything from maybe tenth grade on represents cycles of being treated badly by boys and friends, of thinking that this new year is going to be different and better, of having a great idea for a book to write that I never finished, or that this best friend is the real one. I guess it’s good that not all the cycles are bad. It’s good that I’ve consistently been excited by writing and by books. And I got to re-read the “yearbook” comments that I got at the end of camp in 2003 and 2005. Advice I didn’t take seriously (“acting overly sexy won’t get you the guy”) I understand now, and the compliments still feel genuine, even if I lost touch with most of the people long ago. And I’m thankful that some of those people are still in my life, because they’ve meant more to me over the years than a lot of the people that I see daily.

I also just love looking at all of them. They’re so pretty. And they’re a reminder of the single most consistent and reassuring thing of my entire life: words and pages and pens and writing. That’s actually not a single thing, but it feels like one.

the belzhar

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