Blog started: Sunday, 03rd March 2019
Standing
in front of her mirror, the girl pulled a hair tie onto her left wrist.
Her short hair was coloured a dark caramel and had a kaleidoscope of
sun kissed strands of lighter blonde running throughout; the blunt,
recently cut, ends hung just past her shoulder blades. She had grown
tired of her long hair - which her mother claimed was far too long for
to manage properly - so she decided to cut it, not because of her
mother's wishes but because she wanted a change.
As
the girl tiped her head upside down, she gathered her hair together,
uniting sections so when she looked back into the mirror, she had a neat
ponytail. The girl grabbed another two hair ties and pulled them onto
her wrist. She twisted her ponytail before wrapping it on itself and
whilst keeping one hand grabbing the bun of hair, she pulled the two
hair ties from her wrist around the bun, wrapping them as many times as
they could without snapping. Gently, she released her baby hairs from
the restrictions of her bun; they framed her pale, freckled face and
softened her striking features.
The
girl smiled at herself in the mirror: an addictive concoction of
determination, inspiration and creativity surged through her veins. Her
fingers held her magic; her brain held her knowledge; her soul held her
desire.
The
girl went downstairs to the kitchen of the house which she grew up in.
In doing so, she passed her parents, sister and her two Yorkshire
Terriers, Poppy and Taz. Her father was relaxing and watching television
- he had earned it after such a busy night shift. Her mother was
hunched over her sewing machine, which she had placed on the family
dining table, and had the pieces of her latest creation sprawled over
the wooden surface. Her sister was also sat on the table, residing at
one of the corners where fabric, sewing machinery or pattern pieces had
yet to reach, with a book, pen, her iPad and her headphones. The
white headphones, which were now slightly grey, hugged her ears as she
blasted her new favourite songs of the music charts. The girl smiled at
the sight of her sister as she they shared a passion of literature and
the hobby of creative writing - a hobby that the girl aspired to turn
into a career.
Once in the kitchen she filled the Morphy Richards
kettle with fresh tap water. Instantly, the kettle awoke from its
slumber. It gurgled with hunger and vibrated as it ate the electric
sustenance from the mains. Like a volcano on the verge of erruption, it
trembled incessantly for the following two minutes. Whilst the kettle
satisfied its hunger, the water inside evolved into crashing torrents.
The waves and water particles partied and raved: the walls containing
them swiftly grew too small as some dared to scale the walls. The only
visible evidence of the music was the boiling of their footsteps,
causing the excitement to become too much for some; they left the
building via the mouth of the kettle, steam floating through the air as
they departed.
The
two minutes quickly passed and the light on the kettle flickered out.
Whilst the boiling ceased, the girl retrieved her favourite mug - her Slytherin mug (which she had bought during a trip to Harry Potter World
in London) - and dropped a tea spoon of coffee in the bottom of the
mug. As well as some sugar, she added milk to the mixture before filling
the remainder with the boiling hot water. The smell of coffee floated
through the air and into her nose, causing a smile to tug at her lips.
She brought it up to her lips and sipped it. Again, she smiled. It was
just right.
With her coffee filled Slytherin
mug in one hand, she went back upstairs to her bedroom - but not before
making a quick stop at her sister, wanting to know what wonderful
fictional worlds she was working on.
In
her bedroom, the girl sat at her desk and placed her mug adjacent to
her laptop. As she waited it to turn on, she took a mouthful of coffee.
The girl squeezed her eyes shut, forgetting that it was hot. The
aromatic richness of the coffee raced ahead--but not for long. The
sweetness of the sugar tackled the bitter sensation to the surface of
her tongue. Her taste buds roared and cheered, spurring on the fighting
contrasts of the coffee granules and the sugar crystals. She swallowed
the liquid as she opened a blank word document. The emptiness of the
page bugged her and she wanted to fill it as soon as she could. On the
opposite side of her laptop, she had the pages upon pages of planning
which she had done: from characters and their intertwining relationships
to scenes and how long they would last to the plot, that is only
comparable to a wild ride of a rollercoaster.
Today would be the day.
Today would be the day that Hannah would write the novel which the world had been desparately awaiting.
Today was that day.
