My name is Hannah and I'm desperate enough to try anything at this point. My name is Hannah and I am a teenage writer struggling to find her muse in the midst of summer afternoons free of anything pressing to do. Even write. See, that's my problem; writing isn't pressing. It isn't something I need to do now, because I'll have time to do it tomorrow.

I've mastered the art of procrastination by now. What writer hasn't? None that I know of. None that are published, too. I think what I need is to master the art of Artful Procrastination. Procrastination with a purpose. Hence this blog. I'm sure no one will read this unless I tell them about it, and I'm sure that some people that I mention it to won't read it. I'm not sure if I want anyone to read it. But if I didn't want anyone to read it, why would I put it up on the Internet?

Nothing you put on the Interwebs ever goes away. That's the beauty of it. It's impermanent, intangible, and yet totally permanent. All at the same time.

So this is my blog. Duh. This is my blog where I'll post everyday, even if I have to write "post on the damn fucking blog" backwards on my forehead. This is me trying to become an artful procrastinator in the hope that, if I let myself have an outlet that isn't one of my stories, I'll actually start to work on those stories.

I'm listening to Enth e Nd. One of Linkin Park's songs from a while ago with Motion Man.

I'm picking up my summer reading, emailing my Latin teacher about my MIA Vocab list, and snagging Stephen King's On Writing from the bookstore today.

And I think I'm more insane than I was five minutes ago for trying to write a novel during my junior year of high school.