Commentary: When You Get Older
For the writing commentary meme, lovecatcadillac asked for this passage from "When You Get Older."
I know this is kind of a weird thing for a writer to say, but I'm actually really proud of the way this fic turned out. I'd never written anything longer than 2k up to this point, and I was terrified that I'd wimp out or that it would be terrible overall. I ended up pouring a lot of what I was going through and what I had gone through- college anxiety, personal identification, crises of sexuality and what it meant about me- into the writing of this story, and it shows through in this section in particular.
If you only knew. “No,” Sophie lied through her teeth, “nothing’s . . . wrong, exactly.” Her eyes drifted to the butter knife still sitting on the nightstand. “Are you okay?”
In the movie, tiny things have large significance attached to them- the way music sounds, the fairy tale book- and I think this is something we do in life as well. In this segment in particular, Sophie is going through a huge amount of mental upheaval- she's just admitted to herself that she might be in love with this girl, which is bringing up all kinds of implications about who she is and what she wants. So instead of thinking about that- because that's scary!- she zeroes in on this tiny, insignificant object. Because it's easier.
Hanna’s eyes lowered to the floor, but not before Sophie caught a glimpse of something aching and wanting in them. She swallowed hard. It was okay; Hanna still wasn’t looking at her. She could waver for a few moments.
The thing that most fascinates me about Sophie as a character- and Sophie/Hanna as a relationship- is how much she's built on her own foundations, and how much she consciously presents, as opposed to Hanna, who doesn't know how to put up a front. (See the scene with the Spanish boys, where Sophie understands what going on a date signified and Hanna . . . doesn't.) So here, when she's being emotionally open and vulnerable with someone she trusts and yet has this complicated history with, her thoughts are on "how much can I safely show?"
“I’m not a soldier.” Hanna said. She looked back up, and there was that look again- pained and fevered like a trapped animal in a cage, only one that could see someone coming to release it. “I’m not.” Her voice wavered slightly.
HANNA YOU PRECIOUS BABY, LET ME HOLD YOU. But seriously, I'm a tiny bit obsessed with identity narratives- how we build ourselves and the amount of input society has on that self-construction. One of the most flattering things anyone's ever said about my writing is that I tend to focus on women and what they're expected to be versus what they are. I've written before about how Hanna and Sophie are foils in this regard, how Hanna is trained very specifically by her father to be a very specific thing (a solider) while Sophie was left to discover herself on her own, and they meet in the middle. Hanna's training is great for making a child soldier, but if you want to be a part of the regular world? Um. Not so much. GOOD JOB, ERIC.
“Of course you’re not.” Sophie soothed, reaching a hand out to lay on her arm. Her fingers met string, and she glanced down- of course. The bracelet. In all the turmoil, she’d almost managed to forget about it. Gently, she rubbed at the skin underneath it with her thumb. “You’re my friend, remember?”
*insert intelligent commentary about being defined by relationships and finding anchors in each other that totally isn't me just gross sobbing*
Hanna raised her head slowly, on a long exhale of air. Her other hand came up to intercept Sophie’s, and they lay together on the bracelet. Hanna’s fingers were resting on top of hers’, and Sophie found suddenly that she couldn’t breathe. The world had narrowed into the point where skin brushed skin, and things like breath and speech and thought had disappeared from her line of vision. There was only Hanna’s hand, Hanna’s face, Hanna’s voice trembling on the edge of tears but raggedly brave. Hanna was always brave. Hanna had kissed her two years earlier and set them down this pathway that stopped here, now, sitting on her bed, when she wanted nothing more than to kiss her again.
So she did.
" You’re also probably asking: What the hell are my parents going to say when I tell them I want to kiss other girls? And my friends and my co-workers and my classmates and everyone at my family reunion? And what’s that girl going to say when I tell her I want to kiss her? And how is my life ever going to be OK, and how can I go on being the same, and am I the same, and what else do I not know about what’s alive inside me? And who will still love me and who will start hating me, and is God involved, or the government maybe, and what if it’s only one girl I want to kiss, and how do I label myself and must I label myself, and what if I change my mind and, really, what if I do burn alive?"
(Remember that feeling of teenaged crushdom when you fall for someone and suddenly they're the biggest, loudest, most important thing in the world? Yeah. Not take that and multiply it by government conspiracies and child supersoldiers.)
She’d never kissed another girl, excepting that once in the caravan, but it wasn’t- in the most technical terms- different from kissing a boy. Lips were lips no matter who they belonged to, and the warm breath that puffed against her face was the same as it would have been with anyone else. There was no beard or moustache to scratch at her lip, and the other girl’s face was lighter and more delicate than any boy she’d ever kissed, light enough that it felt almost violent to bring her hands up to press against Hanna’s face and feel the blood beating underneath her fingertips.
Kissing is fun, but kissing is also kind of weird, when you think about it. "Hey! Let's smush our mouths together!" But somehow it's also awesome? Mystery of the universe, that.
Hanna wasn’t saying anything, but neither was she pulling away. Was this a mistake? Had she overstepped some invisible line doing this, frightened the other girl away, or betrayed some kind of trust that she hadn’t even realized she’d entered into? Maybe she’d ruined everything in one stupid, reckless act that she’d done without thinking because everything was so huge and towering, and she wanted something small and safe, but if she’d ruined it-
This is the core of their relationship to me- this tiny little thing in a ocean of massive problems, that anchors the both of them and lets them feel safe and loved and secure. There is nothing scarier than kissing someone for the first time and wondering how they're going to react, especially if it's another girl, and especially-especially if you're friends and don't want to wreck it. It's pretty universal, I think.
Hanna kissed her back.
-but sometimes it turns out you don't need to worry at all.
I know this is kind of a weird thing for a writer to say, but I'm actually really proud of the way this fic turned out. I'd never written anything longer than 2k up to this point, and I was terrified that I'd wimp out or that it would be terrible overall. I ended up pouring a lot of what I was going through and what I had gone through- college anxiety, personal identification, crises of sexuality and what it meant about me- into the writing of this story, and it shows through in this section in particular.
If you only knew. “No,” Sophie lied through her teeth, “nothing’s . . . wrong, exactly.” Her eyes drifted to the butter knife still sitting on the nightstand. “Are you okay?”
In the movie, tiny things have large significance attached to them- the way music sounds, the fairy tale book- and I think this is something we do in life as well. In this segment in particular, Sophie is going through a huge amount of mental upheaval- she's just admitted to herself that she might be in love with this girl, which is bringing up all kinds of implications about who she is and what she wants. So instead of thinking about that- because that's scary!- she zeroes in on this tiny, insignificant object. Because it's easier.
Hanna’s eyes lowered to the floor, but not before Sophie caught a glimpse of something aching and wanting in them. She swallowed hard. It was okay; Hanna still wasn’t looking at her. She could waver for a few moments.
The thing that most fascinates me about Sophie as a character- and Sophie/Hanna as a relationship- is how much she's built on her own foundations, and how much she consciously presents, as opposed to Hanna, who doesn't know how to put up a front. (See the scene with the Spanish boys, where Sophie understands what going on a date signified and Hanna . . . doesn't.) So here, when she's being emotionally open and vulnerable with someone she trusts and yet has this complicated history with, her thoughts are on "how much can I safely show?"
“I’m not a soldier.” Hanna said. She looked back up, and there was that look again- pained and fevered like a trapped animal in a cage, only one that could see someone coming to release it. “I’m not.” Her voice wavered slightly.
HANNA YOU PRECIOUS BABY, LET ME HOLD YOU. But seriously, I'm a tiny bit obsessed with identity narratives- how we build ourselves and the amount of input society has on that self-construction. One of the most flattering things anyone's ever said about my writing is that I tend to focus on women and what they're expected to be versus what they are. I've written before about how Hanna and Sophie are foils in this regard, how Hanna is trained very specifically by her father to be a very specific thing (a solider) while Sophie was left to discover herself on her own, and they meet in the middle. Hanna's training is great for making a child soldier, but if you want to be a part of the regular world? Um. Not so much. GOOD JOB, ERIC.
“Of course you’re not.” Sophie soothed, reaching a hand out to lay on her arm. Her fingers met string, and she glanced down- of course. The bracelet. In all the turmoil, she’d almost managed to forget about it. Gently, she rubbed at the skin underneath it with her thumb. “You’re my friend, remember?”
*insert intelligent commentary about being defined by relationships and finding anchors in each other that totally isn't me just gross sobbing*
Hanna raised her head slowly, on a long exhale of air. Her other hand came up to intercept Sophie’s, and they lay together on the bracelet. Hanna’s fingers were resting on top of hers’, and Sophie found suddenly that she couldn’t breathe. The world had narrowed into the point where skin brushed skin, and things like breath and speech and thought had disappeared from her line of vision. There was only Hanna’s hand, Hanna’s face, Hanna’s voice trembling on the edge of tears but raggedly brave. Hanna was always brave. Hanna had kissed her two years earlier and set them down this pathway that stopped here, now, sitting on her bed, when she wanted nothing more than to kiss her again.
So she did.
" You’re also probably asking: What the hell are my parents going to say when I tell them I want to kiss other girls? And my friends and my co-workers and my classmates and everyone at my family reunion? And what’s that girl going to say when I tell her I want to kiss her? And how is my life ever going to be OK, and how can I go on being the same, and am I the same, and what else do I not know about what’s alive inside me? And who will still love me and who will start hating me, and is God involved, or the government maybe, and what if it’s only one girl I want to kiss, and how do I label myself and must I label myself, and what if I change my mind and, really, what if I do burn alive?"
(Remember that feeling of teenaged crushdom when you fall for someone and suddenly they're the biggest, loudest, most important thing in the world? Yeah. Not take that and multiply it by government conspiracies and child supersoldiers.)
She’d never kissed another girl, excepting that once in the caravan, but it wasn’t- in the most technical terms- different from kissing a boy. Lips were lips no matter who they belonged to, and the warm breath that puffed against her face was the same as it would have been with anyone else. There was no beard or moustache to scratch at her lip, and the other girl’s face was lighter and more delicate than any boy she’d ever kissed, light enough that it felt almost violent to bring her hands up to press against Hanna’s face and feel the blood beating underneath her fingertips.
Kissing is fun, but kissing is also kind of weird, when you think about it. "Hey! Let's smush our mouths together!" But somehow it's also awesome? Mystery of the universe, that.
Hanna wasn’t saying anything, but neither was she pulling away. Was this a mistake? Had she overstepped some invisible line doing this, frightened the other girl away, or betrayed some kind of trust that she hadn’t even realized she’d entered into? Maybe she’d ruined everything in one stupid, reckless act that she’d done without thinking because everything was so huge and towering, and she wanted something small and safe, but if she’d ruined it-
This is the core of their relationship to me- this tiny little thing in a ocean of massive problems, that anchors the both of them and lets them feel safe and loved and secure. There is nothing scarier than kissing someone for the first time and wondering how they're going to react, especially if it's another girl, and especially-especially if you're friends and don't want to wreck it. It's pretty universal, I think.
Hanna kissed her back.
-but sometimes it turns out you don't need to worry at all.