A few months ago, in a break between terms, I was looking for something to watch on Netflix. I wanted to watch something about another writer, something to make me feel more connected. Author’s Anonymous was on a list of movies for writers, somewhere, and my good friend and fellow blogger, Missy, recommended it, so I hit play. Frustratingly so, the protagonist, Hannah Rinaldi, doesn’t read books but, nevertheless, lands herself a publishing deal. She’s not the kind of writer I’d want to be, but she is a writer, who actually writes. “The writing comes first” is her mantra. No boys allowed. No distractions. And that part about Hannah I can respect.
Hannah’s fictional, but to put her life in perspective, Hannah (as far as I can tell) doesn’t have an actual job. She’s a young, twenty-something, living with her mom, who writes every day and attends a weekly writing group. She doesn’t read, doesn’t know who Jane Austen is, and can’t come up with a single author’s name when asked “Who’s your favorite writer?” Her book becomes an instant bestseller and earns itself a movie deal. It contains lines like “You’re my shining star.” And, just like that, everyone she knows (including the audience) hates her.
There’s plenty of reasons to hate Hannah, but I only hated her for her dedication. Hate isn’t the right word. I envied her.