Student Lucia R. Han

This week’s Writer Wednesday features our youngest Writing Room member, 11-year-old writer Lucia R. Han!

Based in Birmingham, Michigan, Lucia is an advanced young writer currently working on a short story titled “The Way Home.” She’s also revising older projects and diving into freewriting. When she’s not writing, she enjoys playing basketball. Learn more about her, and check out one of her writing samples below!

What writing projects are you currently working on?

I am working on multiple writing pieces including two websites, a short story named “The Way Home,” — an older piece of writing that I am revising, and some freewriting pieces.

What is your favorite part of the writing process?

My favorite part of the writing process is when my writing flows nicely because I know exactly what I’m doing and what to write next.

What does your writing workspace look like?

My writing workspace might be a peaceful, quiet environment, like a library, or the kitchen table when the TV is not running.  

When did you first discover your love for writing? Were there any key moments or influences that sparked your passion?

I first discovered my passion for writing in the second grade, officially.  In the first grade I typed up short fantasy stories with friends, but I never decided to write outside of school. Some influences that sparked my passion for writing were my second grade teacher and my parents.

What is your favorite non-writing hobby?

My favorite non-writing hobby is basketball.

What is your favorite piece of writing advice?

A piece of writing advice is that you should never feel forced to keep writing on — if the story you are writing is starting to die out, you are allowed to stop and try again — let your brain take a break.  

— Interview by DWR intern Jenna Hausmann.

Lucia shared one of her recent essays, inspired by a prompt from Detroit Writing Room coach Laura Berman. Check it out below!

“Intemporelle” 

By Lucia R. Han

Three hours early. My eyes lay focused on the clock, its skinny hands ticking seemingly slower and slower around and around the circle. 

The sun is still nowhere to be seen. Behind the tall grasses, all I can see is pitch-black night sky. A lady with glasses in the shape of a square walks by me, with a hunched back and a wooden walking stick. She moves slowly and carefully, cautious with every step. I watch her for a moment—her wide, blue eyes, her smiling face, her frizzy gray hair. And she disappears into a train, and I can’t help but smile. 

6:27 a.m. 

Almost an hour has passed. I can tell not only because of the always-ticking clock sitting smack dab in front of me, but because people begin to fall asleep, and the sun is starting to rise, illuminating the sky. 

I look back at the clock. Although the whole world is moving, I only see its hands. Never stopping. It is attached to a smooth, silver pole that continues until the ceiling. 

7:49 a.m. 

I am tired. Very. And though it is loud in here, with all the trains’ whistling echoing throughout the station, with the constant hustle and bustle of all the people, I find sleep. 

8:18 a.m. 

In my peripheral vision, I see another train. It is red, and to the left of the train conductor’s window reads, in big, mustard yellow lettering, A4. One more train

left to wait for—A5, the one with my dad or whatever I’m allowed to call him, considering how long he’s been gone. 

Time seems to never pass, like the world suddenly stopped. 

8:33 a.m. 

Then I see it. The glow of the neon-reddish hue of the train, marked A5. My legs react before my brain and I am up and running, running towards my father, and I feel it, the sense of home I haven’t felt since my mother’s passing. 

I wait for him to come out of the doors but when I see him I don’t wait. I run up to him and I hug him so tight I’m almost positive he can’t breathe. Tears stream down my face, and this feels so unreal and crazy and impossible. I know he’s crying, too, I hear the occasional sniffle and cough. I thought I’d never see him again. He probably felt the same thing. 

I pull away and laugh through my tears. He laughs, too, and wipes his face with his sleeve. We don’t say anything. For a while we just try to wipe our faces clear of tears, though it is impossible because every time we do we just end up crying even more. 

Then I tap him on the shoulder and point to the window. 

The sun has just now cleared the horizon, casting shadows over the dry yellow plain. And the sky is a brilliant, beautiful color, with oranges and pinks and reds and yellows and blues. 

It reminds me of my mother, on her birthday, her face when I unwrapped the XBox. “How did you know about that?” She laughed and smiled and asked how I paid for it, and said I didn’t have to get it for her … and I’m zoning out and staring into the sunrise and someone taps me on the head. I turn. My father. I forgot he was even there. 

He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. 

“I …”

I know he won’t ever finish the sentence. 

I am left without words. 

I try to imagine my face right now. Bright red, with messy hair, scrunched eyebrows, squinty eyes. 

My dad doesn’t say anything. He stares up at the ceiling and presses his lips together. His tears are running faster than ever. 

I point up at the window again, at the sky. “She’s right …” I move my finger around and then stop where the sun meets the clouds. “There.” He looks up at the sky and nods slightly. “She’s in a safer place now. She’s okay,” I whisper. And I’m closing my eyes, and I hear her laughter, I see her smile, I feel her joy. “She’s happy.” 

I open my eyes again and take the world in with my father by my side. I can still hear her laughter, I can still see her smile, I can still feel her joy. I can feel it all. My father stays silent. A single tear wets his cheek. We stare at the sky again. But this time, I really do see her. 

I see her in the bright pink colors of the sunrise. The fluffy white clouds that float above us. 

The End.