Hannah Berry George, NY
Critically Acclaimed Writer
Hannah quit law, started acting, and found her funny bone—all while writing. She’s written for titles such as the Daily Mail, metro.co.uk, Men’s Health, and Square Mile, among others across subjects such as travel, lifestyle, mental health, healthcare, and politics. She’s written for brands like Sony, Samsung, MasterCard, Halfords, Delta, Premier Inn, notonthehighstreet.com, Chinatown London, and Jack Daniel’s—to name just a few. She’s written voiceover and comedy scripts for herself and for clients. And now she would like to write for you.
As a Story Terrace writer, Hannah interviews customers and turns their life stories into books. Get to know her better by reading her autobiographical anecdote below.
An Almighty Crack
My hands and feet were sweating. The thud of my heartbeat swelled. And I was acutely aware I was being watched.
I’d gone through this floor routine a thousand times in my head. I’d practiced my tumbles over and over into the soft safety net of the dense foam pit. “You can do this,” I told myself, presenting to the judges before artfully placing my limbs in my starting position.
Then…silence. A silence that seemed to last a lifetime as I waited for the music to kick in. And, finally, when it did, I sprung to life like a jack-in-the-box. An eleven-year-old gymnast-ing her heart out in a killer leotard that would have made the 1993 and 1994 all-round world gymnast champion Shannon Miller proud.
I went through the nymph-like dance moves, the handstands, the back walkover, and now, here it was—the moment I had built up to in my head: The round-off (think: a cartwheel with more force) into a backflip.
Poised in the corner of the slightly-bobbled, blue-carpeted floor. Standing as far back as possible without exiting the precisely-taped, dirty-white-lined square. Weight on the right standing leg, as the left pointed in front of me, toes tightly curled into a ballerina-like point. “You’ve got this,” I told myself, taking one last breath before my musical cue signaled my departure, and I bounded forwards.
The almighty crack was so loud it sent the parents at this inter-gym club competition running for the rails of the balcony to find its source. That is, everyone except my mother. So in her own bubble, she was the only one blissfully unaware.
The round-off had been nigh on perfect (a 9.749 score at worst), but as I propelled myself backward for the flip, my damp feet got the upper hand, slipping from under me. I had instinctively put out my right arm to save myself as I fell, back-first, towards the floor, and the sheer force on impact had snapped the bone in my right arm clean at the elbow.
Of course, I didn’t know this at the time. A hit of adrenaline surged through my body, and I, oblivious to what everyone else has witnessed, went to get up as my coach arrived at my side and used the palm of his hand on my forehead to push me back down. “Stay still,” he commanded, as the panic stormed my every vein.
My palms and soles were still cold and clammy. My heart raced. And all eyes were definitely on me now. But this was not the moment I had imagined.
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