I attended a conference recently in New York. There were two things I took away.
One—being a writer is the most kick-ass job because besides telling lies for a living, we get to meet cool people on the road: other writers who embody brilliant intellectual awesomeness, readers who appreciate you, and people who feed you. (So true…)
Two—I am not cool.
I never have been. I’ve never fit in with the “in” crowd or had people kneeling at my feet. I wasn’t a cheerleader, but I wasn’t a geek. I was just this tall kid who got decent grades and floated through my younger life, wishing I had the guts to do…something. Anything.
My family moved to Washington, D.C., from the backwoods of Colorado halfway through my fifteenth year, and I suffered the most massive case of culture shock imaginable. My parents wanted me to go to private school, but I didn’t want to. The idea of not fitting in, you see. I was scared of this breed of child, the privileged, the forgone conclusion, their Ivy League Junior League summer in Nantucket paths preordained. There was no way I could keep up. A few days after moving, I met a neighborhood girl who seemed to have coolness in spades. She smoked on the corner; she laughed when her mother gave her a curfew. She went to the local public school; she claimed the parties were epic. I immediately set about trying to copy her.
Clothes were first, then hair, then makeup, then boys.
In Colorado, it was still cool to wear button-up Levi’s. In McLean, Virginia, circa 1985, GUESS jeans were all the rage. I wore Nikes, hard-won, bought with my allowance, broken-in, the ultimate in cool, but in my new home, Reebok high-tops were de rigueur. Everyone in Virginia had these sleek, preppy, effortless bobs, but I permed my hair. The cool guys drove Camaros, and you were supposed to let them feel you up if they gave you a ride to school. Taking the bus was forbidden. Moosehead was the only acceptable beer, Benson & Hedges Deluxe Ultra Light Menthol 100s were the cigarette of choice. Jeans were to be winnowed, folded and tucked inside large, slouchy socks.
It was midway through my junior year when I began yearning for something. I didn’t know what, just that I wasn’t at all happy with the way things were going. I had some friends who were considered “cool,” and others who were laughed at. I was pressured to pick one group or the other. I’ve never been a fan of that whole setup… “It’s fine to be friends with Mary, because she dates Greg and he drives a BMW, but not Susan because her parents still drive her to school.” John Hughes knew a little something about peer pressure, didn’t he?
Drifting, I eventually joined the track team, which wasn’t considered cool at all—but found a talent for throwing the discus, of all things, and started hanging with a new crowd. We listened to Run DMC on the bus to meets, and had our own strange lingo. That was a good change, but not enough. I missed the true Goth movement by a couple of years; my school only had modified Punks. (They would be called Hipsters now. The Cult, Cure, Depeche Mode, all that. Though I thought Morrissey was a whiny idiot and pledged allegiance to Pink Floyd instead.) I hung out with them for a bit. Still, they were too much like me, scratching the surface of rebellion, too concerned about grades, extracurriculars, and college applications to really feel what the movement was all about.
Not finding what I was seeking in my own school, I branched out to the other local high school, McLean, where there were real Punks. They dyed their hair. They wore gravity-defying mohawks and ripped jeans. They skipped class and laughed at me when I freaked out about missing seventh period. They read my poetry and shared theirs in return. They treated me as an equal. As if cocker Spaniels were allowed to be equal to Dobermans.
They were the ultimate in cool to me.
I went from the “Goody Two-shoes” Sandra Dee to the “I got chills” Sandy in the space of a week. I replaced my pearl earrings with safety pins and begged my mom to let me streak a chunk of my hair pink (she flatly refused). I switched to Camel Lights. I tossed out the GUESS jeans that I hated and found some tight black ones that I paired with kick-ass brown suede ankle boots instead of the Reeboks. I bailed on Yearbook. Skipped track practice. Drank whiskey in the McDonald’s parking lot. Regularly made out with a guy named Jim, who had a blue mohawk and a string of safety pins running from his nose ring to his pierced ear. He would have been so freaking perfect if he’d just been five inches taller.
I think I even stashed my Official Preppy Handbook in the garage.
But there was only so much rebellion my parents would accept. They’d always been strict, but my dad took one look at my new boyfriend’s blue hair and chains and forbade me ever to see him again. And after about a week of being grounded until I got some new friends, I caved.
I caved.
My brush with rebellion quashed, I got back in line and kept my head down.
Back came the sleek bob, albeit slightly asymmetrical, just a little hint of daring. Back went on the dreaded GUESS jeans. Back I went to track and classes. I took a holiday job at Britches Great Outdoors to get the employee discount because that was the cool thing to do. I was a lifeguard in the summers at the local country club. I dutifully applied to all the right schools. I studied hard, trained in discus until I lettered, joined the golf team. Got a couple of sports scholarships for my efforts.
I always wonder what would have happened if I’d stuck to my guns back then. If I’d dyed that hank of hair pink. If I’d followed my gut instead of the path people expected of me. Would I have been cast out of our polite society? Ended up starving in a Parisian garret or trying out for plays on Broadway? Would I have turned that early poetry into something groovy and spoken word, wearing all black, smoking Gitanes, and arguing Sartre? Backpacked across Europe? Followed the seeker life? Would I have found my path earlier rather than later?
I don’t envy our current generation their struggles with identity. Theirs feel much bigger, more rabid, more permanent, and totally on display for the world to watch. Or maybe the stakes, the culture, the online networks allow them to find their people easier, I don’t know. Mine was bad enough; the pressure of this world is untenable. Even as an established adult, an established writer, there are still fences that shall not be jumped. Imagine what being 15 is like now.
I still struggle with the two sides of my personality. The good responsible girl versus the hedonistic artist rebel. The rebel has won out several times over the years—some piercings, well before it was cool, and a few tattoos. My husband drew the line at my nose—I’ve always wanted to pierce my nose. I blame Jim. But the good girl—she was a debutante (I know, I know)—got her degree, got another degree, married an awesome guy, worked in a proper job, and spent too many years trying to ignore the screams that came from the back of her skull daily.
I wanted to be a writer, not realizing I already was. I made the mistake too many creatives make: I kept waiting for permission. To be told that was the path I should take. For my professors to give me gold stars. For my parents to say it was okay. For my friends to say, hey, if you love this so much, why don’t you do it instead?
My husband was the one—my catalyst. Of course, he was. He watched all this experimentation and knew what was going on. When the rebel kept trying to force her way out, he encouraged her. With his blessing, in 2003 I chucked my nice safe life and started a novel. God bless him, he worked twice as hard so I could stay home and write.
From the moment I wrote that first word, I never looked back. All the strain, all the heartache, all the frustration… It wasn’t the rebel fighting for her place in the world like I always assumed—it was the Muse, desperately trying to get out.
So as hubby and I were hanging out with some utterly cool steampunk writer chicks, I felt those old urges—a need for hair dye (Manic Panic Hot Hot Pink is on order) a nose ring, clunky boots, ripped tights, a perfect sense of irony and a touch of ennui. I’m probably too old to indulge in this latent fantasy.
But one thing is certain. I may not be cool, but now I am a writer.
And that’s cool to me.
💗💗💗You're a 'cool' writer.
Total awesomeness! What a great post, J.T.! You *are* cool.