Colleen Conrad

An old high school boyfriend, Aaron,* recently looked me up on Facebook.  Our relationship was a total cliché; he was the quintessential “bay boy” to my “good girl.”   Even though I’m now happily married to an entirely wholesome guy, I can’t deny that hearing from Aaron brought me back to the thrill of that relationship.  Even my adolescent self knew that I was never going to marry him or anything, but Aaron sure made my heart race.

I remember that he always smelled of cigarettes.  Despite the fact that I’ve never smoked, and in fact can’t stand being around it, the smell of Aaron’s smoky breath on my lips was like an aphrodisiac to me back then.  He lived in my neighborhood, and we often stole away to make out in the woods, unbeknownst to my parents.  His house was always filled with a crew of semi-relatives, including a young niece born to his older half-sister when she was just a teenager herself.  Aaron was more experienced than I was.  He was athletic, but his grades, his temper, and his lack of self-discipline generally kept him off most organized teams.  He was in my English class sophomore year, but he rarely attended class.  When we became a couple he came to class more often, which only drew me to him further.  Wasn’t that proof that I could save him from himself? 

My level-headed best friend, Sam,* would tell me, “You’re just so much smarter than he is.”  And of course I defended Aaron to her, insisting that he wasn’t stupid, just troubled.  Indeed, we were the ultimate cliché.

Above all, Aaron was always kind to me.  He put me on a pedestal; he treated me with respect.  I expect that he was drawn to me because I was different from him…Essentially the same reason I was attracted to him.  The catch was that I dreamed that I’d fix him, heal him, while he took steps to ensure that he never changed me.

Shortly after we broke up Aaron dropped out of school, and soon after that he overdosed on some ill-advised combination of street and prescription drugs.  I remember visiting him at home when he emerged from rehab, but by then our relationship had ended, and I was no longer fool enough to think that I could change him (or the circumstances that made him who he was).  

By now you’re probably thinking, “Thanks for the diary entry, Colleen, but what does this have to do with vampires?”

Let’s just say that there’s no doubting the appeal of The Bad Boy.  James Dean.  Mark Darcy.  Edward Cullen.  Dylan McKay.  The sideburns!  The furrowed brow!  The emotional damage!  They practically beg to be loved.  They make our hearts beat madly in our chests as they quietly brood behind rough exteriors.  The worse they are for us–the more dangerous, the more tortured–the more irresistible they become.

Especially for bookish girls who typically play by the rules, the appearance of these characters in literature is an escape, a fantasy.  Sure, good girls dabble with bad boy relationships in real life, but most settle down with someone safer, kinder, healthier.  Books are an ideal way to vicariously experiment with bad boys, consequence-free.  The teenage bad boy/good girl relationship is perfectly tantalizing–and perfectly rooted in fiction.  From Bella and Edward to Jane Eyre and the rogue-ish Rochester, girls can run away to something treacherous between the pages, between the stolen kisses of the characters.  It’s not a new paradigm; it’s an old one that spans genres and time. 

My girlfriends and I have recently dubbed our own personal bad boys our “vampires,” after discussing the Twilight Saga debate over Edward and Jacob.  Who should Bella choose? we muse.  Being a vampire, Edward is virtually unattainable, dangerous, and literally cold.  Jacob—half-dog, of course—is loyal, warm, and emotionally available.  If the werewolf is the sweet, genuine boy next door, the vampire is the unequivocally risky and alluring bad boy. 

As an adult, I fall firmly in the TEAM JACOB camp, but as a teen I certainly lost my heart to a few vampires.  My main bad boy–my vampire–was Aaron.

I’m not writing a bad boy character right now, but maybe I will.  Maybe I’ll draw on the memory of Aaron’s clandestine kisses, his tortured past, his experience and obvious sex appeal, to write a boy with some vampire qualities.  Someone equally perilous and protective, captivating and riddled with angst. 

I would never go back.  If anything this brush with my past has confirmed for me that I’m happy with the decisions I’ve made.  But talking to Aaron has reminded me what it was like to be a high school good girl, drawn to the adrenaline rush of the vampire bad boy. 

*false name

…the word “vacation” means “unadulterated time with my journal.”

The last time I called myself a writer was in junior high.

Okay, maybe once or twice in college when I chaired the Poetry Circle and bore the label “Spoken Word Artist.”

But since then I’ve mostly worn other titles like “athlete,” “teacher,” “academic.”  And these were strong titles.  They were stable, and easily defined.  They were based on what I did rather than who I am.  Which begs the question:  Who am I?

Well, if I knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t have bothered asking the question.

There’s something scary about calling yourself a writer by definition.  It’s like saying that you’re a singer-songwriter if you haven’t actually sold any music, or an actor if you can’t name anything you’ve appeared in.  For a long time I’ve operated under that fear.  I’ve written bits and pieces of a dozen different things, squirreled away in my house like Emily friggin’ Dickinson.  Well, I’m no Dickinson.  I’m not nearly that reclusive…Or that talented, for that matter.

I’ve recently “come out of the writing closet,” so to speak.  I’d always thought of myself as a writer, and now I have the guts to actually use that title.  I’ve found a community of people in this amazing city who embrace the role, and who support each other in their writing endeavors.  Some are published, many are not, but they’ve helped me be more fearless.  It’s so easy for others to roll their eyes when they hear that someone is working on a novel–I mean, isn’t everyone and their mother “working on a novel”?–but I’ve found the strength to ignore the nay-sayers.  I’ll listen to the critics and the constructive feedback of my peers, but I’m not afraid to proudly wear the label of “Writer” anymore.  Because even if I’m still figuring out who I am, I know that one thing is for sure:  I am a writer.  

I mean, published or not, I always have been.

Yes, it’s true, I’m actually two people.

Looking at it from an athletic perspective, it kinda makes sense.  Growing up, my first sports were individual.  In particular, I was a competitive gymnast until junior high, at which point I shot up several inches and it became glaringly obvious that I should find other outlets.  (My feet were hitting the mats on my giants–you know, those swing-around-the-bar-things).  Luckily my parents had convinced me in fourth grade to try softball, which I immediately fell in love with and began to play religiously.  The teammates!  The comaraderie!  The dirt!

And so it was that I had two different athletic careers.  I spent the first twelve years of my life focusing on my own inner monologue; quietly pumping myself up for competition; competing, in fact, with my teammates.  And then I went another twelve years focusing on teamwork and collaboration and socializing.   (And let’s not forget the keggers in college and “bonding” with the men’s soccer team.)

It makes sense that when in social situations now, I’m an extrovert.  I love being the center of attention and making new friends.  I’m a pretty decent chameleon, easily adapting to new circumstances.  I enjoy most people, and I’d like to think that I get along with just about everyone.  I’m pretty damn loud, too.  (This is something that I get from my mother:.  I’ve actually seen the woman keep talking as someone is rolling up the car window in her face.  We are a family of talkers, no doubt about it.)

But then there are the times when I want nothing but simple, unadulterated quiet.  I don’t want anyone to talk to me.  I want to retreat into my head and hide there, indefinitely.  My husband knows to leave me alone at these times.  When I go to the gym or to yoga at the end of a long day, I enjoy it because I’m, well, anonymous.  I don’t know anyone there, and I don’t have to pretend to know them.  I don’t make small talk or introduce myself to people.  I avoid the machines at the gym that are occupied.  Even if I need that piece of equipment right now, I just change my plans.  Why would I ask that person to share with me or when they’re going to finish?  Why interrupt the blissful isolation of me, the music on my ipod, and my sweat?  When a particular yoga instructor shows herself to be a fan of “partner assisted poses,” I generally find a new class.  (Why would I want some sweaty, smelly stranger talking to me–touching me, no less–when I’m trying to do down dog?) 

Now, don’t think me a snob.  I really do like people, and it’s not that I think I’m better than anyone else.  It’s just that sometimes I need to go to my quiet place.  When I think about leaving teaching, I think, “But I’d miss the people!”  And when I think about how much I love writing, I think, “Ah, the lovely solitude of me, my coffee, and my laptop.”

At this year’s Oscars, Robert Downey Jr. and Tina Fey presented the award for best screenplay.  On the relationship between writers and actors, Downey said,  “It’s a collaboration between handsome gifted people and sickly little mole people.”  Maybe that’s me, minus the handsome/gifted part.  Perhaps inside I have a little actor and a little writer.  I’ve embraced the fact that I’m a gemini–at once social and introverted.  I’d like to think that it makes me a better writer.  Cheers to the Twins.

I recently told a friend of mine that I wished I could be as zen as he is.  I’m so frequently anxious, annoyingly introspective, and easily agitated.  “Things get to me so much,” I said to him.  “I’d be happier if I could let things roll off my back like you do.”

But then again, what kind of a writer would I be if I were more laid-back?  Someone once said “the poet needs the pain.”  (Who was it who said that, anyway?  It could have been Shakespeare or friggin’ Bon Jovi for all I know…)  If that’s true–and I’m thinking (well, hoping) that it is–then I’m in good shape as a writer.  Even when things appear lovely on the outside (and I’m great at making them appear so), my mind is always going.  My six-word memoir could read, “in trying to play, she thinks.”

Where is the conflict in just being chill all the time?  I’ve read books that don’t have any central plot, conflict, or character growth.  They’re snooze fests.

Another teacher/writer friend of mine said that he finds that when he is least satisfied with his life, and his teaching life in particular, he magically finds more time and motivation to write.  And that makes sense, doesn’t it?  Writing is such an outlet, such an escape from and reflection of the outward conflict of our lives.  Even when I’m writing fiction that doesn’t mirror my life in an obvious way, it is still a representation of who I am and what I’m going through.  Or, for that matter, what I’ve already gone through.  It may not be a literal diary, but it is a documentation of me as a person and my life.  Sure, when I’m in a good, healthy place I still write.  And I still enjoy writing at those times.  But the best writing that I’ve done–the stuff that is gritty and real and interesting–comes from some of my most challenging moments.

“Be yourself.  Above all, let who you are, what you are, what you believe, shine through every sentence you write, every piece you finish.”  –John Jakes