Scrappy and Outside the Lines (Laurie Faria Stolarz

  

The topic for this month revolves around rules. Was I a rule follower when I was young?

Not always. For the most part, I probably appeared like I was. I was as quiet as a mouse, so scared to make waves. I kept my head down, slipped beneath the radar, and learned early that sometimes the best way to get around a rule was simply not to draw attention to yourself.

Of course, that didn't always work.

I learned how to break rules very young. I was taught early how to break into snack machines. I won't explain how, because I would never do it now, and I don't want to encourage anyone else to try. But I knew how.

To be honest, when I think about that now, it makes me a little sad—not because I think I was some terrible kid. More because I can see now how different I was—and how different life was for me—then.

Back then, breaking rules could feel like a way of getting what you needed. You figured out the system. You found the weakness. You got what you wanted and moved on.

In elementary school, I discovered that the boundaries of the playground were apparently not suggestions. I disagreed. I liked to go where I wanted at recess, including places that were officially outside the bounds. I got caught on occasion, but not as often as one might think.

Middle school was a culture shock for me. It felt less like school and more like prison school, with rules everywhere and mischief everywhere else. Nothing ever felt safe. Fights broke out everywhere. A pack of sixth grade girls at my lunch table kept track of one another’s virginity status. Two of them were pregnant by eighth grade. I kept my head down, bit my tongue, and got through the middle school experience.

Although, apparently, I wasn't completely invisible.

A middle school teacher asked me out on a date. Another teacher called me an “ignoramus” and made me sit in the corner, facing the wall, for talking during class. The comment stuck—because maybe I was an ignoramus. I certainly felt like one sometimes, though “lost” or “fearful” might have been better descriptions of me. (And honestly, I can't imagine a teacher saying that to a student today, at least not without there being consequences.)

And then I got beaten up by a gang of boys. Nothing happened to them, by the way. The principal knew, but his hands were tied. One of the kids just wouldn't relent—in so many ways—and seemed to be forever getting detentions or suspensions. And while it was happening? Other kids stood around and watched.

Experiences like that teach you things you shouldn't have to learn when you're young. They teach you that sometimes adults don't protect you, sometimes other people won't step in, and sometimes you have to figure out how to get yourself through something.

High school brought more culture shock—but in a different way. The students had money—or so it seemed. They saw life differently, thought about different things, had completely different priorities. I looked around and felt as though I'd landed on another planet.

I skipped classes and left school early, slipping out a side door. I also stayed after school because I was so far behind academically that I had to catch up somehow. Sometimes I peeked at the teacher's notes because I was trying to figure out the answers.

Again, I wasn't exactly a model rule follower. But I was scrappy. That's probably the word that best describes me. I figured things out. I found ways around obstacles. If the front door was locked, I looked for another entrance.

In college, I took my rule-bending skills with me. While backpacking through Europe, I would fudge the dates on my Eurail pass so I could travel farther and longer. If a store was giving away free samples, I'd go in and load up my pockets so I'd have something to eat. My junior year, when I wanted a journalism internship, embarrassing to say now, but I lied about my credentials, talking up the journalism classes I'd taken (when I hadn't). I was a business major--something practical to make money (which I hated). All I ever wanted was to pursue something creative. (By the way, I got the internship.)

And then came publishing. You'd think by that point I might have learned to follow the rules.

But, no.

When I started trying to get published, I discovered there were rules there, too. You're supposed to have an agent. I didn't—not at first, anyway.

You're supposed to submit only to editors who accept unagented work. I didn't.

You're supposed to tell an editor if you've submitted your manuscript somewhere else. I didn't do that, either.

I sent my work out. I sent it to lots of people. I tried doors that, according to the rules, weren't supposed to be open to me.

And eventually, one of those doors opened. I got published. And that first book became a bestseller.

So, what do I make of all this now? I don't think the lesson is that breaking rules is good. Some rules exist for very good reasons. 

I can look back at the girl I once was and understand her without excusing everything she did. She was trying to figure out the world and survive in it. And she was scrappy.

That scrappiness is still in me. I'm glad it is. It has served me well. It helped me take chances. It helped me knock on doors that weren't supposed to open. It helped me become a published author when I didn't have an agent telling me I could.

I still don't think I'm a natural rule follower.

But I'm grateful I became a better person at breaking the right ones.