I had a visit from my teenage self a little while ago, thanks the kindred souls over at Shameless. They had a book launch for an anthology of teenage awkwardness and shamelessness with a prom theme that was oddly reminiscent of my own high school years (they showed an episode of BtVS in the background!). 

One of the highlights was a series of readings from some teenage girls who had taken part in a creative writing workshop earlier that day. From the painfully transparent rebellious tendencies of one anti-feminist girl to a nervous-looking girl whose parents came to videotape her 3-minute reading, I felt like I was watching my teenage self on stage.

There was a time when I, too, committed my soul to dollar-store notebooks – first just for the sake of writing, later with the hopes of being published and fabulous. 

I’m not sure what happened. I feel as though I’ve spent my entire post-high school career punishing myself for wanting to do anything impractical. Author? Pipe dream. I need a real job. At the very least, I should have a ‘real’ job during the day, and I can nurture my silly pursuits in my off-time. That sounds smart, doesn’t it?

But then there were these accomplished and obviously happy women – ones who worked at Shameless, others who contributed to the anthology – who had actually humoured their writing hobbies when they were young, and found a way to keep doing it into adulthood. 

Long story short, it was very motivational. Between those younger versions of myself and the women I could be if my guardian angel would get off its ass, I felt a sudden urge to be irresponsible again. You could say, I suddenly feel shameless… but that would be horribly corny. So don’t.