The invitations to both my 10th and 20th high school reunions included questionnaires to complete and return so that they could be distributed to our former classmates ahead of time. This ensured we all had ample opportunity to judge each other without sacrificing drinking time at the party.

The questions were the usual where-are-they-now superficial ones about career, house, spouse, 2.5 children, etc., with a token philosophical one at the end:  “If you could tell your 18 year old self anything, what would it be?”

As I recall, I didn’t fill out the 10-year questionnaire, figuring no one would remember me except those extremely few people I still keep in touch with and they already know all this shit so why bother?

Turned out I was incorrect about that and spent way too much time repeating myself at the gig.  So when the 20th rolled around, I dutifully handed in my report. I’d thought long and hard about that last question and finally answered “lighten up” since by then I was growing tired of thinking long and hard all the time.

That was four years ago. Since then I’ve had a creative renaissance of sorts, and if I had to answer that question now (not that I’ve thought about it), I’d tack on “and let go” to my answer. Not of hurts and grudges and cynicism, but of rules.

It’s not that I was a sticker for ALL rules growing up. On the contrary, I quite enjoyed breaking social rules because I was a sucker for shock value. And I guess I’m still that way, which is why I kissed a girl (“and I liked it, hope my boyfriend don’t mind it”) at the reunion and wear white shoes after Labor Day.

But when it comes to those subjects about which I actually care, I’ve always been somewhat of a goody-two-shoes-of-acceptable-color. If one wanted to do it right, one followed the example of those who already had.  So to be a good writer, say, then clearly it was crucial that one abide by the rules set down by writers generally recognized as good.

I couldn’t understand other perspectives on this. I was appalled, for instance, when we were asked to write a sonnet and a fellow student blithely submitted a piece that did not adhere precisely to the criteria. The nerve! Didn’t they see that those rules were there for a reason?

Of course, now I know that I was annoyed because their indifference to the rules made me feel insecure about my need for them.

An irony that’s not been lost on me since then is that many of the writers generally recognized as good were considered so because they broke the rules. Stream of consciousness prose wasn’t legit until Virginia Woolf did it.  Ditto for confessional poetry and Anne Sexton. Mysteries were pulp until Raymond Chandler defied the literati and turned them into art. The simplicity of Hemmingway’s writing set tradition on its ear.

The problem is that soon, committing the great sin of Missing The Point, the academic powers that be promptly fashioned the living skins of these fine wild creatures into coats for the rest of us. And we are determined to wear them, never noticing how frumpy they make us look.

So my advice to 18 year old Uppity now would go something like this:

“Lighten up and let go. Learn all the rules you want to, and then forget about them. Totally. Like a dead relative, they’ll never really leave you. They’ll weave themselves into your subconscious, a loose net of strong ropes with great big holes. Do not be alarmed by the holes. If you don’t have those holes, your imagination will turn blue and pass out and, eventually, die. And then the rest of your life won’t be worth living which would be a shame because there are no do-overs. So your assignment is to read The Principles of Grammar and then move on to Strunk & White Shoes After Labor Day. Trust me.”

Tune in next time for the thematically-related but infinitely-more-interestingly-entitled post “In Praise of Sucking.”