lied to me. How many other children of the eighties out there spent their teen years believing in the Gospel of Hughes? And how many felt betrayed when graduation came and the promised love had never materialized?
I started my high school career with Sixteen Candles.
I knew that the guy I had the secret crush on would eventually realize I was there; I just had to go to the right dance to start the wheels in motion.
By sophomore year, it was The Breakfast Club.
I was the loner, the outsider, the freak. But it was okay, because the cute jock was going to kiss me one day and tell me I was pretty.
Junior year was all about Pretty in Pink.
I was living alone with my dad then, and the Great and Powerful Hughes promised me that if I pinched pennies and made my own clothes, Andrew McCarthy would soon start stalking me.
And finally, Senior year brought Some Kind of Wonderful
and it's assurances that my best friend would see the light and realize that he actually loved me and not the pretty girl he was chasing all year.
But, alas, the real world is nothing like Shermer, Illinois. I never had that great high school romance. The words of Hughes were just empty promises.
But somewhere along the way, lost in these wonderful fictions, my own "what-if" button got pushed. My imagination was tickled and I, for the first time, put pencil to paper and began to write. My first attempts were dreadful, unoriginal, Hughes-like tales of love and sex amongst foul-mouthed high-school students. But I never stopped. I'm still writing seventeen years later. Admittedly, a lot of what fills the box of notebooks and loose-leaf paper in my closet is pure, derivative crap, but I know there are at least a few original, creative, well written ideas in there, too. I love that I can sit down and create people and places and situations and give them life with just a pen.
And I've got John Hughes to thank for that.