Leila Sales
You’re probably hoping that I’m writing to you—from the future—with words of advice, sage wisdom I have picked up over my years as an adult which will somehow save you from all embarrassing and depressing situations. I should do that, shouldn’t I? It would be really nice of me to help you be a more well adjusted person.
The trouble with that is, when I think of advice I could give you, I mostly come up with things for you not to do.
For example, when the boy you’ve had a crush on for two years rests his elbow on your shoulder, do not respond by saying, “Aren’t you a little short for that?” Yes, that will remove his arm, but it will also remove any chance you might have had of going out with him.
Do not write long letters to every girl in your bunk at camp, or to every member of your graduating class, in which you explain to them how much you care about them and explain how they can still improve themselves. This is weird, and nobody will appreciate it. You are actually not an expert on other people’s character flaws. Furthermore, writing fifty letters is a huge time investment, and you could probably spend those hours doing something more useful, like learning how to cook (which you still do not know how to do, sorry).
Do not go on a self-loathing spree after you get rejected from your four top-choice colleges. It’s not because you’re worthless and unappreciated; it’s because getting into college is hard.
Do not pull out in front of that school bus when there’s a police car directly behind you. That’s a one-hundred-dollar ticket, Teen Me. You could use that hundred dollars, if you still had it today. You could buy yourself a new iPod. (Teen Me, iPods are this amazing technology that let you carry around thousands of songs instead of just a few CDs. I mean it. The future is a crazy place.)
Anyway. I could go on. You make a lot of mistakes as a teenager, it’s true, and you make some enemies as well. But here’s the thing: I don’t actually want you to avoid those mistakes. Because then you would have nothing to write about.
Even if I could instruct you on how to get through high school without offending a single one of your classmates, without scaring off a single boy, without angering any of your teachers—even then, I wouldn’t do it. Because each time you ate lunch alone in the library or totally botched a stage kiss, you were giving yourself the materials you now need as a novelist.
Eventually every one of your missteps, and every person who wouldn’t give you the time of day, will make their way into your books. And teenagers all over the world will read those books, and some will even say things like, “I love this book. Leila Sales seems really cool.” I’m serious. If you give it enough time, teenagers will think you are cool. It won’t be while you’re a teenager, but still.
So do exactly what you’re doing. Make every mistake you’re making, but also learn from them, remember them, and use them.
Two exceptions to that advice:
Do not be so bitchy to your dad.
And do not blow-dry the life out of your hair every day. Your hair is curly, and it looks good curly. Forcing it to be something that it’s not isn’t fooling anybody.
Other than those two things, just carry on as you were. Mistakes and all.
Leila Sales grew up outside of Boston and graduated from the University of Chicago. She is the author of the novels Mostly Good Girls (2010) and Past Perfect (2011). When not writing, she spends most of her time thinking about chocolate, kittens, dancing, sleeping, and receiving unsolicited text messages from strangers (which you can read about on her blog, The Leila Texts). Leila lives and writes in Brooklyn.