And no, I never met a...

During a visit to my publishing class, Michael Silverblatt asked us, as an assignment, to write about a book that had a profound influence on us in a way. While scanning through my internal database of titles, one in particular kept popping up--Better Than Running at Night, by Hillary Frank.


By no means is this book a great work of literature, or even popular by current standards; I just happened upon it during a walk through the library when I was in about 7th or 8th grade. The characters are fairly predictable, as is the art school environment in which they exist. However, this was apparently exactly the type of story I was seeking at that point in my life.

The story traces the first year at college for Ellie Yelinsky, who arrives as a freshman at the New England College of Art and Design having just barely broken out of her angst-ridden high school shell. It begins with her meeting of another character, Nate Finerman, who is blatantly foreshadowed by appearing in devil getup a costume party.

This is the point at which Ms.13-year-old Explicit Kisses fell head over heels in love with her first [and certainly not last] misogynist.

"My name is Nate. Finerman. As in, 'you never met a...'" he introduces himself after a hot teenage makeout session.

Swoon.

The rest of the novel deals with Ellie and Nate's relationship [or lack thereof] drama after he takes her virginity and moves onto fuck a bunch of other girls on campus. Meanwhile, Ellie finds out about the lack of meaning in her melodramatic art, befriends a token gay fashion design major and a token art school pothead, and comes to terms with the fact that Nate is a manwhore and she shouldn't have been so hung up on him.

While she's busy doing all of this, I'm still concentrating on Nate's cheesy pick-up line and dark curly hair. Obviously, this seemed like a completely believable way for college and self-actualization to play out in real life. Except in my world, I would be the one to tame my own Finerman. He'd keep his sexy, domineering qualities, but I'd be his one and only.

Unfortunately, as is the case of fiction, this is not what happened. Instead, my college experience consisted of me as a depressed hermit for the first several weeks until I somehow stumbled upon a sweet boy who legitimately wanted to date me. This was not running into the devil at a costume party. This was not my conquest of unbridled passion. He was not my Nate Finerman, and thus my interest dwindled fast. I came to no realizations about my art, I did not befriend a token gay, my parents were not former hippies who accepted experimentation. This was not the life that Hillary Frank had suggested it would be. I felt cheated.

I have thus realized that this novel is one of the reasons I believe in truth, and why as an aspiring writer, I am drawn toward exploration of the real self rather than created characters. Anyone can make the argument that the ability to escape the boundaries of the typical is what makes writing interesting. So I'm a writer attracted to douchebags, so what? So are lots of women. Why don't I get beyond that, talk about something positive and inspiring, to be a good role model?

Hmm...no.

I am interested in humans. I am interested in myself. I am interested in my flaws. I'm interested in why we spend so much time romanticizing the experiences that we have with shitty people. I'm interested in why I'd much rather sleep with Gaston from Beauty and the Beast rather than the redeemed prince. Better Than Running at Night brought to my attention the opposite of what it was trying to get across. Not everyone is looking for fulfillment, redemption, safety, security etc. Sometimes we just wanna fuck around while we still can. Sometimes we just want a Finerman, and to know that his douchebaggery is there, but more importantly, that it's real. That attainment of reality in writing is my personal form of happiness.