The Revenge of Jenny Gladnerd
By Jenna Glatzer      

Yeah, let's get it out of the way right up front: That was my nickname in the 6th grade. Variations of it followed me from elementary school to early high school. It was painful to me then to be called a nerd. And I did everything I could to rally against it.

I traded in my polyester pants for spandex (hey, spandex was cool then), traded in my hair bows for bright lipstick. Practiced the art of cutting homeroom and mastered the use of hairspray.

But one thing just wouldn't die out: my love for reading.

See, reading isn't "cool" when you're an adolescent. If you're an avid reader, someone somewhere will call you a nerd. Probably lots of someones. And if you dare admit to enjoying a book a teacher actually made you read, well, then you're in big social trouble.

Cool kids don't read. Cool kids hang out at the mall and cut class and drink beer, right? They're cheerleaders and jocks, much more likely to be caught at the movies than at a (God forbid) library (ewww!). Occasionally, a cool kid would be absolutely forced to set foot into the school library to pick up a required book; these were the times I ducked behind shelves so a legendary icon of coolitude would not see that I was in there voluntarily during a lunch period or study hall, just reading for (don't tell) pleasure .

It was strange, this shame of reading. In grade school, I'd happily sat in my bus seat reading whatever I could get my hands on and even admonishing kids who interrupted me. I had no problem saying, "Shush! I'm reading!"

Image became more important to me in junior high school, when I wouldn't be caught dead reading on the bus. No, reading was to be done in private, secretly, unless I was hanging around strictly with my fellow English honors students (who also got fun nicknames, like Glenda the Geek and Brad Poindexterocifus). I tried to learn how to make out in the back of the bus and set seat cushions on fire, really I did. I chickened out both times.

By the end of high school, I had tentatively embraced my inner nerd. She wasn't going away, after all, and most of the cool kids had warmed up to me even if they thought my intellectual ways were pretty weird. By this point, they had begun to realize that those nerdy kids they made fun of were getting into good colleges and would probably have good jobs.

I ran into one such cool kid years after graduation. She was an assistant manager at a discount clothing shop in the mall.

"How about you?" she asked. "What are you up to these days?"

"I'm a writer," I said. "I write for magazines."

"Boy, you always were smart," she said, right before the manager ordered her to put price tags on the new stock of jeans.

My love for reading directly led to my love for writing, and undoubtedly affected my skill and learning curve. Had I not read so voraciously, writing wouldn't have come naturally to me. I wouldn't have understood what kind of magic lies in children's books, or how profoundly a writer can affect a reader's life with a book, or how a magazine article can impart information that solves a crisis.

By college, I no longer felt any need to hide my reading or writing habit. While others went out to bars on the weekends, I'd stay in and read Maya Angelou and T.C. Boyle. And no one made me feel shameful about it. My friends still teased me plenty about my studious and book-wormish ways, but lovingly. And they even begged me to read them my latest short stories. My very non-nerdy roommates were the ones who convinced me to write my first screenplay, based on one of these short stories, because they were dying to hear "what happened next."

I went to my 10-year class reunion last year expecting to feel different-- expecting to feel cool. But the minute I saw those grown-up jocks and cheerleaders, I felt like Jenny Gladnerd all over again. I was still different. Still uncool. Still didn't really know how to dress or what to do with my hair or how to dance to club music or how to enjoy a shot of Tequila without gagging and weeping.

Nobody was mean to me-- in fact, everyone was nice. But I left with this hollow and lonely feeling.

It occurred to me then that I'd never be cool. And for a day or two, that made me sad. I'd been searching for this elusive coolness my whole life and it had come time to admit that I was just made differently from this in-crowd.

But maybe there was another in-crowd where I belonged. Creative sorts often feel "different," lonely, fringe-worthy, nerdy. I never aspired to be an assistant manager at a discount clothing store. I aspired to be Judy Blume, Beverly Cleary, Walt Whitman, John Hughes, Stephen King, SARK , Samuel Beckett.

"I bet none of them were ever cool, either," I thought... and it was liberating. All these uncool people did something very cool with their lives; they told stories. They entertained people, or helped them see the world differently. They provided sustenance for the hungry minds of outcasts like me.  And maybe that was just the crowd I wanted to belong to.

I make a living doing something I love. I continue to learn and challenge myself daily. I get to meet interesting people, touch people's lives, set my own hours, receive daily fan mail, and hire the old "cool kids" to do my nails and fix my car.

If living well is the best revenge, I think Jenny Gladnerd has had one heck of a revenge.

Jenna Glatzer is the editor-in-chief of Absolute Write ( www.absolutewrite.com ).  She has written for hundreds of national and online magazines, including Physical, Woman's World, Woman's Own, Salon.com, and Contemporary Bride.  She's a contributing editor at Writer's Digest and her latest book is MAKE A REAL LIVING AS A FREELANCE WRITER , which you can find at www.jennaglatzer.com . Find out how to get a FREE editors' cheat sheet with this book!