Throughout my life, I have been an avid creative writer in spurts. As in, binge on creative projects for months, and then not touch the keyboard again for years. It all stopped completely about six or seven years ago.

Now, within two days, I’ve published two short stories, “fanfics,” and the whole process for each piece didn’t take much longer than a few days. I was inspired like I haven’t been in ages.

Normally, heartbreak and strife gets me writing. It’s one of the ways I’ve been able to try and make sense of the things that have happened. Everything I tried to write when I was happy came up vapid, empty. It sounded silly and rambling. Why the hell would anyone care to read that shit?

Without getting into it too much, I definitely haven’t been “happy.” But there have been periods that haven’t felt so heavy. No matter how I was feeling, I still didn’t write. Every time I tried, I just hated it and trashed it.

But this post isn’t about that.

It’s about the inspiration behind the creativity that got me finally writing again.

Yes, he’s a fictional character. Yes, it probably seems rather silly from an outsider’s perspective.

But that’s just it, isn’t it? Only those who can relate can truly understand. Trying to make sense of it may come off as really stupid, but I guess I came to the realization that I really shouldn’t care. Because for the first time in a really long time, I’m happy with what I created.

He’s a fictional example of an outcast, a freak, a geek, a loser, a burnout, etc. At first glace, this is what you see, and that’s where it stops. Why should a boy with long hair and ripped jeans get a second glance?

Here is where it changed: we got to know him. We saw beyond appearances and discovered something there, lying much deeper than people usually bothered to look. On the surface, he’s a geeky metalhead who sells drugs, lives in a trailer, and hasn’t been on track to graduate high school on time. He’s the kind of guy our moms warned us about: he’s trouble, he’s bad news, he doesn’t have anything going for him.

But what if he does? What if there is something beyond first appearances that shines blindingly bright, if we gave it a chance?

That’s Eddie Munson. We love him because so many of us saw ourselves in him and related our own personal experiences to him. We know what it’s like to be persecuted for being different. We know exactly how it feels to carry a label on our shoulders that others assigned to us, while wondering if anybody would ever bother to take a closer look. Thankfully, we did get to peel back the layers of him and see something incredible, gentle, kind, magnetic, charismatic, and courageous.

Beyond the limited experience that we have of him, it occurred to me: what if there was a narrative from a voice of someone who had loved him?

As a cynical thirty year-old woman, bringing back the memories and experiences that my teenage self had was a thrilling experience. Parts of me had forgotten how passionately I had loved boys who were just like Eddie. I had to close my eyes and bring myself back there, over ten years ago, and try to remember what everything felt like, smelled like, sounded like.

While writing, I recalled the spicy tang of Axe body spray (a popular choice of young boys at the time.) I remember the smell of weed, of cigarettes, with traces of Febreeze and dryer sheets. I remember the incense of old wood guitars and dusty rooms. Some of those memories come alive when I get into an old car, the seats awash of the odor of cigarette smoke.

I could feel the grit of dirty floors on my feet and the bumpy walls of a messy bedroom with peeling posters taped haphazardly over them. The way his fingers, calloused from guitar playing, felt on my skin. The fabric of his band tees, washed and worn hundreds of times, as soft and familiar as an old blanket. The tiny bit of stubble on his cheeks against my hands.

Music was what brought me there. It was always the echo of a song, the softness of an acoustic guitar, the resonance of a bass guitar, or the hammering of drums. The tones, chaotic and lonely on their own, blend together in one suave sonance. There is no silence in the void, only melodies and voices and the synchrony of sound. When the rest of the world was silent and droll, here was music, pumping life and vigor into a stagnant heart. Those who could break the quiescence with music stole the hearts of vulnerable people, ready for the shot of adrenaline that would wake them from what seemed like an endless sleep.

They stole my heart like a bandit in the night, holding out a hand and saying, “Come with me, sweetheart.”

Despite what my mom tried to tell me, I saw a magic behind those eyes. The way that he would look at me with a devilish smile. The way he sounded when he called me, “babe.” The way his hands and fingers looked dancing across the guitar strings. The long nights, hearing him spill his damaged soul onto my pillowcase. How being in his arms felt like home after being lost in the dark for days.

This is what age and real life steals from the young soul: a sense of wonder and a perspective of blissful ignorance that sows the seeds for love that can never be experienced again. The spell is broken when the real world says, “He isn’t right for you.”

They showed me the kind of love that was reckless, beautiful, chaotic, passionate, full of opulence and wonder, and a welcome solace from a world that was so dull in comparison. Despite what they looked like on the outside, they loved me in a way that most people will never experience.

Here, I had the opportunity to explore my own past and recall how it felt to love the outcast, the freak, the loser. Because he’s inside of me, grinning with an ease that is sleek and effortless. His hold on me hasn’t abated because all I need is music to take me back to how it all felt. If I don’t let myself forget, maybe I can build something for others to relate to.

Eddie Munson was just a kick in the ass to get writing again, to bring all of this to life for myself, and for others. I was a lot like him as a young person, and I still am in ways. He reminds me so much of the boys I loved, the ones who took me for a ride I hope I never forget.

What I have created is a voice of someone who loved him romantically, and who he loved back. Someone who saw his soul bare, shed of the shell that contained him and the one others built for him. Someone who loved him just like I loved the boys with sneaky smiles and sequestered souls of raw beauty under the guise of a, “bad boy.”

I sincerely hope that what I have created will have a positive impact on others, because it has lifted my own heart considerably to produce this for you.