I wasn’t even supposed to be in the class. I was a sophomore at the University of Alabama and I was taking a creative writing class that was supposed to be reserved for seniors and grad students.
The instructor was a stern older man with a long history as a published literary author. I had been required to get his permission to sign up for the class — and he was dubious about whether I was ready for the work. It turned out he was right and I was wrong.
There are basically two kinds of writers, to oversimplify quite a bit. There’s the literary kind, the type who write fiction and creative writing that leaves you feeling as though you’ve had an experience with art. And there’s the kind who are really good at communicating information in a straightforward way. That includes journalists and most essayists and even technical writers.
The instructor was the literary type. I was the informational type.
My newspaper training had made me really good at writing clear and concise accounts of events. I could even write opinions well. But I was terrified when given the chance to take a chance on literary writing. After a few sessions of the class, I got scared and dropped the course.
I’ve realized recently that I am at the point in life at which I have to make the transition — from glorified copy boy to making actual art — that I was afraid to make back then. It still scares me.

Here is another random act of kindness amid hurricane recovery
I’m more afraid of sanctimonious smart people than of stupid people
Fear blocks us from experiencing reality deeper than physical world
Unmet childhood needs trigger addiction as I try to fill inner hole
Federal budget numbers too big to comprehend? This makes it simple
If you’ve gotten on the wrong bus, nothing changes until you get off
Black? White? Brown? Santa Claus is any color you want to make him
Dear FBI, NSA and all three-letter agencies: ‘We don’t trust you guys’