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.

Years later, I see that I was an outsider who could never fit in
Why can it feel strange to lose homes we haven’t seen for years?
What makes someone want you enough to make you a priority?
How could a stranger at sunset possibly know what I had to say?
Surgery report: It went very well, but first time is one too many for me
If a bad relationship needs to end, fake Facebook posts won’t fool us
Dead man’s watch always there to remind me of my own mortality
Dead things must be cleared away before rebirth has chance to come