David McElroy

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.

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Most people sense something is wrong.

They may not have language for it. They may not be able to explain it. But beneath the distractions, beneath the noise, beneath the endless scrolling and entertainment, there is a quiet unease — a feeling that something foundational has slipped.

We were told we were building the most advanced civilization in history. Scientific. Rational. Enlightened. Smarter than every generation that came before us.

So why does it feel so fragile?

For years, I believed the solution was better arguments. If something was wrong, it could be explained. If people misunderstood reality, clearer reasoning would fix it. If the culture drifted into confusion, the answer was more clarity.

I grew up believing in the power of direct language and linear logic. Declarative sentences. Cause and effect. If something was true, you could prove it.

But somewhere along the way, I began to notice that proof didn’t change much.

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A sweet little girl amused me at dinner tonight — but she embarrassed her mother.

Kayleigh is 4 years old and her mom is one of the managers of a restaurant where I’m a frequent customer. I was there for dinner Friday when Kayleigh came in with her mom and I got to meet her. She’s an outgoing little girl and she likes to talk.

When she found out my name, her face lit up and she said, “You come in here all the time!” I asked her how she knew that. She looked proud of herself as she explained how she knew who I was.

“My momma has a crush on you!” she said happily.

Her mother turned purple in the face and they suddenly had to leave.

I’ve told this amusing story to several people tonight, both online and in real life. A common response from well-meaning people is that I should ask the mom to go out sometime. I’ve tried to explain why not — and I finally had a sudden insight.

I’m not interested in Kayleigh’s mom. She’s attractive enough and she’s nice enough, but something’s missing. She’s not an “alpha woman.” Something clicked and I suddenly realized something I’d never noticed before.

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