David McElroy

Everybody knew Kent wasn’t going to last long. He had been hired as sports editor of a small daily newspaper — and he was a disaster from the beginning.

I watched it all happen because I was managing editor of a small weekly in the same company. I had friends in the daily paper’s newsroom who were telling me everything as it happened. In his first week on the job, he and a local high school football coach were talking privately about a star player for an opposing team who had been injured in a shooting a couple of years before. A bullet had been left in his head after the shooting because it was too close to his brain. It was a miracle that he had returned to play football.

Kent and the coach were talking about the player and were jokingly referring to him as “Bullet Brain” in their private conversation, but Kent didn’t have the judgment to know this wasn’t something to be made public, so he quoted the coach — in a story that ran in the paper — calling the opposing player “Bullet Brain.”

He wasn’t fired, but he clearly wasn’t going to work out.

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A woman recently asked me how she could become a good photographer. I told her I’d let her know how if I ever figure it out for myself. I was joking, but there was truth in it, too.

I have a tortured relationship with photography, just as I do with any kind of creative work. I have a need to create — something which I can’t explain — but I go through predictable cycles. I try to create the beauty or truth that I see in something, and I quickly rage at myself for ever thinking I had the ability to rise to the task.

Then I struggle. I learn more about my equipment. I study different techniques. I experiment and get frustrated with failure. I spend ridiculous amounts of time in Lightroom and Photoshop. After all that work, I finally create a photo that represents a glimmer of what I had hoped to make. I feel exuberant for a few minutes.

And then I notice every little detail that’s imperfect about it — and I’m back to doubting whether I’ll ever be a good photographer.

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I’ve been standing in line so long
I’ve been wondering what went wrong
I’ve been weighing the shape of things to come
— Steve Taylor, “Waiting in Line”

All my life, I’ve been waiting for permission. I’ve raised my hand. I’ve waited until I was called on. I eagerly sought approval from whoever was in charge.

At home, I needed my father’s permission to do anything. My world was tightly controlled. I couldn’t even arrange my own drawers or closet as I pleased. He gave me rigid instructions for those things.

At school, I was quiet and didn’t cause problems. I did what I was told, for the most part. I never defied instructions. I learned whatever was placed in front of me, whether it interested me or not. I dutifully spit the information back out on tests. And I waited for the teacher’s approval as proof that I was a good boy.

I’ve recently realized that I’m still waiting for permission, long after I thought I had rebelled and broken free of that programming. I’ve been so proud of being a rebel and not doing things the conventional way. I thought I was free of all that.

But I realize now that I’m still sitting here waiting — for some unknown someone to give me permission to do what I need to do and be the person I’ve always wanted to be.

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