When a co-worker suggested

that I write a column to fill in for a vacationing writer, I immediately

said, "I don't think so," as visions of graded writing assignments

with enough red ink on them to look like they were bleeding flashed in

my brain.

I had entered the creative

writing class in my junior year of college all gung-ho and eager. My work

would be read and judged by a real-live published author (of science fiction

no less). My natural talent and enthusiasm would be recognized and appreciated

of my narratives and astounded at my ingenious plots. It would be known

once and for all that I was a good writer. It would be lots of fun.

It didn't happen.

The first inkling that I was

no Hemingway came with the first returned assignment. The red ink almost

obliterated what it commented on. In fact, one entire passage had been

marked out and re-written by the professor with a multitude of explanations

as to why it was better that way.

It never got any better.

My short stories were too long

and my long stories were too short. My metaphors were mixed and my similes

were too simple. If I tried to write elegantly I was being pretentious.

If I tried to write simply I was condescending. I just couldn't win.

Picking through the rubble

of my confidence, I found just enough to persevere and pass the class

somehow. Incredibly, my final grade was an A with the qualification that

it was out of the goodness of the professor's heart and that I should

pass along the kindness someday.

I did. By not signing up for

any more of that professor's classes I figure I've saved him from the

ethical dilemma of granting grades to undeserving yet desperate students.

Let him rack up his karma points on someone else. (Not that I'm not appreciative

of the grade you understand.)

Anyway, when the co-worker

asked me again, I decided not to let bygone traumas stop me from trying

to do something I enjoy. I've never let bad experiences keep me down for

long.

If I had, I never would have

learned to roller skate, swim, drive, play an instrument, gotten married

again or gone