Beckett died alone. Beckett died broke.

The first and only time I told my mother I aspired to a career as a creative person was when I was 8 or 9. I remember she was washing the dishes when I said, “When I grow up I want to write and draw comic books for a living.” After some silence my mother replied, in a sort of ‘let you down easy’ way: “It’s really difficult to make a living that way. It’s probably not a very good idea.”

I don’t remember how I responded—I probably slunk away, ashamed. I do remember that shortly thereafter my boyhood friend was over to the house and, as ever, we were working on our sketching—probably from the ‘how to draw like the pros’ books I obsessed over.  When we both showed my mother our sketches she looked them over and said, to my friend, “Why Charlie this is amazing. This is a great drawing. You have some talent Charlie. Wow.” She said nothing of mine.

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The summer of my 10th year I moved my mother’s old typewriting to my room and there throughout the days I read and wrote–or tried to write on that typewriter, the keys too stiff to press all the way down. I knew by then if one were to become a successful author that hard work and rigor was mandatory. My parents tried to force me to take up outdoor activities. They signed me up for events with the Parks and Rec. I locked the door. At family get-togethers I snuck away with a novel to read and a notebook to write in. I outlined stories. I worried about my ability. I worried about how I was not working hard enough to become a writer.

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My first brush with a professional writer—a true pro—was during a middle school career day (how remarkable to realize that “creative writing” was actually considered a career!) when a local YA author gave a half-hour long talk on how to best break into the ‘biz.’ It was a harrowing half hour for us young scribes. The message of the lecture? Success is improbable at best, most likely impossible. Most fiction writers and all of the poets generally died penniless, died working as insurance salesman, or died alone. “Beckett died alone,” he said. “Beckett died broke.” We were told that if did want to become writers that we could not be creative writers—text books, we were told, presented a fine concession. “You must let go of your dreams, your romantic ideas.” When questions were later invited from the audience, not one of us dared speak.

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As I entered high school, I wrote with greater intensity—a story a night, generally. And when I didn’t write stories I wrote poems—sometimes four, five a day. I wrote poetry in my study halls (I did no homework). On summer afternoons I curled under a tree with a notebook and worked on my writing—and when I did not I became depressed, guilty. When I did not write I became fearful that I would never succeed. Always, this fear, looming.

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Throughout high school I started projects—novels, mostly—and then stopped because I sensed I lacked talent—I had to get better before I could write a novel. I worked harder—although my methods were untrained, haphazard—My sophomore year creative writing teacher said, “You’re one of the most talented students I’ve ever had. Certainly the most prolific.” I thought of all of the high schools in the country and how all of those high schools no doubt had similar students with similar teachers. I thought about how I was “one” of the most talented but how none of the students from my high school had ever gone on to become a big named writer.

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In college I often wrote through the night. I was obsessed with my creative writing classes. A friend of mine dropped out of our Intro to Creative Writing class. “I can see where I use cliches and where my writing is general. But I like my poems,” she said. “It makes me happy to write a poem–I write for myself.” I thought, ‘How could you not want to get better? What’s wrong with her?’

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I again met that YA writer when I interviewed for a position at his wife’s assisted living home. I told him that I had attended his career day lecture and he laughed, “I always try to weed out the weak ones.”  I got the job, maybe because of something I said about Woolf and Faulkner. I lived on the premises and word reached him no doubt that I wrote through the nights and I wrote through the mornings. I was 21 by then and I had set the goal of publishing a novel by 23–same as Fitzgerald. During this time, I showed an older co-worker a new story–a work that I believed represented a major breakthrough for me. A week later she sat me down on the porch swing with my manuscript and a pen. Very gently but firmly she told me that I had no talent—at least, not the sort of talent I needed to be a writer. “If I weren’t your friend, Robert,” she said, “I would not have finished the first page of your story.” The story was 20 pages long. She went on to catalogue the various ways my writing failed to measure up and, in detail, why it would never muster up. “You have a poet’s soul,” she said, “but you don’t have the ability.” My life, she assured me, would be a difficult one.

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A month later I found myself alone with that YA writer. He said, “If you have any questions about writing, feel free to ask them.” I said, “Does the doubt ever go away?” I had been staring at the blank screen lately. I had been dreading. He chuckled and said, “No. It does not.”

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I have still not ‘made it’ as a writer. I have not yet let go of my dreams. My romantic ideas.

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As a creative writing teacher (from time to time) now I do my best to encourage my students. I do my best to say things like, “This story has a lot of potential–let’s take it up a notch!” and “Wow, there’s really so much you can do here–there’s so much room to grow.” I tell them that fear and doubt are natural. That hard work is mandatory. That success comes only through experimentation and drive. I wonder if I should be harder on their work.

They look at me like I’m insane. “I don’t know,” they say. “I think my story’s pretty good like it is.”

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I don’t know. What do you think? Does the doubt go away?

Should it?

How did you become a good writer?

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