A few years ago, I submitted a story to a New York Times bestseller, an English professor at NYU, to ask if he could edit it and maybe help guide me. To my surprise, a few days later, he sent my manuscript back with revisions, notes, and harsh criticism of my approach to reaching out to him. He liked my words, but his biggest note was that I wrote like I’d only experienced domestic things.
I was young and wrote mostly reflective pieces — nothing worth reading. It was just a part of my growth as a writer. He told me to get out of my cave and go live life. And once I’d done that, to get back to the desk and write about it. He continued by telling me not to obsessively bother him now that I had somehow found his email, but said I was free to send my work whenever I thought it was polished enough for his viewing.
I did just that for a few months but fell out of love with writing shortly thereafter. Over the next few years, my writing slowed, but my life experiences became what I think are stories worth telling. In the back of my mind, his biggest note replayed constantly: live life. Go out and be irreverent.
I’m not sure if I followed his instructions the way he intended, but after a few years of a life worth living, I found myself back at a desk, writing the stories I’ve come to appreciate. However, once I was back, staring at the words on my screen, I looked him up to see if he was still accessible. I found out that he passed away a little while after I stopped contacting him.
A good man, he was. I didn’t know much about him — his family, his friends, nothing. Either way, I hope he understood how important that moment was for me. I look back, and an accomplished man who took the time to engage with a young, inexperienced writer has a good heart. He didn’t have to do that. He humanized himself to help me, of all people.
My only hope is that his family and the people around him knew he was that kind of man. I think about him a lot now, wondering what he’d say about my writing today. I know he’d still be harsh. But maybe a little less harsh.
Who knows.
God rest his soul.