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My parents came to New York for my graduation from NYU. I was class of ‘84. I had no real plans upon graduating, except to head back to Oregon.
At some point during this visit, my dad pulled me aside and asked me what I wanted to do now. What was my next move? What did I intend to do with my life?
I said, “I want to be a writer.”
He nodded and said, “How do you do that?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
He asked if I could go to graduate school for writing. I told him you could but I didn’t want to. I didn’t believe in studying writing. I had taken some undergrad English classes and I didn’t fit in with the English Majors. They were intimidating and out-talked me in class. I kind of hated them.
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