Writers Don’t Need To Be Tragic To Be Great

As I stand on the cusp of selling my childhood home in New York City, I find myself thinking a lot about growing up in Greenwich Village in the 1980s. The sights, sounds, and even the smells of the neighborhood are etched into my memory. Those cobblestone streets, the street performers in Washington Square Park, and the corner delis where the scent of fresh bagels.

For me, it was the perfect place to grow up, even if it wasn’t exactly perfect by conventional standards. It taught me resilience, gave me a front-row seat to humanity in all its forms, and provided me with enough stories to fill a lifetime of notebooks. It was a place that shaped who I am and fueled my love for storytelling.

But not everyone appreciated the experiences I brought to the table. Take, for instance, my college English professor from sophomore year—a man whose name I won’t mention but whose arrogance has lingered in my memory like an uninvited guest at a dinner party. He was born and raised in West Virginia, and had never set foot outside his home state. Despite his limited geography, he seemed entirely convinced that he knew more about New York City than I did.

The moment that really stuck with me happened when I submitted a paper about my experiences growing up in the Village. When I got my paper back, the grade wasn’t what stunned me—it was his comments. He had scribbled some dismissive remarks about how my romanticized view of the city lacked credibility. He even suggested that my writing felt unrealistic, which was rich considering the man had never been to New York City and was basing his understanding of it on movies and TV shows.

I approached my professor after class and in a particularly haughty tone during one of our conversations, he told me, “You’ll never make it as a writer.”

According to him, I was doomed because I had an impeccable work ethic, didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, and refused to adopt the stereotype of the brooding artist who stumbles into class late wearing a leather jacket.

At the time, his words stung, but not in the way he probably intended. They didn’t shake my confidence so much as they left me baffled. Why was he so fixated on this clichéd vision of what a writer should be? Did I really have to destroy my liver, adopt a nicotine habit, and invest in a leather jacket to be taken seriously?

Fast-forward to today, and I think it’s safe to say he was wrong. I’ve spent years building a career as a writer. I never needed anyone’s approval to validate my path. My work ethic, my dedication, and aversion to tobacco and alcohol have gotten me farther than his judgment ever could.

Reflecting on my childhood home and those formative years in the Village, I realize just how much those experiences shaped my storytelling. Life is gritty, messy, complex, and often full of unexpected twists and turns, and so is writing. Authenticity doesn’t come from fitting into someone else’s mold—it comes from living your truth and putting it into words.

So, as I prepare to say goodbye to the house where it all began, I do so with gratitude—for the city that shaped me, for the doubters who pushed me to prove them wrong, and for the life I’ve built on my own terms. Sorry, Professor, but I think I’ve done just fine without the cigarettes, the booze, or the leather jacket. And if you’re reading this, let me remind you of something you clearly didn’t understand: the best writers don’t just write about life—they live it.

January 9, 2025