CarrollBlog 8.12

“When did you know you wanted to be a writer?” It is an impossible question to answer because it’s like asking someone to pinpoint the moment when their life was decided forever and ever. “When did you decide you wanted to repair air conditioners/design Barbie doll clothes/ cook Thai food...?” Most can only shrug and mutter “I dunno.” Because the big things in life aren’t usually decided so dramatically-- They sneak up from behind. When we turn to see who just tapped us on the shoulder, they go “BOO!” How did you end up where you are in your life? Dunno—it just sort of snuck up on me.

Yet it is also true that for some people there *is* a moment. A moment when something happens that suddenly points us in a direction we will follow for a long time. For some, this moment arises from luck, others from tragedy or whim or desperation... It comes from all sorts of disparate places. I don’t know when I decided to be a writer. I know exactly when the moment pointed me toward the profession.

I was a bad boy and a miserable student in high school—a lousy combination for a teenager. My parents grew so worried about both my behavior and me that they shipped me out to a conservative all-boys preparatory school in Connecticut where students had to wear jackets and ties and classes were held on Saturdays. It wasn’t as bad a place as Holden Caulfield’s “Pencey Prep” from CATCHER IN THE RYE but for me it was an awful experience. To this day I haven’t forgiven the school for what it did to me. I was so out of place in the community that there really was nowhere for me to hide. For two and a half years I failed at just about everything I tried. Classes, friends, sports—you name it, I blew it. I had survived into my senior year but just barely. I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there and was just biding my time until graduation.

Then a funny thing happened. My father was a well- known screenwriter, which meant part of my rebellion was against him and everything he stood for. I received grades of “C’ in English class and vaguely prided myself on the fact I never read or wrote anything that wasn’t required. However for no reason at all, one day I sat down with an idea for a short story and began to write. But no, the moment had not yet arrived. I wrote the story and asked my English teacher if he would be would read it. He was a nice man who years before had published a couple of stories in THE NEW YORKER so by default, he was considered the school’s writer in residence. I gave him my story. He said he would get back to me on it in a few days. I didn’t think about it again until that evening.

Imagine the beautiful campus in the film THE DEAD POET’S SOCIETY. Imagine red brick buildings with ivy colored walls and hoards of floppy haired teenaged boys walking towards the dining hall. It’s six in the evening, springtime, the weather is beautiful. As usual I’m alone and walking with the hoard toward dinner. I don’t remember what I was thinking. I do know how I reacted when I heard my name bellowed by an adult voice. To this day I remember my reaction —my head shrunk down into my neck in the classic bad-dog “What did I do now?” posture. I hadn’t done anything wrong, but so many lousy things had happened to me at that school that I just expected the worst always, especially when it came out of an adult’s mouth.

Turning slowly, I saw a teacher, Mr. Morris Brown, running down the walk toward me. He was running and repeatedly calling my last name “Carroll! Carroll!” What had I done? It must have been something major because teachers never ran. While scanning my memory as fast as I could to find my sin, Mr. Brown held up a sheaf of papers and waved it at me. “Carroll! This is a *great* story! You have written a very great story!” He yelled this at me, shaking the papers. My papers. My story.

Then. That was my moment. The picture will stay pinned proudly on the wall of my mind till I die: Mr. Brown running towards me, shouting I had finally done something great.