Whiplash (Or, Don't Waste My Fucking Time Or, Art Is Not For Pussies)

I am a certain brand of crazy.

As a child, I responded best to tyrannical gurus: a figure skating coach who would be so mad at me for not landing a jump that he’d spit on the ice, yelling at me God, I could just KILL you or, worse—far worse—he’d just look at me with disdain as I fell on my hipbone again and again, that motherfucking Axel jump, that goddamn double salchow. I’d look up at him, my twelve-year-old body splayed on the ice, face first, my chin inches from his blade. Again, he’d say, waving a hand in the air—two rotations I always fell short on. I was never going to be good enough for the Olympics and so I had to stop skating. Didn't matter if I loved it. There was no point unless I was going to achieve the literal and metaphorical heights I'd dreamed of. My coach agreed in the only way he could: he stopped showing up for practice, he turned to another student, one who landed her jumps.

I loved the hell out of him.

In high school, my favorite teacher was known as an irascible grump, a man who refused to accept anything less than a masterpiece. He scowled, slumped his shoulders, and glared at the half-brains he had to teach. He rarely…