The day I got an F-minus in writing

His name was Sullivan. He taught English at the community college where I (barely) landed, having scraped by in high school as a troublemaker with grades that could kindly be described as just good enough to be sent on my way. I was already working part-time for a local newspaper (and paying my way through school, working full-time at a factory) so as far as I was concerned, I didn't need whatever he had. It was a requirement, so I would go, have some fun and look back on the whole thing with amusement after I landed at the National Desk at the New York Times.

He apparently recognized this and set to work helping me with an attitude adjustment — "right-sizing," a friend later called it.

So, yes, the first paper I handed in came back with the following scrawled over the top in red: "F-minus. Do not ever hand in trash like this again. You will NEVER amount to anything as a writer!!"

The grade was accurate.

Yeah, it hurt. And it wasn't over.

Not long after, we were practicing job interviews, which he somehow figured might be useful for English majors. When I was waiting outside the classroom for my turn, he told the class, "Ok now I'm going to show you what it's like when the interviewer is a real ***hole." I walked in thinking it was going to be a hoot and scurried out carrying my butt in a bright red basket. It was a scalding, so intense that one of the other kids in the class came up to me later and said, "What the HELL was that about?" I don't know if he was a psychopath or an intuitive teacher trying to do me a favor. I do know that he lit a fire. I worked myself up from a tiny rural newspaper called Today's Sunbeam (lot of talent passed through there) to a daily called The Press of Atlantic City, which was super fun because casinos were coming to town (some people who left The Press later earned Pulitzers). From there I helped the New York Times cover southern New Jersey, while writing for TIME, Sports Illustrated and — honor of honors — Life Magazine. Just to be working with those photographers was a thrill I cannot describe. The editors were cool too. One sent me to central California to write about a bull-riding boot camp, expressly forbidding me to try riding a bull, which I did anyway.

Thanks to writing I paid the mortgage and helped my kids get through school. I also rode in a two-seat jet-powered land speed record car (zero to 300 mph in 4 seconds during low speed testing), got some stick time in a jet fighter, embedded in a combat outpost in Afghanistan for a book, followed drug addicts around shooting galleries, went on search and rescues with the Coast Guard, published a windsurfing guide in Cape Hatteras, North Carolina and, later, launched a content marketing shop that's done a ton of work for Fortune 500 organizations.

Sullivan may take some satisfaction in knowing I've failed, too. Many times. Sometimes I wasn't able to give clients what they needed. Let me say it plainly: My writing, or thinking, wasn't good enough. I've missed deadlines, pushed the envelope way too far with too-frisky copy and had my hand smacked by the branding police. I sometimes jumped in too fast on deliverables, thinking I knew enough when I should have been head-down on the background. I talked back when I should have listened, stayed seated when I should have stood up and failed to ask questions because I didn't want to sound dumb.

But thanks to Dr. Sullivan, I'm still trying to prove I belong. I will not stop.