Write What You Know

He enters the bus with mass and aura. Without even seeing his face: the dude’s a college athlete.

He sits down across from me.

The athlete unfolds a student newspaper. His eyes are on the inside the sports pages. My own face is staring back at me from the front page he held in his left hand. Red shirt, shallow V. Hair on point.

I was tasked with writing a weekly column in my student newspaper. I was barely of drinking age. I knew nothing of the world and was in no position to offer wisdom to my contemporaries.

The bus is packed. I bow my head to hide my face.

Did he already read my drivel?

Does he think me a fool?

Did I say something hurtful?

I once wrote a column that led with, “Bad move, coach,” referring to a DI football coach. I’ve never coached nor played football at any competitive level. I won a Madden tournament once, runner up in a second. Those experiences also found their way into a column. So many poor judgement calls in one paragraph.

The bus reaches the next stop. I stand to go. I use other bus riders to create distance between me and the athlete.

He’s still reading the inside of the sports page. The safer material.

I have no mass. I have no aura. He wasn’t going to notice me anyway.

I step off the bus and walk into the brick building for class.

“Never again,” I told myself.

Write what you know.

Don’t write what you don’t.