Twenty-five years ago today, I embarked on my journey to Gainesville to start school at UF. By an interesting coincidence, my niece Katie is starting her OWN college career at UF this fall, and I’m sure my sister will take the same pictures of her in the dorms that she took of me.
I arrived with a milk crate and maybe two boxes filled with the following:
- The CD boom box you see here.
- The CDs behind me, heavy in U2 and Guns N’ Roses but speckled with Journey and REO Speedwagon.
- A giant box of 5.25” disks for my portable/luggable SX-64.
- A thin quilt.
- A towel.
- Toothpaste and toothbrush.
- A couple of portfolios to write and take notes in.
- Some clothes, including my fancy Hypercolor t-shirt that changed color when you touched it, as was the style at the time.
Karen, realizing I was an idiot, took me out to buy a dorm refrigerator, a toaster, some eating utensils, sheets for the bed, and some food. If I’d chosen to go to any other school, I’d probably have died.
(Insanely, I only applied to UF because, what, they wouldn’t take me?)
It’s hard to overstate how staggeringly dumb I was at eighteen going to school, a weird mixture of feeling divinely destined to do great things but also completely ignorant of how to actually function in the world. My total savings for college from high school jobs was $150. My plan was to get an English degree, get famous from writing, and then run for President of the United States some day.
(Which, to be fair, is shockingly plausible in this election year.)
What I needed was advice from someone I believed. Karen was as helpful as a sister could be, and so was her husband Marty, but they weren’t privy to just how deranged I was.
So here’s my advice to myself back then. Maybe there’s something here for you if you or a loved one is going to school this fall, too.
- English, really? You’re going to take ten courses for the major and enjoy the reading for only three of them: Intro to Science Fiction, Poe, and Major Critics. There’s a reason we have to assign this shit so it doesn’t get forgotten.
- It’s going to take about half a decade to recover from the turgid kind of writing you learn to do analyzing dead fiction.
- You’re going to feel inspired and happy with both the lectures and reading for your History of Journalism class. Follow that feeling.
- Take some classes in public relations and marketing. You might be surprised. It’s like making up hoaxes for money!
- Man up and put yourself in the way of actually writing stuff. Take writing classes. Submit short stories. Don’t chicken out when The Alligator agrees to publish an op-ed and all you have to do is go down to the office and give it to them on a disk.
- Basically all you have is a weak talent for saying and writing weird things in surprising ways, and all that crap about programming and law school and psychology is a blind alley.
- No, you aren’t crazy. Those weird emotional fight-or-flight explosions are panic attacks. Go tell a doctor about them. In the meantime, lay off the caffeine because it’s basically liquid anxiety.
- You’re going to discover a book called The Outsider and Others one night in Library West and it’ll be awesome, but for God’s sake, don’t write like that.
- The moped is fucking ridiculous and it breaks down all the time because it’s made by angry Yugoslavian communists. Just keep the bike.
- It turns out that you learn mostly by creating outlines of what you read and hear in your own words.
- It’s probably a good idea to shut the hell up about politics for the next few years because you really don’t know what you’re talking about. In fact, keep that up the rest of your life.
- Don’t install Doom or Wolfenstein when you get that 486 PC. You’ve finally shaken the video game habit.
- That girl you’re in love with is a person, not a destiny.
- There’s a lot more I can tell you, but it all basically boils down to lighten up, for Christ’s sake. Swear more. Use more contractions. Use fewer participial phrases. Read more Stephen King. Don’t be so pissy about noise and football crowds. History isn’t watching.