Mr. Coleman, the senior English and creative writing teacher, announced to the class that the next thing we wrote for creative writing was the final work for the rest of the semester. I wanted to leave the class with some type of masterpiece. It was my theory that I was only good for one story and essay a year. My one essay had already been written for Mr. Coleman in English. I'd decided I wasn't going to write on his favorite topics in Macbeth-- "Tell me about good and evil in Macbeth" and "Let's discuss supernatural good and evil in Macbeth." No, thank you. I had suffered through those for a month. I decided to compare the development and deterioration of Macbeth to different pieces of music-- a song by Queen, a couple of songs from Jekyll and Hyde, and one from The Phantom of the Opera.

Now, I needed a story. For once, I thought about it. I couldn't just dash off a page of nothing in forty-five minutes during lunch, spending ten minutes trying to get the ImageWriter II printer to please print, and the last five minutes running to class. I stared at a computer and started one, but it wasn't the story. I finally decided to use some of the newer characters from CSDJ & Co., an acronym I use to refer to all seventy-plus characters that I had developed over the years. The actual title was Christie, Dean, Scott, Jack, and Company. I picked the characters and wrote the story. It ended up being about seven pages typed, double spaced. Or was it single spaced? Easier just to say it was over five thousand words.

I got an 'A' in creative writing and filed my work and notes from class away-- some tossed in the bottom of my desk drawer and the rest under the bed to play with the dust bunnies, all to be forgotten until the end of the year when it was time to move out.

Around March, Mr. Coleman attacked me after English class. I thought he was going to harass me for not participating in class discussion again. So, I quickly made up an excuse as to why I hadn't said anything about Madame Bovary, instead of telling him that I hadn't finished it and wasn't planning on finishing it, test or no test. Instead, he gave me a gray piece of paper that he received in his box the day before. It was announcing the annual South Carolina Fiction Writing Contest by the South Carolina Arts Commission and sponsored by the Post and Courier in Charleston. He wanted me to enter my story. I said OK and went to my next class. I didn't think that I was going to win, but I was willing to take a shot at it.

I spent a lot of time editing the monster to get it down to twenty-five hundred words and actually managed to get it down to eighteen hundred words. Then I gave the new version to Mr. Coleman to read and comment on.

"Good, but I still find it confusing in places. Maybe it's just me. Why don't you ask other people about it?. By the way, you misspelled a word on the second to the last page."

I ran spell check! Everything's spelled right! Oh. 'Where' not 'were.' Dumb computer. I fixed my mistake, took his advice and ran off two copies. I gave one a former teacher of mine and to Mr. Stutts, the substitute junior English and drama teacher. I attacked him after drama everyday until he finally said he had read it and was ready to talk to me about it.

I walked into the office that Mr. Coleman and Mr. Stutts shared and waved to Ike behind his mounds of paper. I sat in the chair facing Mr. Stutts and prepared myself for the slaughter. Surprisingly, he did not slaughter it. He just had a few suggestions on what I should do, which was better than Mr. Coleman who just critiqued his way through stuff. Things went well until he said, "Can't you stick this all in past tense or present tense instead of both past and present?"

"No." I don't remember the argument I used but I was very adamant about keeping my story in present and past tense. I thought I had done it brilliantly and with minimal confusion. He understood and let me have it my way. He did agree with Mr. Coleman when he said that although having very few name tags at the end of quotes was good, I needed a few more. I granted him that and changed it.

Then, came the long wait. I wasn't supposed to hear anything until August. While I was waiting, I had sent the story out again for a creative writing scholarship at Converse College. I won it, so my expectations grew a little.

I'll get that $500, I know I will. I just got a scholarship with that same story! But then the little voice that belonged to Doubt, my archenemy, came through.

What do you mean, you'll win. No you won't. With the scholarship you were competing with people your own age. You're competing with adults now. What, you think you're going to be like Dean Koontz and win the first writing contest you enter and never look back? I don't think so. You remember reading the stories that came from the contest in the Post and Courier last year. Don't you remember how good. . .? And on and on he went.

I tried to shut him up, but it didn't work. Finally, I put a steel plate over his eyes and mouth, chained him to lead weights, and dropped him down the deepest, darkest chasm I could find and left him there, but he had done his dirty work. I was worrying now.

June came and I graduated from high school. Mr. Stutts told me that I had to tell him what happened with the contest. I promised. I had a very relaxing two weeks before the letter from the Arts Commission came. Being a pessimist by nature and having Doubt's taunts echo in my ears, I wasn't expecting to win. The letter heading had my name typed, but the rest was form, right down to the copied signature. "Sorry, but. . ." When I wrote Mr. Stutts about it, he replied, ". . .Too bad about the writing contest, but it's always good to get your first rejection out of the way. . .or so they say. . . ."

I heard muffled laughter that night as if the person laughing was in a deep chasm somewhere. I tried to ignore it, but it kept getting louder and clearer. Doubt was back and free from the chains and steel plates. I told you so. If you had listened to me you wouldn't be hurting right now. A question for you, friend: did they reject your story because it was badly written or was it because you are a bad writer? Listen to me, and I'll keep this from happening again. . . As much as I tried not to, I ended up listening to him and was comforted. I did vow to myself, privately, that the next time Doubt bothered me, I was going to toss him into shark infested waters and be done with him.