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One winter when I was in medical school, I came across a notice that Frank O'Connor, the great Irish writer, would be teaching a course in short story writing in Harvard's summer session.
I had long been interested in writing, had written a few short stories, and was eager to take O'Connor's course. The requirement for admission was to submit a short story of one's own. I did this and waited to hear if my story had passed muster. Months went by and I heard nothing at all. This was not a good sign, but when the time came I decided to travel to Cambridge in hopes of talking my way into the class.
When I arrived, I found some thirty people in the same boat. All of us wanted to take the course, everyone had submitted a story, and no one had received a response of any kind. O'Connor had read none of the submissions. He was too preoccupied with his own writing and his devotion to Irish malt whiskey.
Faced with selecting a class of twelve from this group of applicants, and doing it on the spot, as the course was to begin the next day, O'Connor decided to interview everyone who had shown up.
Thirty of us lined up outside his office door, and one by one we entered to be assessed by the great man. When my turn came, O'Connor, perched on a stool, looked me over like a curious leprechaun.
“And what is it that you do, son?” he asked.
“I am a medical student,” I replied.
“Glory to Jesus. What 'tis it about the study of medicine that makes you so unhappy that you've got to write?”
“Gross anatomy,” I replied.
“Well. I don't know if you've got a bit of talent on you at a'tall, a'tall. But I'm going to take you into me class and do you have any idea why, lad?”