By Julie Wu
I stood outside Columbia’s main gate at 116th and Broadway with Professor K. It was evening, after his fiction workshop, and he smoked as always, squinting and throwing his cigarette butts after the receding tail lights of roaring buses and yellow cabs. He was, to me, the quintessential, old-fashioned writer–a Raymond Carver contemporary who had drunk and smoked away the decades, who lived by himself and told stories about his lady friend, a former escort. Sometimes we went, with or without a bunch of my classmates, to a café to schmooze, but I was in a rush to study for an exam. It was 1996, toward the end of my final semester of medical school–the only semester in which I’d been able to take a writing course.
“You should get published as soon as possible,” Professor K said in his ravaged voice. “Because then, when you see your name in print, you’ll feel obligated to write more. Now, as for the story of yours that’s most ready to go out as is—” He punched the air with his cigarette, and named one of my stories.
I moved to Boston for my medical residency. Between shifts, I researched literary magazines and sent out that story. Of course, Professor K and the rest of the class had given me critiques. Several people complained that the story’s ending—the protagonist’s final choice, wasn’t convincing. I changed a sentence here or there, and thought that should be enough. I liked my story and the man had said, “as is,” so I sent it out.