Mostly, though, I love this detail:
At 19, at the University of Florida, I took a fiction class from the formidable Harry Crews. When Crews handed back an inchoate story I'd lamely based on my father, I could feel his scorn radiating off the paper. "The creation of a monster is not the creation of fiction," he'd written, in all caps.
Shit, man. I turned in some bad, bad work in college creative writing workshops. And every time, my instructors, bless their hearts, resisted the temptation to bring my 20-year-old self the news that I was full of shit and had wasted their time.
Tenure, we learn today, is a wonderful thing (as are teenagers who can take criticism).