At a party many years ago, I jokingly told another guest that I'd do my best to remember his name after I published a book to great acclaim. I meant to be funny and disarming, but I bungled the delivery. I came off like a jerk. This other guest was a writer, too, and an equally self-serious one. Predictably, he took offense. He pointed his beer bottle at me. I'll remember you too, he said, when I win my Pulitzer.
I did not shrug off his rejoinder. How could I? He may as well have suggested pistols at dawn. I was young. I was jittery with ambition. I was terrified of failure in all forms. By the time his girlfriend-who'd introduced us-returned with more beers, we were pompously debating who had better odds for a Nobel.