I was eight or nine years old, when I wrote my first poem.
At that time my father was head of Paramount Studios. My mother was involved in various intellectual projects.
My mother read the little poem and began to cry. “Buddy, you didn’t really write this beautiful, beautiful poem!"
I stammered1 that I had. She poured out her praise. Why, this poem was nothing short of genius!
I glowed2.“What time will Father be home?”I asked. I could hardly wait to show him.
I spent the best part of that afternoon preparing for his arrival. First, I wrote the poem out in my finest flourish3. Then I crayoned4 an elaborate5 border around it that would do justice to its brilliant content. As seven o’clock drew near, I confidently placed it on my father’s plate on the dining-room table.
But my father did not return at seven, I could hardly stand the suspense. I admired my father. He had begun his motion-picture career as a writer. He would be able to appreciate this wonderful poem of mine even more than my mother.
This evening when my father came in, my mother began to tell him,“Ben, a wonderful thing has happened. Buddy has written his first poem! And it’s beautiful, absolutely amazing—”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to decide for myself,” Father said.
I kept my face lowered to my plate as he read that poem. It was only ten lines. But it seemed to take hours. I remember wondering why it was taking so long. I could hear my father breathing. Then I could hear him dropping the poem back on the table. Now came the moment of decision.
“I think it’s lousy6,” he said,
I couldn’t look up. My eyes were getting wet.
“Ben, sometimes I don’t understand you,” my mother was saying.“This is just a little boy. These are the first lines of poetry he’s ever written. He needs encouragement.”
“I don’t know why.” My father held his ground.“Isn’t there enough lousy poetry in the world already? No law says Buddy has to become a poet.”
They quarreled over it. I couldn’t stand it another second. I ran from the dining room bawling7. Up in my room I threw myself on the bed and sobbed.
That may have been the end of the anecdote8, but not of its significance for me. Inevitably the family wounds healed. My mother began talking to my father again. I even began writing poetry again, though I dared not expose it to my father.
A few years later I took a second look at that first poem; it was a pretty lousy poem. After a whiler, I worked up the courage to show him something new, a short story. My father thought it was overwritten but not hopeless. I was learning to rewrite. And my mother was learning that she could criticize me without crushing me. You might say we were all learning. I was going on 12.
But it wasn’t until years later that the true meaning of that painful “first poem” experience dawned on me. As I became a professional write, it became clearer and clearer to me how fortunate I had been, I had a mother who said,“Buddy, did you really write this? I think it’s wonderful!” and a father who shook his head no and drove me to tears with “I think it’s lousy.” A writer—in fact everyone of us in life—needs that loving force from which all creation flows. Yet alone that force is incomplete, even misleading, balance of the force that cautions9, “Watch. Listen. Review. Improve.”
Sometimes you find these opposing forces in associates’ friends, loved ones, but finally you must balance these opposites within yourself; first, the confidence to go forward, to do, to become; second, the tempering of self-approval with hard-headed, realistic self-appraisal.
Those conflicting but complementary10 voices of my childhood echo down through the years—wonderful...lousy... wonderful... lousy—like two opposing winds battering11 me. I try to navigate my craft so as not to capsize12 before either.

八九歲時(shí)，我寫了生平第一首詩。
那時(shí)，父親是派拉蒙電影制片廠的廠長，母親從事文化事業(yè)。
母親讀完這首小詩后喊道：“巴蒂，你絕對(duì)寫不出來這么美、這么棒的詩的！”
我結(jié)結(jié)巴巴地說是我寫的。她大大地表揚(yáng)了我一番。天啊，這首詩簡(jiǎn)直是天才之作！
我臉上發(fā)光。“爸爸什么時(shí)候回來？”我問道，我迫不及待地想給他看看。
整個(gè)下午的大部分時(shí)間我都在為父親的回來做準(zhǔn)備。我先用花體字抄寫了一遍，然后用彩色筆畫了一圈精美的花邊兒，讓它與內(nèi)容相配。當(dāng)7點(diǎn)將近的時(shí)候，我滿懷信心地把它放在餐桌上父親的餐盤里。
但是7點(diǎn)鐘父親沒有回來，我忍受不了懸念的折磨。我崇拜父親，他是以作家的身份開始電影生涯的。他會(huì)比母親更欣賞我那優(yōu)美的詩。
這天晚上，父親進(jìn)家后，母親開始說話了：“本，發(fā)生了一件了不起的事。巴蒂寫了他的第一首詩，而且寫得很好，絕對(duì)出乎意料——”
“如果你不介意，我想自己來判斷。”父親說。
他讀詩時(shí)，我一直低垂著頭，盯著盤子。短短十行詩似乎用了好幾個(gè)小時(shí)，我記得當(dāng)時(shí)不明白他為什么用了這么長的時(shí)間。我能聽見父親的呼吸，接著聽見他把詩放回到桌子上，到了下結(jié)論的時(shí)候了。
“我認(rèn)為寫得很糟，”他說。
我抬不起頭來，兩眼開始濕潤了。
“本，有時(shí)，我真不理解你，”母親說道，“他只是個(gè)小孩子。這是他平生寫的第一首詩，他需要鼓勵(lì)。”
“我不明白為什么�！备赣H仍堅(jiān)持自己的觀點(diǎn)，“難道世界上這樣糟糕的詩還不多嗎？沒有法律說巴蒂非成為詩人不可�！�
他們?yōu)榇藸?zhēng)吵起來，我再也無法忍受了，哭著跑出餐廳，到樓上我的房間，撲在床上抽泣起來。
這件事情好像就這么過去了，但是它對(duì)我的深遠(yuǎn)意義卻沒有終結(jié)。像往常一樣，家庭的創(chuàng)傷已經(jīng)愈合，母親又開始與父親說話了，我也繼續(xù)寫詩，但是我沒敢拿給父親看。
幾年以后，當(dāng)我再讀我的第一首詩時(shí)，發(fā)現(xiàn)它的確寫得很糟糕。過了一陣子，我鼓起勇氣給他看一篇新作—— 一篇短篇小說。父親認(rèn)為寫得太累贅，但并不是一無是處。我學(xué)著修改寫的東西。母親也開始懂得批評(píng)并不會(huì)把我打垮。你可以說我們仨都有進(jìn)步。我那時(shí)快12歲了。
但是直到多年以后，我才漸漸明白“第一首詩”的痛苦經(jīng)歷的真正意義。當(dāng)我成為一名專業(yè)作家以后，我才越來越明白自己曾多么幸運(yùn)。我有一位說“巴蒂，這當(dāng)真是你寫的嗎？我覺得寫得真棒”的母親，還有一位搖頭否定說“我認(rèn)為寫得很糟”使我流淚的父親。一個(gè)作家——實(shí)際上我們生活中的每個(gè)人——都需要愛的力量作為創(chuàng)作的源泉，但是僅僅有愛的力量是不完整的，甚至是誤導(dǎo)的，平衡的愛應(yīng)該是告誡對(duì)方“觀察、傾聽、總結(jié)、提高。”
有時(shí)你會(huì)遭遇來自同事、朋友及所愛的人的相互沖突的影響，但是最終你必須自己平衡這種對(duì)立意見：首先要滿懷信心向前走，去做該做的事情，成就你想成就的事；其次，調(diào)節(jié)你的自滿情緒，冷靜地、現(xiàn)實(shí)地評(píng)價(jià)自己。
那些兒時(shí)聽到的對(duì)立而又互補(bǔ)的聲音多年以來一直在我耳畔回響——妙極了……糟透了……妙極了……糟透了，它們好像兩股對(duì)立的風(fēng)吹打在我身上。我努力駕駛著我的航船，不讓它被任何一股風(fēng)顛覆。

1. stammer   v. （由于激動(dòng)、害怕等）結(jié)結(jié)巴巴地說
2. glow  v. 發(fā)紅，容光煥發(fā)
3. flourish    n.  花體字
4. crayon    v. 用蠟筆畫
5. elaborate   adj. 精致的，精巧的
6. lousy   adj. 糟糕的，劣等的
7. bawl   v. 大喊，大叫
8. anecdote   n. 軼事
9. caution  v. 告誡
10. complementary    adj. 互補(bǔ)的
11. batter   v. 接連重?fù)?br /> 12. capsize    v. （使）傾覆，（使）翻轉(zhuǎn)