大学英语精读(第三版)课文原文

smugly. "And you are getting a D this semester."

I was so humiliated I burst into tears. That night I wrote a short, sad poem about broken dreams and mailed it to the Capper's Weekly newspaper. To my astonishment they published it, and sent me two dollars. I was a published and paid writer! I showed my teacher and fellow students. They laughed.

"Just plain dumb luck," the teacher said.

I'd tasted success. I'd sold the first thing I'd ever written. That was more than any of them had done, and if it was "just dumb luck," that was fine with me.

During the next two years I sold dozens of poems, letters, jokes and recipes. By the time I graduated from high school (with a C-minus average), I had scrapbooks filled with my published work. I never mentioned my writing to my teachers, friends or my family again. They were dream killers, and if people must choose between their friends and their dreams, they must always choose their dreams.

But sometimes you do find a friend who supports your dreams. "It's easy to write a book," that new friend told me. "You can do it."

"I don't know if I'm smart enough," I said, suddenly feeling 15 again and hearing echoes of laughter.

"Nonsense!" she said. "Anyone can write a book if they want to."

I had four children at the time, and the oldest was only four. We lived on a goat farm in Oklahoma, miles from anyone. All I had to do each day was take care of four kids, milk goats, and do the cooking, laundry and gardening. No problem.

While the children napped, I typed on my ancient typewriter. I wrote what I felt. It took nine months, just like a baby.

I chose a publisher at random and put the manuscript in an empty Pampers diapers package, the only box I could find (I'd never heard of manuscript boxes). The letter I