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It started when I was just a child.  I’d concoct stories which would be turned into plays.  When in eighth grade, I wrote a full length play, which would’ve required a cast of thousands, a set worthy of Cecil B. DeMille, and costumes by Edith Head.  There would be music of course, composed by Leonard Bernstein.  When I turned the assignment in, I did so with high hopes of getting an “A.”

My teacher said it was good, but would be impossible to produce.  I didn’t hear the part about it being good.  I don’t remember if I even got a grade for all my hard work.  The only thing I recall is the word “impossible.”  My first rejection occurred when I was twelve years old.  From then on, I felt that being an author was just a means of chasing the wind.

My fear of rejection actually put my writing on…

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