I have to write. It seemed as soon as I could formulate a sentence, I was thinking about a way to express myself that didn't involve the foreboding task of verbal communication. I was much more comfortable within the confines of a sentence, taking care to formulate my thoughts in a coherent pattern. I liked the precision of it, each word neatly stacked to convey my exact thoughts and emotions.
I began to dedicate myself to writing, accumulating stories that filled numerous Big Chief tablets.
Armed with a near-Dickensian amount of material, I made the rounds of the publishers, dutifully sending my manuscripts with the aspirations of joining the fraternity of published writers.
This went on for a number of years, the long procession of rejection letters quietly filed in the back of a briefcase that I received upon graduation from college.
Despite the Sisyphean challenge, I kept climbing that mountain in the hope that one day I would reach the summit. Still, no matter how hard I pushed, it seemed the traditional route was blocked, and that I would never see my stories in print.
But along came the internet (thank you, Al Gore) and the playing field changed. The possibility of bypassing publishing houses and getting a book into print electronically was a viable option.
So here I am, still dedicated to the craft and wearing the battle scars to prove it. It's been a long journey, but I'm still going at it, and will be forever beholden to that mistress.
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