As best I can remember, I was about 11 years old when I decided that I wanted to be a writer. I was an eager reader, plowing through one to two books most weeks, plus my schoolwork. Most of the books came from the town library. Mrs. Burroughs, the librarian, told my mother that I checked out more books than anyone else in our small town. My mother responded that I wanted to be a writer.
The next time I went into the library, Mrs. Burroughs showed me two books. One was a small book of poems, written by a widow lady who lived in our town. My mother knew her in church. The book was a vanity publication that she had paid a printer to publish. I did not understand the difficulties in selling to commercial publishers until later. I was excited about reading a book written by someone I could know. The excitement waned as I slogged my way through the poems. As I remember thinking, perhaps it was my fault that I did not understand or appreciate poetry.
In contrast, I was genuinely excited by the second book. It was a series of essays about writing. Each was contributed by a successful and professional writer. I absorbed the contents. How to polish manuscripts. How to develop ideas for articles. How to fit essays for individual publications. How to write letters to editors pitching a story line. And how to enclose a self-addressed, stamped envelope, on the likelihood that the proffered article might be rejected.
In my first year of college, one of my instructors used a textbook that he had written. Of necessity, I bought a copy. One day, I asked him to autograph my copy and to tell me about writing the book. He told me about the 5 years he spent collecting material and writing the first draft. It was rejected by the first four publishers to which he sent it. A fifth publisher accepted the text, if he would make significant changes and add several chapters.
Two years later, the book was accepted and published. It had sold about 5000 copies, and my teacher estimated that from the royalties, he had earned an average of 15 cents for each hour he had spent on the book. Other than a few articles for scholarly journals in his field, he had written nothing else. Nor did he intend to.
I met other faculty members who had written books. And I resolved to buy any book written by a friend or acquaintance. I still have a dozen or so books purchased by that criterion. A couple of them are handy references.
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