我没有著作权(I Never Write Right)

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wheniwasfifteen,iannouncedtomyenglishclassthatiwasgoingtowriteandillustratemyownbooks.halfthestudentssneered,therestnearlyfelloutoftheirchairslaughing.“don’tbesilly,onlygeniusescanbeewriters,”theenglishteachersaidsmugly,“andyouaregettingadthissemester.”iwassohumiliatediburstintotears.

thatnightiwroteashortsadpoemaboutbrokendreamsandmailedittothecapri’sweeklynewspaper.tomyastonishment,theypublisheditandsentmetwodollars.iwasapublishedandpaidwriter.ishowedmyteacherandfellowstudents.theylaughed.“justplaindumbluck,”theteachersaid.itastedsuess.i’dsoldthefirstthingi’deverwritten.thatwasmorethananyofthemhaddoneandifitwasjustdumbluck,thatwasfinewithme.duringthenexttwoyearsisolddozensofpoems,letters,jokesandrecipes.bythetimeigraduatedfromhighschool,withacminusaverage,ihadscrapbooksfilledwithmypublishedwork.inevermentionedmywritingtomyteachers,friendsormyfamilyagain.theyweredreamkillersandifpeoplemustchoosebetweentheirfriendsandtheirdreams,theymustalwayschoosetheirdreams.

ihadfourchildrenatthetime,andtheoldestwasonlyfour.whilethechildrennapped,itypedonmyancienttypewriter.iwrotewhatifelt.ittookninemonths,justlikeababy.ichoseapublisheratrandomandputthemanuscriptinanemptypampersdiaperspackage,theonlyboxicouldfind.i’dneverheardofmanuscriptboxes.theletterienclosedread,“iwrotethisbookmyself,ihopeyoulikeit.ialsodotheillustrations.chaptersixandtwelvearemyfavourites.thankyou.”itiedastringaroundthediaperboxandmaileditwithoutaselfaddressedstampedenvelopeandwithoutmakingacopyofthemanuscript.amonthlaterireceivedacontract,anadvanceonroyalties,andarequesttostartworkingonanotherbook.cryingwind,thetitleofmybook,becameabestseller,wastranslatedintofifteenlanguagesandbrailleandsoldworldwide.iappearedontvtalkshowsduringthedayandchangeddiapersatnight.itraveledfromnewyorktocaliforniaandcanadaonpromotionaltours.myfirstbookalsobecamerequiredreadinginnativeamericanschoolsincanada.

theworstyearieverhadasawriteriearnedtwodollars.iwasfifteen,remember?inmybestyeariearned36,000dollars.mostyearsiearnedbetweenfivethousandandtenthousand.no,itisn’tenoughtoliveon,butit’sstillmorethani’dmakeworkingparttimeandit’sfivethousandtotenthousandmorethani’dmakeifididn’twriteatall.peopleaskwhatcollegeiattended,whatdegreesihadandwhatqualificationsihavetobeawriter.theansweris:“none.”ijustwrite.i’mnotagenius.i’mnotgiftedandidon’twriteright.i’mlazy,undisciplined,andspendmoretimewithmychildrenandfriendsthanidowriting.ididn’townathesaurusuntilfouryearsagoandiuseasmallwebster’sdictionarythati’dboughtatk-martfor89cents.iuseanelectrictypewriterthatipaidahundredandtwentyninedollarsforsixyearsago.i’veneverusedawordprocessor.idoallthecooking,cleaningandlaundryforafamilyofsixandfitmywritinginafewminuteshereandthere.iwriteeverythinginlonghandonyellowtabletswhilesittingonthesofawithmyfourkidseatingpizzaandwatchingtv.whenthebookisfinished,itypeitandmailittothepublisher.i’vewritteneightbooks.fourhavebeenpublishedandthreearestilloutwiththepublishers.onestinks.toallthosewhodreamofwriting,i’mshoutingatyou:“yes,youcan.yes,youcan.don’tlistentothem.”idon’twriterightbuti’vebeatentheodds.writingiseasy,it’sfunandanyonecandoit.ofcourse,alittledumbluckdoesn’thurt.