When I was fifteen, I announced to my English class that I was going to write and illustrate my own books. Half the students sneered, the rest nearly fell out of their chairs laughing. "Don't be silly, only geniuses can become writers," the English teacher said 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 Capri'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 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.

　　I had four children at the time, and the oldest was only four. 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 enclosed read, "I wrote this book myself, I hope you like it. I also do the illustrations. Chapter six and twelve are my favourites. Thank you." I tied a string around the diaper box and mailed it without a self addressed stamped envelope and without making a copy of the manuscript.

　　A month later I received a contract, an advance on royalties, and a request to start working on another book. Crying Wind, the title of my book, became a best seller, was translated into fifteen languages and Braille and sold worldwide. I appeared on TV talk shows during the day and changed diapers at night. I traveled from New York to California and Canada on promotional tours. My first book also became required reading in native American schools in Canada.

　　The worst year I ever had as a writer I earned two dollars. I was fifteen, remember? In my best year I earned 36,000 dollars. Most years I earned between five thousand and ten thousand. No, it isn't enough to live on, but it's still more than I'd make working part time and it's five thousand to ten thousand more than I'd make if I didn't write at all. People ask what college I attended, what degrees I had and what qualifications I have to be a writer. The answer is: "None." I just write. I'm not a genius. I'm not gifted and I don't write right. I'm lazy, undisciplined, and spend more time with my children and friends than I do writing. I didn't own a thesaurus until four years ago and I use a small Webster's dictionary that I'd bought at K-Mart for 89 cents. I use an electric typewriter that I paid a hundred and twenty nine dollars for six years ago. I've never used a word processor. I do all the cooking, cleaning and laundry for a family of six and fit my writing in a few minutes here and there. I write everything in longhand on yellow tablets while sitting on the sofa with my four kids eating pizza and watching TV. When the book is finished, I type it and mail it to the publisher. I've written eight books. Four have been published and three are still out with the publishers. One stinks. To all those who dream of writing, I'm shouting at you: "Yes, you can. Yes, you can. Don't listen to them." I don't write right but I've beaten the odds. Writing is easy, it's fun and anyone can do it. Of course, a little dumb luck doesn't hurt.

　　十五歲的時候，我對班上同學宣布說準備寫書，并自己畫插圖。一半的學生開始竊笑，其余的則幾乎從椅子上笑得跌到地上。"別傻了，只有天才才能成為作家，"英文老師自以為是地說道，"而你這個學期只有可能得D。"我羞愧得大哭起來。

　　那天晚上，我寫了一首關于夢想破滅的傷心短詩，并將它寄給了《卡普里周報》。出乎意料的是，他們發表了這首小詩并給我寄來了兩美元。我是作家了，我的作品發表了并因此而得到了報酬。我拿給老師和同學看，他們都笑我。"瞎貓逮著死耗子，"老師說道。我嘗到了成功的甜頭。我的第一篇作品就賣出去了。這比他們任何人做的都強，如果這是瞎貓逮著死耗子，那么我不在乎。

　　在接下來的兩年里，我賣掉了幾十首詩歌、書信、笑話和食譜。中學畢業時，我的平均成績是C+，但我的剪貼簿里已經貼滿了我發表的作品。我再也沒有將自己的寫作情況告訴老師、同學或家人。他們都是無情的摧夢者。如果有人要從朋友和夢想之間作出選擇，他們總該選擇后者。

　　現時我有四個孩子，最大的只有四歲。孩子們進入夢鄉時，我就在那臺老掉牙的打字機前打字，我寫下自己的感受，這花了我九個月的時間，就像十月懷胎。我隨意選擇了一家出版社，將手稿用空的"幫寶適"尿布的盒子包起來――這是我唯一能找到的盒子了。我從來沒聽說過手稿箱。在附信中我寫道："這本書是我自己寫的，希望你喜歡。插圖也是我自己畫的。我本人最喜歡第六章和第十二章。謝謝。"我用繩子捆好尿布箱，然后寄了出去，甚至沒有在信封上加蓋自己的地址，也沒有留下一份手稿的復印件。

　　一個月后，我收到一份合同、一份預付款，以及另一本書的約稿。我的書《哭泣的風》成了最暢銷的書，并被譯成15國文字和盲文，銷往世界各地。白天我出現在電視上的訪談節目中，晚上則回家換尿片。為了去領各種獎項，我從紐約來到加利福尼亞、加拿大。我的第一本書被列為加拿大本土美語學校的必讀課程。

　　自從成了作家以來，我掙得最少的一年只有兩美元。那時我十五歲，還記得嗎？而最多的一年我可以掙三萬六千美元。多數時候我掙的錢在五千到一萬之間。不，這當然不夠維持生計，但總比我兼職所能賺的多，而且比我如果不寫作要多賺了五千到一萬美元。人們問我曾上過什么大學，曾得過什么學位，曾獲過什么資格證書才可以成為作家。答案是："什么也不需要。"我只是寫。我不是天才。我并沒有寫作天分也不懂寫作。我懶惰、沒有經過正式訓練，與孩子和朋友相處的時間要多過寫作的時間。直到四年前我才有了一本詞典。我使用的是用89美分在K市場里買來的一本韋氏小詞典。我從來不使用單詞處理程序。我包攬了家里六個人所有的烹調、清潔和洗滌的活兒，這里寫幾分鐘，那里寫幾分鐘。所有的東西我都是坐在沙發上速記在黃色的筆記簿上，四個孩子在一邊吃比薩餅一邊看電視。書寫完了，我就打出來然后寄到出版社。我寫了八本書。四本已出版，三本在出版社，還有一本寫砸了。對于那些夢想寫作的人，我想大喊一聲："行的，你一定能行，不要聽信別人。"我不懂寫作，可是我戰勝了不可能。寫作很容易，十分有趣，每個人都做得來。當然，哪怕是瞎貓逮著死耗子也無關緊要。

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