When I was fifteen, I announced to my English class that I was going to write my own book

When I was fifteen, I announced to my English class that I was going to write my own books. Half the students laughed at me, and the rest  36   fell out of their chairs laughing. “Don’t be silly. Only geniuses can become  37  ,” the English teacher said , “and you are getting a D this semester.” I was so ashamed that I burst into  38 _.

That night I wrote a short  39  poem about broken dreams and mailed it to the Capri’s Weekly newspaper. To my astonishment, they  40  it and sent me two dollars. I was a published and  41  writer. I told my teacher and  42  students. They  43  me again. But I had tasted  44  . I’d sold the first thing I’d ever written.

During the next two years, I sold  45  poems, letters, and jokes. By the time I graduated from high school, I had a  46  filled with my published work. I never  47  my writing to my teachers or my friends again. They were dream  48  and if people must choose between their friends and their dreams, they must always choose their dreams.

    Several years later, I found myself married  49  four children, the oldest being only four. While the children slept, I typed on my ancient typewriter. I wrote  50  I felt. I chose a publisher and mailed my writing. The letter I enclosed read, “I wrote this book myself, and I hope you like it. Chapter six and twelve are my  51 . Thank you.”

A month later, I received a(n) 52  to start working on another book. Crying Wind, the _53  of my book, was translated into fifteen languages and sold worldwide. My first book also became 54  reading in native American schools in Canada. People ask what college I attended, what degrees I have and what qualifications I have to be a writer. The answer is: “None.” I just  _55  .

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