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. “Dont be silly， only geniuses can become writers，” the English teacher said smugly， “and you are getting a D this semester.” I was so humiliated that I burst into tears.

That night I wrote a short sad poem about broken dreams and mailed it to the Capris 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 had sold the first thing I had ever written. That was more than any of them had done and whether it was just dumb luck， it 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. 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.

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 isnt enough to live on， but its still more than Id make working part time. 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. Im not a genius. Im not gifted and I dont write right. Im lazy， undisciplined， and spend more time with my children and friends than I do writing. I didnt own a thesaurus until four years ago and I use a small Websters dictionary that Id 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. Ive 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.endprint

Ive written eight books. Four have been published and three are still out with the publishers. One stinks. To all those who dream of writing， Im shouting at you， “Yes， you can. Yes， you can. Dont listen to them.” Writing is easy， its fun and anyone can do it. Of course， a little dumb luck doesnt hurt.

十五歲的時候，我在英文課上向同學(xué)宣稱準(zhǔn)備寫書，并自己畫插圖。一半的人開始竊笑，其余的則笑得幾乎從椅子上跌到地上。“別傻了，只有天才才能成為作家，”英文老師自以為是地說，“而你這個學(xué)期只有可能得D?！蔽倚呃⒌么罂奁饋?。

那天晚上，我寫了一首關(guān)于夢想破滅的傷心短詩，并將它寄給了《卡普里周報(bào)》。出乎意料的是，他們發(fā)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(fā)表了，還得到了稿酬。我拿給老師和同學(xué)看，他們都笑我。“瞎貓逮著死耗子?！崩蠋熣f。我嘗到了成功的甜頭。我的第一個作品賣出去了。這比他們?nèi)魏稳藢ξ业睦涑盁嶂S都強(qiáng)，不管這是不是瞎貓逮著死耗子，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(xué)畢業(yè)時，我的平均成績是C-，但我的剪貼簿里已經(jīng)貼滿了我發(fā)表的作品。我再也沒有告訴老師、同學(xué)或家人我的寫作情況。他們都是無情的毀夢者。如果有人要從朋友和夢想之間作出選擇，他們總會選擇后者。

寫第一本書時，我有四個孩子，最大的只有四歲。孩子們進(jìn)入夢鄉(xiāng)時，我就在那臺老掉牙的打字機(jī)前打字，寫下自己的感受，一共花了我九個月的時間，就像十月懷胎。我隨意地選了一家出版社，將手稿用空的“幫寶適”紙尿片的箱子裝起來，這也是我唯一能找到的箱子了。在附信中我寫道：“這本書是我自己寫的，希望你能喜歡。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。”我用繩子捆好尿片箱，然后寄了出去。

一個月后，我收到一份合同、一筆預(yù)付款以及另一本書的約稿。我的書《哭泣的風(fēng)》成了暢銷書，并譯成15種語言和盲文，銷往世界各地。白天我出現(xiàn)在電視訪談節(jié)目中，晚上則回家換尿片。為了宣傳和促銷，我從紐約前往加利福尼亞、加拿大。我的第一本書被列為加拿大美洲土著學(xué)校的必讀書目。

成為作家以來，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3.6萬美元。多數(shù)時候在5 000到10 000美元之間。當(dāng)然，這不足以維持生計(jì)，但總比我兼職賺的多。人們問我上過什么大學(xué)、得過什么學(xué)位、拿過什么資格證書，才得以成為作家。答案是：“什么也不需要?！蔽抑皇菆?jiān)持寫作。我不是天才。我并沒有寫作天分，也不懂寫作。我懶惰，沒有經(jīng)過正規(guī)訓(xùn)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。我使用的詞典是花89美分在K市場（美國一家大眾化廉價(jià)超市）里買來的一本韋氏小詞典。我使用的電動打字機(jī)是六年前花129美元買的。我從不使用單詞處理程序。我包攬了家里六個人所有的烹飪、打掃和洗滌的活兒，這里寫幾分鐘，那里寫幾分鐘。和孩子們一起坐在沙發(fā)上時，他們四個邊吃披薩邊看電視，我則把我的感想速記在黃色的筆記本上。

我一共寫了八本書。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?！睂懽骱苋菀?，很有趣，每個人都做得來。當(dāng)然，哪怕是瞎貓逮著死耗子也無關(guān)緊要。endprint