I don’t remember a time when I didn’t love words. As a kid, I consumed books by the dozens, and wrote spiral notebooks-full of my poems and thoughts. What I didn’t understand then was the power of those words, to both elevate and diminish me.
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By the time I was 16, I knew I wanted to be a writer. I even looked the high school career counselor straight in the eye, and said the words out loud. “Oh, you’re going to write the great American novel?” she mocked. Then, she advised me to take a typing class, so I could be a secretary. It was obvious she’d had lots of practice stabbing pitchforks into kids’ dreams.
The brutal truth was, nothing she said was worse—or more destructive—than the negative messages I was already telling myself. As I moved through high school and college, studying the beautiful words of Shakespeare, Austen, and Morrison, I became convinced that I could never be talented enough to be a writer. No one makes money writing, I chastised myself. You think you’re going to be the exception?









