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      "A writer? Isn't that lovely, Harriet dear. How nice for you," Miss Winters, her teacher replied with an obvious tinge of cynicism in her voice. Well aware that children sometimes had such astonishing dreams, she felt disinclined to encourage them, lest they become bitter and angry. She knew full well that life held many disappointments; all she had to do was look at her own life for proof of that philosophy.
However, Harriet took her teacher's comments as words of encouragement and when she returned home that afternoon she began to work on her very first short story. The next week, after working diligently every night, she approached her teacher's desk and with great trepidation handed her the story. "Here is the first short story I have ever written. Would you be so kind and read it, and perhaps, comment on it?"
"Oh," Miss Winters looked annoyed, "okay, okay, I'll look at it," she said with irritation.
Every Monday henceforth Harriet would ask her teacher if she had read the story and each time she received the same reply: "Oh, I'll get to it, I'll get to it, Harriet dear."
But Miss Winters never seemed able to get to it and Harriet grew upset. "I don't think she takes me seriously," she thought angrily. "If someone says they will read a story doesn't that mean they will read it? Or was she just lying to me?" All she had to do, thought Harriet, was to tell her "no, I can't or won't read your story." All Harriet asked for was a fair chance.
After waiting patiently for over six months Harriet finally spoke up: "If you haven't read my story yet, then I would like to have it back," she swallowed deeply. "I'll find someone else to read it."
"Oh, Harriet dear," said Miss Winters, "I just so happened to have read your story last evening...it's very nice."
"You did?" her heart leapt with anticipation.
"Indeed I did Harriet dear, and as I said it's very nice."
"Do you think the writing was good?"
"It's nice, dear...it's nice."
"What about the ending? Do you think it's believable, or do you think it should be changed?"
"Harriet," Miss Winters said sternly, "I don't wish to talk about the plot, or the writing, all I can say is that your story is interesting and nice."
"Well, at last," Harriet thought with satisfaction, "I suppose the wait was worth it. Granted her words were not filled with unbounded praise, but she did say it was 'interesting and nice'; not bad for a first review." Vowing she would work until her bones ached, her blood boiled, her brain cells on full tilt, Harriet dedicated her life to her beloved craft.
And so Harriet put her mind to her task and wrote and wrote and when the summer came she stayed indoors and wrote some more. During her high school years she never dated or went out with friends, all she ever did was to continue to write; all sorts of things: stories, plays, poems, and even a novel.
"Mother," Harriet said one rainy afternoon, "I have completed my first novel, would you like to read it?" she asked.
Harriet's mother had not encouraged her child to write, concerned that she spent too much time indoors, alone and at her desk. Just wasn’t healthy, she thought. But she reluctantly agreed to read the book.
After a week had gone by Harriet’s mother summoned her into the living room. "I'm afraid I must discuss something of great importance with you...Harriet dear," her mother said solemnly. "I read your sweet little book and well...I'm afraid you're spending far too much time chasing an illusive dream, one that will never be fulfilled. Why not go out for cheerleading? I'm sure you'd be quite good at it. But please forget this silly writing business. I can assure you it will only bring you unhappiness."
"But I love it! I love to write!" Harriet exclaimed.
"Well dear, you may love it, but you must be realistic...Louisa May Alcott you're not...nor Emily Brontë for that matter, and I'm afraid Jackie Collins turns a better phrase than you."
Undaunted by her mother's frankness, Harriet persisted. Tearing apart her novel, she re-wrote it, not once, but twice and then again. When she produced what she believed was a brilliant tome, she took the book to her only friend Dorothy, and shyly asked her one day if she would mind reading it. "I'll pay you," Harriet told her.
So for ten dollars Dorothy read the book and told Harriet: "You certainly have written a book. Yup Harriet old girl, you have indeed written a book and I'm sure it will sell, too."
"Really?"
"Harriet, you're going to be rich and famous, cross my heart and hope to die...Now, can I please have my money," Dorothy held her hand out.
"Look out bestseller list, here I come." How wonderful Dorothy’s encouragement and praise felt to her. "Thank you my dear friend. You've made me so happy!" she hugged her tightly.
From then on Harriet continued to write fiction with even more vigor and confidence. She thought, "I shall go to college and flourish there, and I'll have professors who will recognize and nurture my talent and I will then become a major force in the publishing business...A book a year and maybe more, I'm going to knock 'em dead!"

"Hi, my name’s Harriet," she told one of her professors when she first entered college, "I'm an English major and I'm a writer. I've written a couple of books and many other things and I was wondering if you might have the time to read some of my work and advise me on it?"
"Sorry dear, I'm in the middle of researching a piece on Virginia Woolf. I simply have no time to do anything extra."
She then asked another professor, " I realize you must be extremely busy and I know you can't pay too much attention to just one of your students, but I would so appreciate it if you could take a look at some of my writing."
A look of horror overcame the professor as Harriet spoke to him, but when she finished speaking, he shook his head and reluctantly agreed: "Okay, okay...I'll read one of your books...but it might be a while, no promises."
"Do take whatever time you need and thank you so much," Harriet said gratefully.
Two years later Harriet walked into the office of her now former professor and asked for the copy of her manuscript back. "It's been two years, three months, six days and nine hours sir, and I haven't heard anything from you," her voice trembled..."I don't mean to pressure you, but I think you've had enough time to read my book and I'd like it back."
"I told you it might take a while," the professor snapped. "Listen kid, I only read the first two chapters of your manuscript and I can honestly say, without a doubt, that your work is just too weak for today's fiction, you've done so many things wrong that I'd start over again with another plot, a new theme, and brand new characters...but don't stop writing...I'm sure it gives you something to do."
Harriet's mood soared. For over two years she waited for some response, and although she had not received high praise, she felt his words were mildly sincere. Starting on page one, she rewrote her novel over and over, added new characters and a new theme just as her professor had told her to do. Suddenly Harriet found herself dreamily posing in front of her mirror for hours on end; she wanted to find just the perfect expression, the right stance for her first dust jacket photograph. Then she began to practice her autograph and with great panache learned to sign her name quickly and with a dramatic flourish...just in case.
By the time she was a senior in college Harriet had written six novels, four dozen short stories, three full-length plays, twelve dozen poems and ten screenplays. Although she wanted to work on the college's two literary magazines, the editors turned her down each time she applied for a position: "...your writing samples just aren't creative enough," said one of the editors. When pressed on which piece he was referring to he confessed to having not read her work, "but I can just tell you're not very good," he replied seriously.
"Oh, well," Harriet thought, "I'll just keep writing -- my dedication knows no bounds -- and then someday soon, I'll be recognized and then they'll be sorry they never allowed me to work on their silly magazines."

After graduation from college, Harriet moved to New York City and applied to a dozen publishing houses for an entry-level job. Just to be around publishing would make her happy, she thought, even though she knew she would start out at the bottom and have to work her way up the ladder. She was convinced that soon enough she would be discovered and her dream to spend the rest of her life in the grand tradition of a writer would soon come true.
Unfortunately, all the companies refused to hire her because she did not possess a master's degree, so she went back to school and got her master's degree in English literature and then she re-applied to all the publishing houses, but still no luck. One of the many form letters she received said: "Thank you so much for applying to L.........R........& Sons. Sorry but we have no positions available, but we suggest that you go back to school and become a nurse."
Undaunted, she got her Ph.D. in English and American literature and began to teach school. She continued to write and sent out her material to magazines and publishers and anywhere she thought her work might get the recognition it justly deserved. Quite proficient at writing brilliant letters of inquiry (the famous "query"), she dutifully sent a self-addressed stamped envelope with all her letters. But no words of encouragement came, not one single story was published; nary a word saw its way into print...no one would take a chance on poor Harriet.
One day after she had married a fellow teacher, he told her: "Harriet! If you don't stop writing all the time and start spending more time with me, than I shall divorce you! Let's face it honey, you're writing is just not very good, can't you write something juicy with some sex and perhaps a little violence?"
After that outburst Harriet divorced her husband.

When Harriet reached the age of forty-five, she decided she would make one last-ditch effort to get some of her work published. After all, she reasoned, it was about time she had a break; someday soon she was sure her talent would be recognized. So she sent copies of her twentieth, and what she considered her best novel, to sixty major publishers throughout the world. She mailed her scripts to Hollywood and sent dozens of her short stories and poems to various publications. She then followed up with letters to all the places she had sent her work; still, there were no bites. One editor politely said: "...your book appears interesting and nice...it's just not a 'must have' for us...but, I'm sure you'll find a publisher." Those were the only words of encouragement she received. Most said, "no," some said, "no, thanks," and the majority never even bothered to respond at all often sending her manuscripts back unopened, postage due.

Harriet felt devastated. "All my life," she thought sadly, "I have wanted to be a writer. I have studied, I have worked long and hard and still no one pays any attention to me, no one likes my work because no one really takes the time to read it! What can I do? I know it’s hard to break into publishing, but there must be a way..."
Finally, Harriet decided the only course left for her was to marry a publisher. So she married a man who owned a small publishing firm and after their honeymoon, she showed him the eighty-nine cartons of her work she had accumulated throughout the years. "I hope you'll find something to your liking," she told her husband, "I don't care about a bestseller or money, all I want is to be published...once and for all. Will you be so kind and just look at my work?”
"Harriet dear, I'd love to help you. Of course, I will give your work a fair chance," he told her.
Elated, she thought, at last someone was willing to give her a fair shake. But her happiness was short-lived because before her husband had a chance to read her many books, poems, scripts, short stories, novellas, and plays, he suffered a fatal heart attack and his small, and once profitable, publishing firm went bankrupt.

"Okay," the now widowed Harriet thought, as she sat in her living room all alone soon after the untimely death of her husband. "I've tried with all my heart to find someone to read my work and give me a break. Perhaps I am not the greatest writer of all time, maybe my dreams have been silly illusions, but I love to write and I have always played by the rules...Well," she thought, as an uncontrollable anger crept up her spine, "that's it! I will no longer allow anyone to tell me I have no talent. I will not be stepped upon any longer...I will not suffer at the hands of uncaring people who are too busy to read my work...and yet lie to me and tell me they didn't 'love it enough' to want to publish it."
Suddenly, as if released from a heavy burden, Harriet stood up and put her hands in the air: "I know what I shall do, what I must do...I will get back at all the horrid people who never bothered to give me a chance! I'll crush people's dreams as mine have been destroyed!" she shouted. "I'll never write another word again and I'll allow my bitterness and anger to defeat others who dare to write! Yes, I'll demolish their confidence and optimism; I'll treat everyone badly and with malice..." Then a sad, ironic smile appeared on her face and she screamed at the top of her lungs -- she screamed for all the world to hear: "I'll do what every failed writer has ever done...I shall become a literary agent…"


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