Charles Dickens
In the early 19th century, a young man in London aspired
to be a writer. But everything seemed to be against him. He
had never been able to attend school more than four years.
His father had been thrown in jail because he couldn't pay
his debts, and this young man often knew the pangs of
hunger. Finally he got a job pasting labels on bottles in a
rat-infested warehouse, and he slept at night in a dismal
attic room with two other boys - guttersnipes from the slums
of London. He had so little confidence in his ability to
write that he sneaked out and mailed his first manuscript in
the dead of night so nobody would laugh at him. Story after
story was refused. Finally the great day came when one was
accepted. True, he wasn't paid for it, but one editor had
praised him. One editor had given him recognition. He was so
thrilled that he wandered aimlessly around the streets with
tears rolling down his cheeks.
The praise, the recognition that he received through getting
one story in print changed his whole life. If it hadn't been
for that encouragement, he might have spent his entire life
working in rat-infested factories. You may have heard of
that boy. His name is Charles Dickens.
Author unknown. If anyone has a proprietary interest in this story please authenticate and I will be happy to credit, or remove, as the circumstances dictate.
Thanks to WITandWISDOM(tm) - March 23, 2001 subscribe-wit-wisdom@xc.org