Unit 5 I Never Write Right课文翻译大学英语一

Unit 5 I Never Write Right
Linda Stafford
When I was 15, I announced to my English class that I was going to write and illustrate（illustrate: v. 1) add pictures to (something written) 2) show the meaning of (something) by giving related examplesmy own books. Half of the students nearly fell out of their chairs laughing.
“Don’t be silly. Only geniuses can become writers,” the English teacher said. “And you are getting a D this semester.”
    I was so embarrassed that I burst into tears. That night I wrote a short, sad poem about broken dreams and mailed it to the Capper’s Weekly. （To my astonishment they publish
ed 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’d tasted success. I’d sold the first thing I’d ever written. That was more than any of them had done, and if it was “just plain dumb luck,” that 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 dreams, they must always choose the latter.
    But sometimes you do find a friend who supports your dreams. “It’s easy to write a book,” my new friend told me. “You can do it.”
    “I don’t know if I’m smart enough,” I said, suddenly feeling 15 again and hearing echoe
s of laughter.
“Nonsense!” she said. “Anyone can write a book if they want to.”
    I had four children at the time, and the oldest was only four. We lived on a goat farm in Oklahoma, miles from anyone. All I had to do each day was take care of four kids, milk goats, and do the cooking, laundry and gardening.
While the children slept, 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 diapers package, the only box I could find. The letter I enclosed read: “I wrote this book myself, and I hope you like it. I also drew the illustrations. Chapters 6 and 12 are my favorites. Thank you.”
I tied a string around the diaper box and mailed it without a self-addressed stamped envelope, and without making a copy of the manuscript. A month later I received a contract, an advance on royalties and a request to start working on another book.
Crying Wind became a bestseller, was translated into 15 languages 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.
    It took six months to write my next book. My Searching Heart also became a bestseller. My next novel, When I Give My Heart, was finished in only three weeks.
    People ask what college I attended, what degree I have, and what qualifications I have to be a writer. The answer is none. I just write. I’m not a genius, I’m not gifted and don’t write right. I’m not disciplined, either, and spend more time with my children and friends than I do writing.
    I didn’t own a thesaurus until four years ago and I use a small Webster’s dictionary that I bought for 89 cents. I use an electric typewriter that I paid $129 for six years ago. I’ve 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 while sitti
ng on the sofa with my four kids, eating pizza and watching TV. When the book is finished, I type it and mail it to the publisher.
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