In the early nineteenth 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 flung in jail because he couldnt pay his debts among other things. This young man often knew the pangs of hunger. Finally, he got a job pasting labels on bottles of blacking in a rat-infested warehouse, and he slept at night in a dismal attic room with two other boys. 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 wasnt paid a shilling for it, but one editor praised his work, gave him recognition. He was so thrilled that he wandered aimlessly around the streets with tears rolling down his cheeks. The praise and acknowledgement he received through getting his story in print, changed his whole life, for if it hadnt 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 was Charles Dickens.
Posted on: Thu, 03 Jul 2014 00:28:47 +0000
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