When I was fifteen, I a ounced to my English cla that I was going to write and illustrate my own books. Half the students eered, the rest nearly fell out of their chairs laughing. Dont be silly, only geniuses can become writers, the English teacher said smugly, And you are getting a D this semester. I was so humiliated I burst into tears. That night I wrote a short sad poem about broken dreams and mailed it to the Capris Weekly new aper. To my astonishment, they published 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 tasted succe . Id sold the first thing Id ever written. That was more than any of them had done and if it was just dumb luck, that was fine with me. During the next two years I sold doze of poems, letters, jokes and recipes. By the time I graduated from high school, with a C minus average, I had scra ooks 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 their dreams, they must always choose their dreams. I had four children at the time, and the oldest was only four. While the children na ed, 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 Pampers diapers package, the only box I could find. Id never heard of manuscript boxes. The letter I enclosed read, I wrote this book myself, I hope you like it. I also do the illustratio . Chapter six and twelve are my favourites. Thank you. I tied a string around the diaper box and mailed it without a self addre ed 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, the title of my book, became a best seller, was tra lated into fifteen languages and Braille and sold worldwide. I a eared 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. The worst year I ever had as a writer I earned two dollars. I was fifteen, remember? In my best year I earned 36,000 dollars. Most years I earned between five thousand and ten thousand. No, it i t enough to live on, but its still more than Id make working part time and its five thousand to ten thousand more than Id make if I didnt write at all. People ask what college I attended, what degrees I had and what qualificatio I have to be a writer. The a wer is: None. I just write. Im not a genius. Im not gifted and I dont write right. Im lazy, undisciplined, and end more time with my children and friends than I do writing. I didnt own a thesaurus until four years ago and I use a small We ters dictionary that Id bought at K-Mart for 89 cents. I use an electric typewriter that I paid a hundred and twenty nine dollars for six years ago. Ive never used a word proce or. 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 on yellow tablets while sitting 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. Ive written eight books. Four have been published and three are still out with the publishers. One stinks. To all those who dream of writing, Im shouting at you: Yes, you can. Yes, you can. Dont listen to them. I dont write right but Ive beaten the odds. Writing is easy, its fun and anyone can do it. Of course, a little dumb luck doe t hurt.