Unit5INeverWriteRight课文翻译大学英语一.doc

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 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’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 echoes 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 bab