Who but a mother?

Her lessons last a lifetime | John R. Erickson

I've enjoyed some success as a writer, but it wasn't always that way. Between 1967 and 1982, I wrote four hours every day and sent off manuscripts and query letters to every publisher I could think of.

After writing in the early morning hours, I went out to make a living for my family, working as a farm hand, bartender, handyman, and ranch cowboy. Upon returning home every evening, I went straight to the mail to see if any of my stories had been accepted for publication.

The mail brought an unending river of rejection slips. This went on for 15 years.

Sometimes I look back on those difficult times and wonder why I didn't do the sensible thing and quit. Why would a guy in a little Texas town believe that he was supposed to be a writer, when the best minds in the publishing business were pretty sure that he ought to be doing something else?