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As a teenager, I dreamed of being a writer. Many evenings were spent writing stories, plays and poems. My stories ranged from downright silly, a play where the main characters met New Kids on the Block, my idols of the time. To serious, a dancer who was in a terrible car accident and lost her ability to walk. The story followed her through waking up from a coma, to being rehabilitated, falling in love with her physical therapist and finally, dancing once again.
I was determined to be a writer and in high school I took journalism and creative writing classes. It was during this time though, that my dream slipped away.
I wrote a story for my creative writing class and mustered up my confidence, walked up to my teacher and handed it to her for review. As I stood next to her desk at the front of the class, I watched her read it and eventually she began to mark it up with her bright red pen. I was horrified.
What really happened and what I thought happened next were two entirely different things. From my perspective, she told me my story was horrible and I should never write again. What probably happened was that she told me my story could be greatly improved and to please read through her...
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