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I still read books on writing. My philosophy is if I
fi nd just one thing of value, even if it’s only a new take
on something I already know, it’s worth it. Anything that
helps me become a better writer, I want to fi nd. That’s
the spirit I hope permeates this text.
Because I am, like you, a writer. We understand each
other. We are not like other people. We are, in fact, piti-
able wretches.
Let me explain.
Back in the 1940s, a novelist named Jack Woodford gave
advice to young writers, among which was the following:
So there you are. A free-lance writer! Oh piti-
able wretch! Oh miserable fool! Of all the busi-
ness you could have gone into—operating a movie
theatre, or making guns, running a drug store or
learning how to be a tailor or a plumber, a ty-
pographer or a hot dog cook—you insist on going
into the business of cash and carry prose. Well,
you know best. As for me, I know there isn’t a so-
and-so thing I can do to discourage you or make
you change your mind. I admit (reluctantly) I’ve
made a pretty good thing out of it myself. But I’ve
had some breaks … Can you be sure of getting
breaks? Of course you can’t. That’s what a break
means—a stroke of luck that nobody expects, all
pine for madly, and mighty few ever get. Where
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