of fameless writers submitted to him, and also sent in all probability without reading as much as the name of the story.

This was a very promising opinion of the work of a child of thirteen, more encouraging than the great writers got at the start of their literary career but it seemed to even my childish intelligence that the memo was a stereotyped affair that the publisher sent in answer to all the MSS. The writer was to study the best works of literature, and would one day, no doubt, take a place among Australian novelists. After waiting many weeks I received a polite memo to the effect that the story showed great ability, but the writer's inexperience was too much in evidence for publication. These I saved, and with them sent my book to the leading Sydney publisher. Knowing our circumstances, my grandmother was accustomed, when writing to me, to enclose a stamp to enable me to reply.

Two years previously I had purloined paper and sneaked out of bed every night at one or two o'clock to write a prodigious novel in point of length and detail, in which a full-fledged hero and heroine performed the duties of a hero and heroine in the orthodox manner. It was not my first attempt in this direction. A few hours' work in the keen air of a late autumn morning removed the swelling from my eyes and the pain from my temples, but the idea of relieving my feelings in writing had taken firm root in my brain. I arose from bed next morning with three things in my head-a pair of swollen eyes, a heavy pain, and a fixed determination to write a book. Previous Chapter Next Chapter Chapter VII

My brilliant career by miles franklin