I remember the first time I wrote a poem for the school magazine in third grade. I showed it to my father and he praised me. It was all it took to keep me going in that direction.
I was in sixth grade and wrote an essay about the city problems. My father couldn't believe I wrote it. His support gave me and my words the extra strength I needed.
Ninth grade. I was working on my first novella. Passionate enough to throw everything away. My father was furious. He told me to quit. He told me I should grow up. Disbelief was evident in my eyes and I reluctantly put it on hold.
11the grade. I secretly completed my novella. The first one I ever wrote. I was proud of myself. My father looked at the neat pile of pages stapled on the top left corner and laughed.
"What? You're still onto that. I thought you grew up." He laughs, not even wanting to read my draft.
13th grade. I talked to my father that I wanted to write. And he told me, "Oh come on, sweetheart. This is just a whim of yours. A childhood hobby, that's all it was for you. Snap out of it now, it's not a real enough profession to pursue."
With tears in her eyes, the girl was wounded beyond repair. And never picked up the pen ever since.
(Excerpt from The Words Never Written.)