Dear sisters,
I was in second grade when I wrote down my first story. I remember it well, the feeling of the plush green carpet beneath my feet as I made my way into my father’s wood-paneled study. His massive leather-topped desk held my wide-ruled notebook paper and sharpened #2 pencil. I scooted the desk chair up as far as my eight-year-old legs could manage and I began my work. Thirty minutes later, it was done: a sketch and accompanying short story titled “The Adventures of Hamburgerman.”
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