By Connie Vigil Platt
Corinne lay on the bed. The sheets twisted around her. Sweat dripping from her forehead.
“I can’t do it. It’s too hard. I can’t give it up.” She whimpered.
“Yes you can. I have faith in you. It won’t be much longer now.” Her friend Sara told her. “I’ll stay here with you until you can be on your own again.”
Once Corinne was a happy-go-lucky waitress, then one day she showed some of her writing to a friend. That friend told her how good it was and she should send it to a magazine. Then she showed it to another friend and that person also told her she was wasting her time waiting tables, she could be the next Charles Dickens or somebody like that. She got up her nerve and sent it to a magazine and forgot all about it.
Sara told her, “Writing is a terrible drug but selling is worse. Once you get started you won’t be able to stop. It’s worse than Heroin. That’s all you’ll want to do. So be very careful my dear.”
Corinne was surprised when she got a contract for the first story she tried to sell. She was so excited; she had a drawer full of manuscripts. All she had to do was send them off. She got a few more contracts and she was hooked. Now all she could do was sit by the window and wait for the mailman to come.
Sara was right, the drug had a hold of her and would not let go. Corrine was hooked on selling her words.