A Little Girl's Dream
詹恩·米切爾 / Jann Mitchell
The promise was a long time keeping. But then， so was the dream.
In the early 1950s in a small Southern California town， a little girl hefted yet another load of books onto the tiny library’s counter.
The girl was a reader. Her parents had books all over their home， but not always the ones she wanted. So she’d make her weekly trek to the yellow library with the brown trim， the little one-room building where the children’s library actually was just a nook. Frequently， she ventured out of that nook in search of heftier fare.
As the white-haired librarian hand-stamped the due dates in the ten-year-old’s choice， the little girl looked longingly at “The New Book” prominently displayed on the counter. She marveled again at the wonder of writing a book and having it honored like that， right there for the world to see.
That particular day， she confessed her goal.
“When I grow up，” she said， “I’m going to be a writer. I’m going to write books.” The librarian looked up from her stamping and smiled， not with the condescension so many children receive， but with encouragement. “When you do write that book，” she replied， “bring it into our library and we’ll put it on display， right here on the counter.” The little girl promised she would.
As she grew， so did her dream. She got her first job in ninth grade， writing brief personality profiles， which earned her $1.50 each from the local newspaper. The money paled in comparison with the magic of seeing her words on paper. A book was a long way off.
She edited her high-school paper， married and started a family， but the itch to write burned deep. She got a part-time job covering school news at a weekly newspaper. It kept her brain busy as she balanced babies. But no book. She went to work full time for a major daily. Even tried her hand at magazines. Still no book.