For weeks I ate on the stoop and sat there until dark. Finally, one night my father put his arm around my waist and hoisted me up, turning me around so I was facing him. “Nancy,” he said softly, “the pony is not coming. I know you’re disappointed and that you’re going to feel bad about not winning the contest. But I’ve learned, and you’ll have to, that disappointments often turn out to be an opportunity. So, you keep writing and follow your dream, and someday you’ll win that pony.”
Now, I’m realistic and realize that my book may not win anything. All I hope to win is a reader’s appreciation, whether they like the story or not that I share my thoughts in well written sentences.