Today I helped a group of young teenagers who were part of a summer writers’ workshop. As they came up to my desk and signed out their room keys, I made note of the geeky glasses, the obnoxious clip-on bow ties, the pen stuck through a messy bun. They were cheerful, quirky introverts, shy and full of excitement. This was my group, these were my people.

What would these baby authors write? Fiction, nonfiction, memoir? Which authors they were trying to be like? Which ones were the brilliant prodigies, and who was just in it for the fun of creative self-expression?  Was I handing a key to the next Hemmingway, the next Salinger, the next Tolkien? These teens were Possibilities incarnate.



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