ABSTRACT
I see writers everywhere I turn. When I was a high school teacher, my students would not only hand me poems they had written, but also more than one turned in a full-length novel. I am always encountering adults from all walks of life who have squirreled away, in their attics or basements, novels they have written. When my daughter was in first grade, even she was a writer. She would spend entire Sunday afternoons at the typewriter, using one finger at a time, laboriously composing stories that were only middles filled with invented spellings.
