My First Article
When I was sixteen I was already writing articles and offering them to any kind of editor whose address I could discover. These articles were of two kinds. The first, which I signed portentously “J.Boynton Priestley”, were serious, very serious indeed, and were full of words like “renaissance” and “significance” and “aftermath”, and suggested that their author was about a hundred and fifty years old. And nobody wanted them. They could not be given away. No editor had a body of readers old enough for such articles. The other kind were skits and burlesques and general funny work, written from the grimly determined humorous standpoint of the school magazine. One of these was accepted, printed and paid for by a London humorous weekly. I had arrived. (And my father, not to be found wanting on such an occasion, presented me with one of his fourpenny cigars, with which, as I fancy he guessed, I had been secretly experimenting for some months.)The issue of the weekly containing my article burst upon the world. Riding inside a tram from Duckworth Lane to Godwin Street, Bradford, I saw a middleaged woman opening this very copy of the weekly, little knowing, as I made haste to tell myself, that one of its group of brilliant contributors was not two yards away. I watched her turn the pages. She came to the page; she hesitated; she stopped, she began to read my article.
Ah-what delight! But mine, of course, not hers. And not mine for long, not more than a second, for then there settled on her face an expression I have noticed ten thousand times since, and have for years now tried not to notice-the typical expression of the reader, the audience, the customer, the patron. How shall I describe this curious look? There is in it a kind of innocence-and otherwise I think I would have stopped writing years ago-but mixed a trifle sourly with this admirable innocence is a flavoring of wariness, perhaps a touch of suspicion itself. “Well, what have we here?” it inquires dubiously. And then the proud and smirking Poet and Maker falls ten thousand feet into dubiety.
So ever since that tram ride I have never caught a glimpse of the reader, the audience, the customer, the patron, without instantly trying to wedge myself into the rocks above the black tarn of doubt. As I do this, there is the flash of a blue wing-and the bird of delight has flown.
我的第一篇文章
我十六岁就已写文章，发现哪位编辑的地址就把文章投给那位编辑。这些文章有两类。第一类，签上“J. Boynton Priestley”的大名，写得严肃， 非常严肃，满篇是诸如“复兴”“意义”以及“后果”之类的词，暗示文章的作者年事已高。这类文章谁也不要。白送都送不掉。没有哪个编辑拥有的读 者是老得可以看这类文章的。另一类是些讽刺文、游戏文章和一般的趣味作品，均按学校刊物那种严格确定的幽默观点写成。其中一篇为伦敦一家幽默周 刊所采用、所刊登、所付酬。我获得成功。（这回我父亲应付难局颇为得法，将他四便士一支的雪茄烟送给我一支，我其实偷偷地以他的雪茄作试验已经 长达数月，我看我父亲是早有所料的。）登我的文章的那一期周刊突然问世。我乘上从德克沃思巷开往布雷德福的葛德温街的电车，看见一位中年妇女翻开的正是那份周刊，我赶紧对自己说，她 有所不知，该刊的卓越撰稿人之一就近在咫尺。我看着她一页一页地翻。她翻到了那一页；她犹豫了一下；她停下不翻了，开始看我的文章。
啊--好高兴啦！高兴的当然是我而不是她。我也没高兴多一会儿，不过一霎那，因为她脸上露出一种我至今注意过千万次而且多年来尽力不予注意的表 情--读者、听众、顾客以及资助人所特有的--否则我几年前就不写了--不过跟这种可钦佩的天真单纯夹杂在一起而显得有点难堪的却是一丝谨慎意 味，或许就是疑心本身的一点表现。她半信半疑地在问：“嗯，看看这是什么名堂？”于是傲慢、自满而痴笑的堂堂诗人跌进了怀疑的万丈深渊。
所以，自那次坐电车以后，我只要望读者、听众、顾客、庇护人一眼，就恨不得挤到黑黝黝的怀疑之湖上空的峻岩空隙里躲起来。当我这样做时，蓝色的 翅膀一闪--欢乐之鸟早已飞去了。
I Never Write Right
When I was fifteen, I announced to my English class that I was going to write and illustrate my own books. Half the students sneered, the rest nearly fell out of their chairs laughing. “Don"t be silly, only geniuses can become writers,” the English teacher said smugly, “And you are getting a D this semester.” I was so humiliated I burst into tears.
That night I wrote a short sad poem about broken dreams and mailed it to the Capri"s Weekly newspaper. To my astonishment, they published it and sent me two dollars. I was a published and paid writer. I showed my teacher and fellow students. They laughed. “Just plain dumb luck,” the teacher said. I tasted success. I"d sold the first thing I"d ever written. That was more than any of them had done and if it was just dumb luck, that was fine with me.
During the next two years I sold dozens of poems, letters, jokes and recipes. By the time I graduated from high school, with a C minus average, I had scrapbooks filled with my published work. I never mentioned my writing to my teachers, friends or my family again. They were dream killers and if people must choose between their friends and their dreams, they must always choose their dreams.
I had four children at the time, and the oldest was only four. While the children napped, I typed on my ancient typewriter. I wrote what I felt. It took nine months, just like a baby. I chose a publisher at random and put the manuscript in an empty Pampers diapers package, the only box I could find. I"d never heard of manuscript boxes. The letter I enclosed read, “I wrote this book myself, I hope you like it. I also do the illustrations. Chapter six and twelve are my favourities. Thank you.” I tied a string around the diaper box and mailed it without a self addressed stamped envelope and without making a copy of the manuscript.
A month later I received a contract, an advance on royalties, and a request to start working on another book. Crying Wind, the title of my book, became a best seller, was translated into fifteen languages and Braille and sold worldwide. I appeared on TV talk shows during the day and changed diapers at night. I traveled from New York to California and Canada on promotional tours. My first book also became required reading in native American schools in Canada.
