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 ten—and promptly rejected—when I was fifteen. I drew my first weekly salary as a writer (and this on a small country paper) when I was twenty-seven, yet during that interval there was never a day, whether I was teaching school or cooking for hired men or catering to summer boarders, that I did not renew my determination, ofttimes buried deep beneath piles of unwashed dishes and unironed clothes, that one day I would be financially independent through my writings.

I make this question of financial independence the goal toward which most writers work because it is their real object, and because most of the women who write to me mention financial burdens which they hope to lighten by the aid of their pens. This introduction has been made strongly personal because I know that many of my readers will say that I paint too disheartening a picture for the girl with the pen. I want each one of these critics to know that I understand not only just how she feels in her ambitious, hopeful moments, but just how she will feel when manuscript after manuscript comes back—"Returned with thanks."

If the wolf is very close to your door, do not try to fight him with your pen. Better select for your weapon the needle, the frying-pan or the iron. He recognizes the power of the pen only when it is wielded by an experienced hand.