When I was sixteen I thought I was a good writer. I had won a National writing competition with a magical realism novella, and the sister of a long dead, famous Romanian poet we were studying in high-school told me I wrote just like him.
This kind of gets to your head, especially at that age. This novella I had written received lots of praise from some of the best writers in the country. Published writers, award winners, people who owned publishing houses. And most of them didn’t even know I was only sixteen.
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