I was in the 5th grade when my dreams of becoming an author germinated after I’d received praise from my teacher Mrs. Samuel, and they were confirmed in the 6th grade when I won an award for a last-minute essay I’d written on drinking and driving. Unfortunately, my dreams were encased in a coffin of insecurities that would take decades to overcome. Times have changed since that young boy put dream to words. Stories of twenty or thirty rejections are scorned by emails filled with hundreds of such letters. The idea of writing in a cabin in the woods, shelling out manuscripts for faithful readers to devour is as romantic as the war-bound soldier, waving goodbye from the train. What it means to be an author has changed, but that doesn’t mean the dream has to.