Real Writers Don’t Need Permission

Dear Alex (Age 9),

It’s 1972. You’re sitting in a corner of Mrs. Chambers’ classroom, writing stories with a battleship grey Royal electric typewriter, dreaming of paperback covers and author photos. You don’t know what a blog is. You’ve never heard of self-publishing. You think “real writers” live in New York and wear tweed.

But I’m writing to tell you something extraordinary.

In the future—decades from now—you’ll become a writer. Not just in your heart, but in the world. You’ll publish books. You’ll build a literary universe where memory matters, where quiet moments carry the weight of entire lives. You’ll write about love, regret, friendship, and the dignity of fleeting connections. And people will read it. In places you’ve never been. Like Beijing.

You’ll do it without a contract from a major publishing house. You’ll do it through the power of technology—through blogs, Kindle Direct Publishing, and the quiet generosity of readers who find you and stay. You’ll do it because you never stopped believing in the emotional truth of stories.

And yes, in 2023, someone will tell you that you’re “not a real writer” because you’re not linked to a publishing conglomerate. It’ll sting. But it won’t stop you. Because by then, you’ll know better. You’ll know that real writing isn’t about gatekeepers—it’s about resonance. It’s about the people who see themselves in your words and feel less alone.

Here’s proof. This is what you’ll write someday, in a novel called Reunion: Coda:

The soft light of a partly cloudy morning spills through the east-facing kitchen window, casting a warm, diffused glow across the room… The sizzle of bacon, sweetened with a hint of sugar, permeates the cozy kitchen, its smoky fragrance weaving through the air… Maddie chuckles, a sound as melodious as her piano playing, and with a twinkle in her hazel eyes, she says, “Oh, I’m sure you’re a man of many talents, Jim…”

You’ll write scenes like this—scenes that honor intimacy, memory, and the quiet heroism of everyday connection. You’ll write with grace. With empathy. With emotional fluency.

So keep writing, kid. Keep dreaming in typewriter. The world is listening.

With love and gratitude,
Alex (Age 62)