Somehow Phil Smalley couldn't put that snap into his writings that differentiates copy that is read from that that is not read. His efforts were sincere, and he worked more diligently than most of the other reporters on his paper, but ...See moreSomehow Phil Smalley couldn't put that snap into his writings that differentiates copy that is read from that that is not read. His efforts were sincere, and he worked more diligently than most of the other reporters on his paper, but somehow his stuff didn't get over. The editor was just beginning to get tired of him. But the editor's daughter was just beginning to become interested in him. She let him see her interest, and the two became good friends. She would go over his copy, suggesting, correcting, revising. The next step in his success was when he sold his first short story. The girl brought him the letter with the check of acceptance, and it is hard to say whether he was more proud than she was happy. And then, real success. Fame and fortune, the adulation and admiration of the world. And also the inevitable. He forgot the simple little girl who had brought about his prosperity and success, forgot her and her value. He accepted his new friends' flattery and never once thought of her who had really won his success. The girl hoped on, dreaming that someday he would return. And then suddenly, his stuff lost the punch again. Even his friends could not be made to read it. The magazines returned his manuscripts with a curt note that they were not up to the standard he had set. And suddenly he realized! He realized that his success was hers, and that without the germ of genius, concealed somewhere in her mind, he would be the same utter failure that he had been until her interest in him had been born. He went back to her. Today that fellow is considered a literary genius. Written by
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