In the early eighteenth century, a young man in London aspired to be a writer. But everything seemed to be against him. He had never been able to attend school for more than four years. His father had been flung in jail because he couldn’t pay his debts, and this young man often knew the pangs of hunger. Finally, he got a job pasting labels on bottles of blacking in a rat-infested warehouse, and he slept at night in a dismal attic room with two other boys– guttersnipes from the slums of London. He had so little confidence in his ability to write that he sneaked out and mailed his first manuscript in the dead of night so nobody would laugh at him. Story after story was refused. But he continued to write in as hope in despair without much anticipating that someday, somehow, someone will recognise his efforts. Sometimes all we need is to put every burden aside and follow our passion. It is soothing to every hardship that we go through every day in our lives and help us to prepare for the next hour.
And there came a day when an editor agreed to recognise his work without paying him. He was so thrilled that he wandered aimlessly around the streets with tears rolling down his cheeks. You may have heard of that boy. His name was Charles Dickens.