“What is? What’s so difficult?” Frank Littleton strode to Sarah’s desk and peered down into her exercise book.
“Writing,” Sarah sighed. “It’s so hard.”
“Then you’re doing it wrong,” her English teacher offered gently.
“I never know where to begin.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. You have to start at the beginning. That’s what beginnings are for.” Sarah looked up at her teacher. “Aren’t they?”
Tall and blond with wavy hair, a trim mustache and tortoise-shell glasses setting off sparkling, sea-blue eyes, Frank Littleton could have stepped straight out of a Hollywood picture and into Room 308. To the adolescent girls of Baron Byng whose lives revolved around the brash, dark-haired sons of Jewish immigrants, their English teacher was rare and exotic. Most had a crush on him.
“Are they?” he asked. “Are you sure?”
“What do you mean?”
“You say you have to start at the beginning, Sarah,” he continued. “Why?”
Sarah thought for a minute. “Because…because…because all books start at the beginning.”
“That’s where they start for you when you read them. What makes you think that that’s where they start for the writer?”
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