Writers always remember the first time they were rejected. For me, I had written a song when I was six or seven that neither of my parents ever got around to reading. It may not be knowledgable rejection, but watching my work sit there ignored for three days was equally as scarring.
As I got older I got used to not only being ignored, but overtly rejected as stories, poems, songs, and papers were tossed into old boxes. But as time went by I realized it was all right. The writing was the thing. If I wrote I was happy, no matter who read it.
I started out with good old fashioned pen and paper filling notebooks and napkins. Notebooks are still my most frequently received gift. When I was six, my parents took me to visit my grandfather and his secretary would let me sit in her office all day and type on the typewriter. At six, I was proud of two pages of moderately cohesive type covered in doubled letters and smudges. As I grew older each visit showed the improvement I had made in the past year. It was a solid standard. Nothing changed in the type except the ribbon.
Now I use computers, but every chance I get I use these wondrous instruments of inspiration. It is almost as if, by using one, I am connected to the minds who have typed some of the greatest words of all time. Handwriting makes each of us an individual. Type is a line that draws us all together.