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In the early years of the 20th Century, there was a young man inspired to write. So great was his inspiration that he often skipped classes at Stanford so he could write, write, write, write. He never graduated. So horrible were his writing efforts that two friends hung him from a second story window by the heels, threatening to let him fall next time if he forced them to read another one of his wretched short stories.

In the mid-19th Century, a young man was forced into writing for a living because he was poor and he had no choice but to be a reporter in Parliament. He began writing humorous essays that captured the attention of the public, and before he knew what happened, he became a celebrity of sorts. Then it all came crashing down when one of his first attempts at a true novel was not well-received by the public. From the depths of his despair, he decided to write a Christmas story. He approached the task with trepidation, writing to a friend, "The wrong kind of fire is burning in my head, and I don't think I *can* write: Nevertheless, I am trying." It was while writing his Christmas tale that he began to draw on the inspirations of his childhood. So enthralled was he with the progress of the story that his writing frenzy gained a new and better fire in his brain.

The first young man, the one who was such a horrible writer that his friends threatened him with bodily harm, was John Steinbeck, winner of the 1962 Nobel Prize for Literature, and the Pulitzer-prize winning author of The Grapes Of Wrath, a timeless story of the human spirit. The second young man was Charles Dickens.

Perhaps the most relevant sentence Dickens ever wrote, as it pertains to life and writing, is the opening of the book most heavily inspired by his own life, David Copperfield. He wrote: "Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show." And so it is with any writer. It begins with inspiration, which can only be realized through insights into the timeless nature of the human condition, and effort greater than most are capable of making.

Steinbeck was compelled to write by that mysterious force that captures us all at a young age and puts a fire in our belly. Obviously, fire isn't enough. Steinbeck proved to have razor sharp insight into the human condition and the cycles of history dictated by humanity, but that does nothing but scald and stew without the ability to communicate. In Steinbeck's case, he

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