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It was the worst thing because it convinced me this writing thing was going to be really easy.
When I graduated from high school there was some concern I might not go to college because I already knew everything.
Anyway, I never wanted to be a ball player or any of these things, I wanted to be a writer.
I actually sat down in fourth grade to write a novel and made it through 26 pages before my hand gave out.
I asked people to pass it along to others if they liked it, and they did.
At its peak, the Cameron Column had 40,000 subscribers in 52 countries, if you count Texas as a country.
One of the main things I like about the following autobiography is that it’s not written posthumously. I never once tried to completely murder my sister; my aim was to kill her just a little.
Another attractive feature is that, because it is written by me, I’ve been able to take certain “artistic liberties” in order to make me seem more “good.” I was born in 1960 in Petoskey, MI. No jury would have convicted me once I showed them evidence she had stolen my baseball and left it out in the rain. Reviewing what I’ve just written, I’m concerned that I’m not coming off as well as I intended.
Before long I was considered one of their most popular columnists, even more of a reader favorite than the woman who wrote about birds, though not as popular as the one who wrote about wine, oddly enough.
I was so talented that even the other team would cheer for me, and often both the offense and defense would leave the field, figuring it would be more entertaining for the crowd to just sit there and watch me run around. My date to senior prom was the cast of Charlie’s Angels, except of course for that Bosley guy, and probably also not Shelley Hack because that perfume commercial still haunts me to this day.