I remember once I was in Woodlands library when I was in secondary two, barely fourteen years old.
I walked to the information counter and asked the lady behind it, "Do you have Sidney Sheldon's books?"
The lady stared at me in bewilderment. "You are too young to read his books!"
I haven't even seen any of his books and was so shocked by her reply. Part of me wanted to ask why, but the other part of me persuaded me to search for his books because i'm curious.
I'm glad I chose the latter.
Few years down the road, and i'm now reading his memoir written by himself.
His life was an interesting one, not because he has been to Hollywood, produced, directed and written movies and tv shows, but because it was very real, so real that I could feel his emotions, like i'm brought through his life in a fast-forward manner.
And i'm suddenly reminded of my little dream long time ago to become a writer, a novelist. And also the past stories I wrote, nicely printed and kept in a file.
"Hers was a story that had to be told" - maybe, or maybe not?
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