One of my high school English teachers would often tell me that I had absolutely no talent for writing whatsoever, and even went so far as to send letters to my parents complaining about how I was simply occupying a much-coveted seat in advanced English class, of which I did not deserve.  I remember being steadfast, determined to hold this often coveted seat.  Once my school work was done, I spent hours writing things in books filled with handwritten pages. The stories I often tell are of my adventures, mishaps, triumphs, and failures.  The handwritten tales of unrequited love, and of sorrows and hardship, which were vogue and juvenile at the…