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There is nothing drearier than accounts of “how I became a writer.” Frank [his father Catholic publisher Frank Sheed] assumed his usual position of cheerleader as I began to send things out in America. Both parents were convinced that Rosemary would be a writer too, and a damn fine one, and no doubt all our children after that unto the seventieth generation.

I’ve described this elsewhere as akin to coming from a long line of dentists, and I only yielded to it at last when I found how truly unspeakable the alternatives were, and how unfitted I was for any of them. . . All this had nothing to do with earning a living, an ugly business which had to be faced sometime. Frank had always made it clear that he would not press me to follow him into Sheed and Ward. Of course, if I wanted to follow him. . . in fact, being the combustion engine that he was, he couldn’t really see why I shouldn’t write full-time and keep an eye on the family business at the same time, like some Jane Austen gentleman who “does something in the City.”

Wilfrid Sheed

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