Artistic License?

Of course, it is a given that an Artist in any media has the license to improve their work by the distortion of fact, alteration of the conventions of grammar or language, or rewording of pre-existing text. As a writer, I am the last person to criticize the practice having resorted to its use myself. Sometimes words and thoughts sound better rearranged…
I will let you decide for yourselves where Alison’s twenties bio veers from the strictest verity. It makes for a good read in any case. 
As for her novels, short stories etc., I can vouch for her entrancing ability to hold a reader. She weaves a fine tale. You have only to sample for yourselves.

AnnikaThe Author In Her Twenties
by Alison Blake

I’ve been writing all my life, and I don’t just mean school reports. I mean writing, as in great novels, sweeping romances, daring adventure stories, and sad haunting tales of the tragedy of life.
And that was just in third grade.
But I grew up and faced the realities of making a living.
I was told that it was impossible to get published, that I might as well give up and do something practical with my life.

So I became an actress.
I had a ball. I went to auditions as if they were party invitations. I went to parties as if they were auditions. I had so many little black dresses that my closet looked like Dracula’s cave.
I was living in Manhattan. Two room-mates and I lived in this tiny apartment on the third floor in East Greenwich Village which was not a fashionable address at that time.

I met writers and painters and musicians and poets. Although I haven’t a musical bone in my body, the musicians were the most fun. One of them kept saying to me, « Can’t you hear the rhythm? Can’t you feel the rhythm? I wanted to so badly, but apparently I was not only tone deaf, but also rhythmically denied.

Acting gigs were few and very far apart, they were also non-union. I was lucky the directors didn’t ask me to pay them. Actually one did. I hate to admit it but I seriously considered it.

But I finally got a decent job, a writing job.
At one of the almost nightly parties I was chatting with this very sour looking woman while looking over her shoulder at an absolutely gorgeous guy (who was completely unaware I was alive).

« So are you interested or not? » she said.
« Ah huh, » I agreed. At that time in my life I made it a point to agree with almost everything.
« Monday at nine, » she said. « We’ll see what you can do. »
« Okay. » My eyes stayed glued to Mr. Gorgeous who was leaving without once looking in my direction.
« Here’s the address. » She poked a card into my hand.
« Right. Thanks. »

Monday morning, I followed the card to a third floor office on Madison Ave. The sign on the door read, B&B Publishing, Corp. (the name has been changed to protect me). They published about fifteen different magazines.

Suddenly I was the associate editor of three of them: Movie World, TV World and Screen Stars. They were filled with « interviews » of stars telling us about their romantic lives, spilling their emotional guts. 99% of the stories were complete fabrications. Occasionally I got to do a real interview, but the actors were invariably so busy protecting their reputations and following studio orders, that the interviews were too boring to use, so back to fiction.

And then, someone (a real traditional publisher) published my book in hardback. I was going to be rich, I was going to be famous, I was launched!
It sold fifteen hundred copies, mostly to libraries, and was never heard from again.

So much for my twenties.

AUTHORS NOTE: Most of the above is true.

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