When I failed Harvard’s writing test, they hadn’t declared me a failure as a writer. They’d failed a tiny snapshot of my writing. They didn’t know me, so I set out to prove them wrong. I was determined to go from failing the test to acing the class. I skipped the remedial writing seminar and signed up for the regular one. I became a sponge, embracing the discomfort of seeking endless rounds of constructive criticism from the professor and anyone else who would read my writing. Instead of going home for Thanksgiving, I stayed on campus to write and rewrite and rewrite an essay. By the end of
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