So, the other day, the Marvelous Miss B pulled out some paper, arranged herself on the floor, and pulled out a pen (one of my Uni-ball Vision Elites). Then, ankles crossed, she started writing. Here’s what she said about that:
“I’m writing this book for my agent. My agent looooves this book.”
Uh, I don’t talk about my agent (!!!) that much. I don’t. Honest.
But apparently, the life of a writer is pretty boring, because a moment later, she drew lines across the page, gathered up ten or so stuffed animals, and school was in session.
Why do I get the feeling that I’d just been schooled?