played your eyes? Hello again, my literary colleagues. I am about to head up to Laguna Beach (yeah, life is tuff here) to work with one of my clients who is developing her memoirs that are morphing nicely into a novel.(It’s what I do, by the way. Send me an email to firstname.lastname@example.org with your …
played your eyes?
Hello again, my literary colleagues. I am about to head up to Laguna Beach (yeah, life is tuff here) to work with one of my clients who is developing her memoirs that are morphing nicely into a novel.(It’s what I do, by the way. Send me an email to email@example.com with your project proposal–up to 30 pages–and I will give you free, initial feedback. If you’ve got a stage or scream play–oops!–screen play–send the first ten pages and outline to the director of our new feature “Let’s Make a Scene”, Theresa Ann, firstname.lastname@example.org)
But before I filter (or not) the grounds of Sumatra still settling (or not) in my cup, let me post the latest entry into our contest. Debi Swim is new to our site, and I have a suspicion she was nudged into submission( don’t go there…well, maybe) by Sal Buttaci. Our contest calls for a word count of between 150 and 200 words, and Debi apparently does not have word count on her Smith Corona. We will let it slide to encourage her to submit repeatedly in the future (there, you may go!)
Thanks for joining us Debi, and sending this all the way from West Virginia.
You Didn’t Write That,
by Debi Swim
“Maynard, come here.” He looked up from his desk, “Now what,” he thought, “what am I in trouble for this time?” He slowly slid his lanky frame from his desk and walked nonchalantly to the front. She held a folder out to him, “Look inside. Do you recognize this?”
“Sure, it’s my book report,” Maynard answered. Mrs. Snavely looked at him over the top of her glasses. “Maynard,” she said, “You didn’t write that.”
His face turned red and his nostrils flared as he replied, “Yes, Mrs. Snavely, I did write that. That’s my handwriting.” The teacher sighed, “I have no doubt that it is your handwriting. I do recognize the sloppy penmanship. When I say ‘you didn’t write that’ it refers to the content not the actual scribbling of letters.”
Maynard placed his hand on his heart, “Mrs. Snavely, you wound me. I read the book. I liked the book. I wrote the report. I know in the past I haven’t tried very hard but this book spoke to me. It was easy to write this report. Didn’t you think it was good enough?” Mrs. Snavely held her hand out for the report. “Yes, Maynard it was an excellent report, full of good insights and examples of symbolism that most of my students miss.” Maynard encouraged by the praise asked, “Do you think I’m too stupid to write a good paper? Is that why you doubt me?” “No, Maynard, you are certainly not stupid and you are capable of writing a paper like this.” Maynard relaxed and smiled his most charming smile, “Then why do you insist that I didn’t write this paper.” Turning to the last page of the report she said, “Maynard you are not stupid but you are careless. The reason I know you didn’t write that is because in your haste you copied the real author’s name at the end of the report!”