So I’ve been thinking

What if I just wrote a cheap novel, something simple and catchy like an 80s pop song, the kind no one wants to admit enjoying. I have to stop being such a book snob. I will never be a Fitzgerald or a Salinger.

I could use a fun pen name—maybe the one I give at the fast food window or at Starbucks. Maybe I should use something more 1940s like Eleanor—the lonely spinster who hides behind a typewriter and emerges now and then wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door. The sloven, grey malkin with a steamy secret she has tucked away in the attic waiting to be discovered in a dusty box after she dies. Eleanor isn’t like that at all, actually. I just like the way the words write. See there? She lives now. I wonder what is on the page that is snapped into her typewriter.

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