The six-year-old, running through the house, to go get scissors: “Don’t run with scissors!!!”
Yes, yelling at themself, apparently.
Writing a novel is like spending three months precisely calculating the best trajectories & carefully throwing fifty balls into the air; hopefully followed by one month of perfectly catching them all as they rain back down.
Or in flash fiction language: writing is like juggling.
Oh my god, the six-year-old is copy-editing my website for typos.
I did not ask for this… and it’s kind of frightening. But, I guess, if they keep this up, I’ll have an AMAZING in-house editor in a few years. (Because, side note, the edits are actually good.)
Twelve-year-old: “If you were making a replacement holiday for Valentine’s Day, how would it be celebrated?”
Six-year-old: “Well… maybe… everyone could get in spaceships and then fly around.”
Twelve-year-old: “What if you don’t have a spaceship?”
Six-year-old: “Just make one!”