Every time I go home to visit family, my mother nags me about writing a novel. She’s obsessed with this little blurb of a thing I wrote my freshman year of college about a briefcase. It was for a grammar class. She wants me to make it into a novel, somehow become the next Stephen King, and then buy her a nice house on a hill, etc. etc. etc.
My sisters think I should try to publish the children’s book I wrote for class a couple years ago. It’s titled “Leroy the Scuba Diving Elephant.” It needs illustrations.