Monday, May 18, 2015

Tom Sawyered

It's no secret Mark Twain could tell a tale, his own Tom Sawyer would sell it to you (white fence and all). Sly as he was, he's no match for my middle child.
I direct the Accelerated Critique Group where each author submits fifty pages per meeting, in other words I fly through paper faster than I do food. I was printing off that week's submission (150 pages worth) and could not find a single sheet. Miss Middle Child watched the entire mad dash of me rushing from one drawer to the next (I had a week's worth of errands and only a day to do it). In a if-you-want-to-live-do-what-I-say voice, I asked her to finish her homework. She threw on her Tom Sawyer gear and pointed at her younger sister saying, "I'm letting her help me." Her five year old sister was completing her spelling homework while she shopped for scholastic books.

 After that she offered, "I can help you with the whole writing thing, you know, now that I'm a real author."
She whips out a dozen comics she's written from her backpack (a ream's worth of paper I might add) and throws several dollars on the counter. She had snuck the last batch into school, selling them during recess.
Every. Single. One.
She patted my hand saying, "now that I'm a bestseller, I can help you."

I got Sawyered. Tom Sawyered.