Look at her, face set in serious lines as she types words that you can barely make out on her computer. You’re close enough to read, but as always, your mind is someplace else. She turns to you and points at a word on one of the stapled sheets on the desk. “Qualities,” you say. She is writing your book, typing out previously printed chapters so she can flesh them out. The bulk of it is copied from the internet, but she doesn’t know that yet. She’s pretty, but she’s no Jane – no one else is. Everyone knows she loves you; you’d have toRead More →