GD (Grand Dad) came to town for a visit recently and before he left I heard him ask Ava if she would to write something for his newspaper back home. She said she would but I could tell by the look on her face that she didn’t really want to. She was probably just sucking up to GD – something she’s pretty good at I might add.
Writing is hard and Ava, not unlike a lot of little kids, would rather sit in front of the TV with Doc McStuffins and Daniel Tiger than do anything resembling actual work. Having lived with her for the past nine months I’m keenly aware of this tendency so I put my knowledge of American Literature to good use and proceeded to play her for a fool. My name is Justus by the way, and I am Ava’s little brother.
I was gnawing on a piece of apple one day and saw her at her little desk, staring off into space, muttering mild, infantile obscenities under her breath. Writer’s block I quickly deduced. I’ve seen it before. So I crawled over and asked her what she was working on.
“Work?” she said coyly, as I predicted she might. (We both read Twain you see.) “What do you call work?”
“Writing,” I replied.
“Why, writing isn’t work,” she said. “It suits me. Does a girl get a chance to write every day?”
Of course that’s when I knew I had her in the palm of my hand. “Say sis”, I suggested, “why don’t you let me write a while?”
“Well, I don’t know…”, she pretended to protest. “GD is awful particular about…”
“Ah, he’ll never know the difference,” I persisted. “I’ll even give you my apple. Just let me try. Maybe writing will suit me too.”