I’m sitting in bed with my laptop, silently urging writing ideas to come.
Suddenly I am aware of soft snoring from the end of the bed. I look up and there is a cute 90lb ball of fur. I can’t resist. Slowly, ever…so…slowly I reach for my phone. I quietly scroll the camera icon upward.
Don’t you dare take my picture.
Sigh. Why not? You’re so cute and I love you and I want a picture of you looking cute.
You already have 8390 of them and you’re supposed to be writing, not procrastinating.
I don’t have 8390 of them and I’m not procrastinating, I’m searching for inspiration.
You could write about me. 8390 articles would be far better than 8390 out-of-focus photographs.
I could write about you, however, you don’t like to have your picture taken. In order for a post to be successful, you need at least a picture or two. At last count, I believe you didn’t like having your picture taken. In fact, I believe that you hate it.
I think you’re making that up about pictures and posts. Tell you what: if you write my memoirs, I suppose I could make an exception.
Your memoirs? Really? That’s a big word.
Yeah, well, I’m a big dog and I’m 8 now–don’t think I don’t know that you give me senior food and senior vitamins. If you tell my story, I’ll let you take a picture of me.
A picture? As in just one?
We’ll see how good your stories are.