Smug is as smug does, and Martin, committing his latest potboiler to the blogosphere, leaned back and reflected on nine-hundred words in just two hours. “That,” he reflected “is worth a congratulatory mint toffee.”
Reaching for the jar he found it empty. In the waste-basket lay seventy-five accusing square cellophane wrappers. They formed a neat epilogue to his efforts, as if to say ‘You will have dentures long before you have a published novel.”
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