They Felt Like Dwarves, So They Looked For Towers.

Lately I've been writing a book. This is not unusual, but what is weird is all the suggestions I've been getting. Your family is going to put me out of a job if they keep this up.

A few days ago, I learned why it's usually a bad idea to notify one's family of personal writing endeavors while still in the planning stages.

"I'm writing a story about the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse," I informed my mother in response to her quizzically raised eyebrow as I tapped away at my keyboard.

"Oh!" my little brother exclaimed from the sofa. "Make Death a hippie!"

"I think he should be a drag queen," my mom said sagely.

"Have their horses be trucks!" my brother suggested.

"Pestilence should be a hypochondriac," my dad chipped in from behind his paper.

"Write about the Four Dachshunds of the Apocalypse," said Mom.

I blinked a fews times, got up, and relocated to my room.

Eventually, I broke down and wrote Pestilence as a hypochondriac. Don't tell my dad.

I can't believe you actually went with that idea. I thought it was clever. Yeah, but I didn't come up with it! Oy, never trust a writer. Poor, unappreciated muse. *pats*