(no subject)
Last January when my father dropped me off at school he and I went to Borders to kill some time before our dinner reservations. I was looking at the new edition of Strunk and White, which is illustrated. My Dad said, "Do you own this?" I said, "No. I've read most of it. I can write." He said to me, "You can't write without Strunk and White."
In his typical qay of doing things, he bought me a copy--probably the next day, but without telling me, slipped it into my stacks of books in my room (now which stand as tall as I). When looking for something, I pulled it out. A brand new copy with no inscription, carefully placed between books of poetry where a slim book goes realtively unnoticed.
Well. Maybe now I'll be able to write.
In his typical qay of doing things, he bought me a copy--probably the next day, but without telling me, slipped it into my stacks of books in my room (now which stand as tall as I). When looking for something, I pulled it out. A brand new copy with no inscription, carefully placed between books of poetry where a slim book goes realtively unnoticed.
Well. Maybe now I'll be able to write.