“I tried revising my monster book,” I told my dad. “It was awful. Just terrible. It turns out I have a really hard time writing an original monster hunter, since I’ve never been one or met one.”
“Write what you know, eh?” my dad said. “I told you that.”
“So now I’m writing a book about a woman who works in an office and nothing magical or weird happens,” I said.
“I told you that two years ago, I think.”
“Because I know exactly how it feels to be a receptionist, and I think I can be funny about it.”
“Basically, exactly what I’ve been saying you should do all along.”
I gave him a look. “Next, I’m writing a book about a dad who says ‘I told you so’ once too often and his daughter gets annoyed and feeds him to the neighbor’s dog,” I said.
“No, no,” he said. “Write what you know.”
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