“She just kept clacking away at the keys of that old typewriter. Clack. Clack. Mother loved words more than she ever loved me.”
“But you must have been proud when her first novel became a best seller?”
“No. She just began churning out more of the same.”
Police sirens blare. Blue lights flash. Handcuffs restrain.
The camera pans to a body floating face down, surrounded by lily-pads of manuscript pages. Dame Arathura Whistie will clack no more.
“Digby Dimblecheeks signing off.”