She had plagiarized Lewis Carroll. She had borrowed characters from other writers. She had borrowed themes and genres. This week her ideas were running thin. But fishing in a bathtub for toy fish, she knew, was not the answer. So she went to shower and dress, still musing. Murder wasn’t her style . . . could she write about fashion? The frog in the shower was no help, of course, it was silent, as it always was.
“If only I could talk,” the frog thought, “I’d tell her to turn the temperature down a tad. And to kiss me.”
“If only I could talk,” the frog thought, “I’d tell her to turn the temperature down a tad. And to kiss me.”
