Bernice was beside herself. In a time of relative boredom, she’d penned a novel. She asked the cleaning lady at work her name and used that name in the title. She printed it off and sent “Gabrielle’s Rottweiler” to various publishers. She waited a few months and got nothing but rejections. Bernice took her manuscript and tossed it into the fire. Good riddance to bad rubbish, she said.
Archibald stopped typing. He was tired of writing factual stuff. “Why not create some fiction for a change?”
Bernice was beside herself. In a time of relative boredom, she’d penned a novel. She asked the cleaning lady at work her name and used that name in the title. She printed it off, sent it to a publisher “just for fun”, and within a matter of months, “Gabrielle’s Rottweiler” was a best seller. It sold over fourteen million copies. With the proceeds, Bernice bought a mansion. She resigned from her job and spent her time gardening and travelling.
“Yes,” thought Archibald, “writing fiction is so much more fun.”