I arrive late and my writers are already at work, sixteen sitting around several tables shoved together. They hunch and click away, some scribbling violently.
They wear nice sweaters this crisp October morning. One stares at the ceiling, chewing and swallowing a snack. Another s posture needs improvement--he's a poet. One has a new hip and tilts to the side. One wears a Raggedy Anne sweatshirt. Another has lovely blonde hair in a ponytail.
The prompt is Let Them Eat Cheese. Not bad, but certainly not up to my standards.
This group desperately needs my leadership, that much is obvious.
As soon as I finish my coffee.
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