Today, I spoke with my agent, who mentioned that I have to write a book . . . except nothing in that clause is true except the word “book.”

Apparently, he has decided that I need to have a book, so without speaking to me, he put together the publishing piece and has been looking for ghostwriters.  He thinks I am too busy to write it myself.  The problem, he said, is that it is impossible to find the right ghostwriter because I am too much of a snobby wordsmith to allow anyone to write anything for me.

Yes, that’s the problem.  Obviously.

I told him, archly, I will happily carry a dictaphone around with me to capture my extraordinary brilliance.  I mean, who would not want to hear me wax rhapsodic about loose tea and weight loss?

I did not ask the obvious question: a book about what?  I am afraid I know the answer.

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