A funny story I wanted to share.
I have an 8-year-old son who is a very creative little guy. Many nights he writes a journal, and includes things about his day, some stream-of-consciousness poems, book reviews, or short non-fiction essays. Occasionally, he writes a story. Recently he wrote about a bacon-loving Yeti, who earned money to purchase bacon by clearing snow-filled driveways. When it hadn’t snowed for several days, and his bacon supply was diminished, he borrowed a snow-making machine to clog up his town with plenty of the white stuff, thereby ensuring him endless employment. It worked; his bacon stash (which he kept under his bed) was a healthy size once again.
I thought his story was well done. “That’s really, really creative,” I told him. “Really well done. Super job. You’re a great storyteller.”
“You think so?” Then he looked at me, narrowed his eyes, said, “Should we call your agent?”