I had a thought last night, after briefly abandoning Anna Karenina so I could reread Boston Jane for the fifth time.
Since I spend so much of my time drooling over literature that is written for twelve-year-olds, and since I happen to think that said literature is much better than any other kind because it’s so unpretentious, so solely focused on expanding young minds with fantastic stories, what if I tried writing a story like that myself?
Well, I’m trying, starting as soon as I get some spare time. Believe it or not, the current inspiration is a certain moon orbiting Jupiter.
I work with what I have, I guess.