"The writing bug has bitten my wife," observed my husband to our neighbour, Mr.B. "You know, I opted for voluntary retirement, hoping to lead a life of ease and peace. But my better half has other ideas. She wants to become a writer - and she has made me her editor and despatch man."
"Why has this urge suddenly descended upon your wife?" asked Mr. B, with an amused smile.
"Well, as no regular pay packet arrives every month, she thinks she can contribute her mite to the family exchequer. She also thinks she can fulfil her lifelong ambition of becoming a freelance writer. Killing two birds with one stone, as it were!" said my husband, sarcastically.
"How far has she succeeded in her efforts in the literary line?" probed Mr. B.
"So far she has received only rejection slips. A sizeable amount of money goes in stationery, getting her articles typed, and then of course on postage. Still, like Robert Bruce of old, she believes in going on trying until she succeeds. Woe unto me, that I have fallen into her trap," concluded my husband.
I thought it appropriate at this juncture to offer tea and snacks. After greeting me, Mr. B remarked, "T hear there is a writer in the family. You are a dark horse indeed!"
"Don't believe all that your friend says," I replied. "It is actually our elder daughter who has pushed me into writing. She says I should not turn into a cabbage and should make full use of my talents. I have taken up her challenge and have ventured into the world of writing."
"Well, wish you good luck," said Mr. B encouragingly.
Just then, our younger daughter came in with an envelope. "For you, ma," she said.
Eagerly opening it, I found it contained the results of a short story competition I had taken part in.
Alas! Unlike the angel's record, which contained Abu Ben Adam's name at the top, this list did not have my name anywhere in the winners' list.
"Yet another blank," I murmured to no one in particular, as I went in to nurse my hurt ego.
