Fiction, two ways

A friend of mine is writing a novel online, in serial form, just like Mr Dickens in the olden days, except  about a million times more interesting and readable. (Sorry, but I've never been a Dickens fan. Hard Times was just that, Bleak House even moreso.) I am in awe of how smoothly the story flows, how I read it and want more without even noticing, and the fact that - she claims! - she has the whole thing planned out in her head, even if now and then her characters turn around to her and announce that they're just not ready to do that yet. I suspect it's just that sort of easy readability that is in fact very difficult to pull off.

The tragedy is that she has very few readers, so I said I'd give her a plug over here. Go and have a look. Read the Introduction and then start at the Home page, where you'll find the table of contents. Then tell her you're reading and that you'd like some more, please. Because I want to know what happens.

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Mabel has moved on from announcing "Not again!" with as much italicization and eye-rolling as she can possibly inject into a two-word exclamation, to saying, "Forget it!" I think the girl has bershon all sewn up, at the tender age of three.

She got a new baby from the thrift store yesterday after her dental ordeal, because that's where we go when a new baby is in order but I only want to spend two bucks on it. For 1.95, she has a new "baby sister" whom she loves nearly as much as the last one, the one that cost an appalling $40 in FAO Schwartz for her birthday. This morning she staged a baby festival, but I'm not sure if that was a place you could get babies, or a place to bring your babies.

Dash has Santa Claus all figured out this year, which is something of a relief. Worrying about what we would do about Santa took up a good deal of my time even before he was born. In the end, we took a sort of middle path where we didn't push the myth, but didn't exactly explode it either. We had stockings, but didn't make a big to-do about who put the presents in them. In September or October this year, he whispered to me that he thought the parents really brought the presents, and I agreed, but told him we were still playing the game for Mabel and not to let the cat out of the bag.

He doesn't seem scarred for life by the lies we told him, or allowed him to believe, or failed to debunk, so I'm a bit more relaxed with Mabel. She has a vague idea that Santa, who is that guy with the red-and-white suit, is going to bring her presents at Christmas.

- What would you like for Christmas, Mabel?
- I think probably a baby. Because I like babies and puppies.
- So maybe Santa will bring you a puppy*. You have a lot of babies already.
- Yes, but I want a baby, because I like puppies but I need a new baby.

This conversation took place before the advent of yesterday's baby, but I'll wager her position hasn't changed. Because you can never have enough babies.

*Not a real puppy. No way, Jose.