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epitome of incomprehensibility
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A radio host is interviewing two authors about their works in progress and the second one is me.
At first I don't think I can get through to her. I'm hearing her voice over a small fuzzy radio, but can I call in to answer the host THROUGH my radio?
Yes, it turns out, but badly: I press a button on the side and answer her introduction of me with something like, "Hello, pleased to be here."
"I can't hear you very well. I think your voice isn't good," she answers.
"Is my voice bad or is it the radio?" I answer as a question. I'm trying to be playful, but I sound snarky.
Evidently, she (is it supposed to be Eleanor Wachtel on CBC?) hears something but isn't offended. Just a little pushy: "Are you finished your novel yet?"
"No," I say as loudly and clearly as possible, holding the button down whenever I speak. "I'm still working on the novel. But I recently published my first poetry book." I take a breath. "It's called Fanfiction_Is_for_Teenage_Girls and it's published by Cactus House Press."
...
That is the real_life truth; I'm surprised my dream_mind could remember the publisher, but maybe I shouldn't be. Credit to Willow and Devon for being memorable in good ways (I'll describe the thing soon, but Shiloh needs to pee).
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