Clutching her award, the beautiful young writer dedicated her maiden novel to her literary hero.
During the reception she broke away from her doting publishers and approached the cumbersome old fellow at his table.
“I owe you so much,” she gushed.
“Think it a gift. I entered this same event thirty years ago. Got nowhere. Flat rejected.”
The novelist raised her eyebrows. “Sorry.”
“That’s life. You ever read that story?”
“Loved it.”
“Then you appreciate the uncanny similarities. Your version is much improved.”
The girl reddened. “I guess.”
“But you owe me nothing,” he smiled. I’ll cherish your flattery instead.”
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