Rhonda positioned her laptop in front of her prized wall of books and adjusted her red wool scarf. The navy striped top was unflattering, yes, but she had to look the part.
Logging on, her eyes fell upon corn-rowed Shaya in a camouflage singlet. Rhonda scoffed. ‘She wasn’t a writer! More like someone who’d accost you on the street. Steal your purse or ask for money.’
For the final assignment, Shaya got a high distinction. Rhonda, a pass.
“But I have a writing room! And I’ve read all these books!”
Furious, Rhonda went back to her books, and Shaya, her writing.