She’s my sister, and I love her writing. Not all of it, she’s a little off-kilter, to tell you the truth. But, occasionally she’ll pull it together to write something that even I can grasp. When she does, it’s one of the best days of my life because I love her writing style. I love the topics she writes about. Even if it’s about how I treated her like shit when we were little. I don’t remember treating her badly on purpose without reason, but then repression is a lovely thing to have as one ages, isn’t it?
I’m working on her short story anthology, and it’s going to be amazing. We’re looking at publishing it within a week. Two max. She won awards for nearly every story in the book, and I’ve never seen anything like it.
The Harry Potter series should have been my sister’s. She just never thought of herself as a writer. She never thought she might sustain herself by writing. None of us siblings did. Nobody told us we could. All of us can write, with me being the worst of the group by far, but I am the one that has written the most and am able to make a living from it.
My sister seems to finally be blossoming.
Now, what about that brother of mine?