Harold looked over Lucy's shoulder. "What are you doing, love?"
"I'm writing a novel," she said. "It can't be that hard, surely? Speccy Stevens' dad writes them and he's really creepy. If creepy people can write novels then normal people like me can, too."
Harold patted her shoulder, wondering when he should tell her she was artificially inseminated by a fallen angel, her father was a half-demon, her grandmother a faery and her birth mother a vampire. He left her to it, wandering into the kitchen to make them both a hot chocolate. At least she didn't read Stephanie Myers.