C. S. Lewis

It was something I had been wondering about for a long time. Should I risk talking to Carl? It might be painful to hear his opinion.

Apparently my distress showed, for, one day recently, my Corgi asked, “Is something bothering you?”

I took a deep breath and launched out. “Do you think that my writing resembles that of C. S. Lewis in any small, miniscule, tiny way?”

He turned his head to the side and set his gaze on me.

My stomach turned to jello. He thinks it’s preposterous.

Carl cleared his throat; my judgment was at hand. “C. S. Lewis?”

 Was it possible he didn’t know? “C. S. Lewis. Clive Staples Lewis.”

Carl nodded. “The founder of the office supply chain. We get our printer paper there. But I didn’t know that the founder is also a writer.”

We had been down this route before. It usually didn’t end well. In anticipation, I let annoyance into my tone. “He doesn’t write. At least I don’t think he does.”

“Too busy tending to all his stores? No time to write novels?”

“I suppose.”

“Then how can I compare your writing to his? I suppose I could say that your writing is more voluminous. But I suspect you want more. You want me to say that the quality of your prose sets you in a league apart. And it might. It might also be true that your use of humor surpasses that of Mr. Sears or Mr. Depot. But I have no way to compare.”

I made one last attempt to salvage the situation. Ever heard of The Chronicles of Narnia?” Carl thought for a moment, then, “You authored a series of books in your computer that involve Pancake the Mouse and a number of farm animals. I always thought a good title for them would be, The Chronicles of Barnia.

I gave up.

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