I hate to say it. I mean I really hate to say it. They’re pretty good at rooting their own horns, or at least lecturing on how to toot it daily to keep it in prime condition. And you can bet they’re rooting it on time, to the designated millisecond.
But what would we do without type As?
Half of my clothes would still have that little plastic tag if it weren’t for the type As in my life.
In fiction, you’re either a planner or a pantser (as in flying by the seat of your pants-er). Well in life (and maybe a little in writing), I’m a pantser. Which is to say I’m not a person who can reliably get myself (or my blouse) to a pair of scissors. The fact that the scissors are 14 feet away is not important.
Before you ask, no, the tag…
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