Chapter SeventeenTwo days of work had produced about twenty pages of note scratchings scattered over Sam's coffee table. Ellie rested her head in her hands, blew a wisp of hair off her forehead.
Sam pushed back from the table, groaning. “I didn't realize being a bad writer was such hard work.”
“You didn't?” Ellie said innocently. “I always thought it came easy for you.” She ducked the pencil he chucked at her.
“Walked into that one,” he said.
She placed her palms on the table. “So, what have we got?”
He sifted through the notes. “There's always the rosary-bead-wielding cyborg nun.”
She shook her head. “She wasn't a cyborg.”
“Might make it extra bad if she was.”
“True. What about that plot generator app you told me about when we were trying to come up with ideas for the Mason Shaw b
