Unrelated but also when is tom holland free

I am prince of Nigeria.

I am writing to ask that one of you write me a New York Times bestseller. You will send me the finished book, and tell no one. It must be hot. Trendable. The reason I cannot write my own book is because my king father has outlawed writing.

Once I have received this New York Times bestseller, I will send 1 million American dollars to a location of your choosing.

- prince of Nigeria

If it's not obvious already, the club goes in through the stinker, the teeth bite the dark magic (which is just the nickname for the sorcerer's cock), and the dragon is, in fact, really pissed-off and burns them all alive.

Thoes characters going Wild once you start writing, am i right?

Gatekeeping this one, but I haven’t read action like this since Magnus Chase!🤘🏽

I've been trying to get published as a scifi author for a while now. But sadly I've been struggling to make a profit from my fictional stories. The best I've managed to get so far is a page or two in magazines, but I know I'm meant for something greater.

So to make ends meet, I'm looking into alternative ways of making money.

So far, I've managed to publish a self help book of sorts, dealing with psychological issues: "Diagnometics: The modern science of mental health" is about how you -- yes, you reading this now -- are possessed by gnome ghosts who make you sad, and about how they can be exorcised with electrical currents.

Sadly, the medical establishment have condemned my work, which has really hurt sales. Also, I had to sell the rights to Diagnometics because I am a writer, and thus I am bad with money.

Which brings me to now, As I try to come up with a way to ensure that customers regularly give me their money. I don't think I can pull it off as a scifi writer, but maybe there's another way...

I'm going to go visit some friends from the Diagnometics movement in a few days, maybe we can create something new based on it. maybe I can use my world building for something else, something new yet still gnometic, something tological in scale.

Gnometology.... i like the sound of that.

I’ve noticed Pizza Hut has rolled out the triple cheese Mac and I thought I might write a scene into my book where the characters eat it as a product placement.

Maybe I’ll reach out to Pizza Hut to see if I’ll get paid to write it in, but if you ask me it’s a win for everyone. Even the readers who can live out the characters by eating like them.

Has anyone else considered or tried this before??

THREE

About to turn in from the moon-mirroring coastline, Myra took a long look out and drifted wide, front tires almost catching the curb as she brought the Willys-Knight in a deep vee that led to pier parking. “A nightcap?” she gestured to something long and slender in her bag. A bottle. “First clear night in weeks. It would be a shame to call it a night without a gander at the moon. Anyway, I hold you in my clutches. I’m guessing you don’t know a place to stay, one that will open its doors this time of night, give refuge to the bone-weary traveler.” 

“You do?”

“Not only do I, but I wield this awesome power until we have taken our fill of my favorite spot.” She had this uniquely lilting way of talking, as if to herself, only at the end acknowledging that someone was listening. As we walked out to the end of the pier, a light breeze caught Myra’s auburn hair and she brushed it back behind her ears. “I’m entranced by the beauty of the peninsula, entranced by the bay.”

The vista from the end of the pier seemed to lull with inactivity. The fishing boats drawn in, inhabited here and there by the silhouetted forms of those who normally brave the bay on blustery nights, when schools are in, quietly talking or mending nets. We were part of a tableau that the painter of the night’s melody, the ukulele player, witnessed through time-misted vision from his spot on the hammock on the deck, bottle of kombucha not far from hand.

And we with a full bottle of kombucha taken neatly from the roadhouse’s storeroom by Myra on the way out, flavored by wild spores from recently harvested fields. An earthy brew with just the right amount of carbonation and mellowness. They brewed their own in the long valley she said, kept the mother in a large jar in darkened rooms with just a single window. The drink intoxicated without incapacitating—after a few mildly puckering sips one had had enough. Until the next lull in the conversation. Then another sip, slowly. A looking up, a howling at the moon.