So I'm applying for various writing fellowships around the country. They're fussy, you know, and each one wants something different. One of them wants eight copies of the first 35 pages of my manuscript. Stapled. Your average Swingline won't do the trick. But luckily, I've got my dad, who in terms of handiness falls somewhere between Bob Vila and Red Green.
I bring him the eight copies. He gets out his roofing stapler. My literary masterpieces are now fastened to a scrap piece of wood in the basement. He pries them off with a spackle-covered putty knife. Uses a hammer and a weird-shaped tool to tap the heavy staples into place.
The fellowship committee has got to appreciate that my manuscript can withstand hurricane-force winds.