In my years as a journalist, I’ve had some challenging assignments: file a piece about an underground dinner for Michelin-starred chefs that ends at 3am in time for it to hit the morning pages, write an obit for an almost-dead person by calling up his nearest and dearest and asking for a few punchy quotes. But all pale in comparison with my new assignment which, like Sisyphus, I must complete nightly.
“Tell me a story about a book that is broken, and then the unicorn comes for a sleepover, but she’s really big,” my preschooler barks from her bed, her face awash in the neon pink emanating from her polar bear nightlight.
