I was woken up by the ghost of author Mary Shelley. 

I sat up in bed, all excited, and said that I was big fan of Frankenstein. She frowned and said, “Oh, you mean the movie.” I said, “No, the book.” 

The ghost of Mary Shelly smiled and said, “Thank you, most kind sir. It has been a while since I’ve been warmed by accolades.” 

I told her that I was also an author and showed her my book, Clutter Busting. She perused the first chapter. 

She set the book on my bed, hung her head, and in a confessional whisper said, “Whilst I was living, my writing station was haunted by a pulpy leviathan, the contents of which were the corpses of discarded manuscripts and spiritless correspondence.” 

I said, “At least it was ‘whilst.'”

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