<the most belated tag in the history of belated tags>
Luna scratched out a line of what she had written and scribbled around it in loopy manuscript. Much better, she thought, reading the sentence over again. Having ideas wasn't the problem for Luna, it was articulating them in a way that made sense, not just to her, but to everyone else.
She didn't think of it as dumbing down her ideas. Merely, she knew it to be a different way of speaking. Using language that others spoke so fluently.
Her time in France had been well-spent, and she'd enjoyed herself a great deal. The problem was, now, that she had so much information to write about...she didn't have enough column inches. She was already working on articles two issues ahead, just to pace herself.
The coffee next to her left hand was cooling. She liked it for the smell, mostly. The taste was nice, but it smelled better. She'd never been a caffeine person anyway.
Luna leaned back in her chair, taking a breather, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. She looked up and saw Michael Corner, who looked for all the world like he'd been hit with a Guinness truck.
"Oh dear," she said to herself. This was not going to be good.