There was a time when an author’s only job was to turn out marketable, respectably error-free manuscripts. At least, that’s what they tell me. It may well be an urban myth. Since I was first published in 2006, writers have been expected to wear many hats—publicity maven, internet guru, webmistress, public speaker, Facebook queen and Twitter magnet. Don’t get me started on Pinterest. It should come with a warning to writers who are easily seduced by time-sucks that “Here there be monsters.” Some my author friends have assistants to help them with such things as promo and posting on social networks. One writer I know pays someone to do her research and another has an assistant who specializes in plotting. While I’d never outsource research or plotting, I have to admit it would be a luxury to have someone to deal with the less writerly aspects of my job. However, my writing assistants are incapable of helping me with those things. You see, typing in a tweet requires opposable thumbs. And an IQ higher than 15. My writing assistants are my two dogs—Mack and Harry. They are a pair of puppy mill rejects who found their way into our family,…