Fiction | September 01, 1993

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My mother calls me from Old Town,Maine at eight in the morning, an hour into my writing time.  “You sound grumpy, Katinka,” she says.  “Did I interrupt something?”

“Just my work,” I groan.

“As long as it’s just your work,” she says.

It’s her social whirl voice, her social work voice.  Send this girl to the prom. I sigh.  It’s my own fault.  I brough a silencer.  But what if a publisher wants to ring me up?  I turn off my computer.

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