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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