Fiction | September 01, 1993

This story is not currently available online.

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.

If you are a student, faculty member, or staff member at an institution whose library subscribes to Project Muse, you can read this piece and the full archives of the Missouri Review for free. Check this list to see if your library is a Project Muse subscriber.

SEE THE ISSUE

SUGGESTED CONTENT