My muses left me something scary this time. “So, have you always been...like this?”

What? Blonde, foulmouthed, a flaming liberal?

Yeah, once the hair grew in...I’m happy it doesn’t glow in the dark anymore. No, came late to cursing, I might have been even seventeen.(Which is late for us baby busters.) I think I’ve been a liberal since middle school or something, Phoenix’s own Lisa Simpson...

Oh, shit, it is all too obvious, he wants to know what they all want to know...scream of sirens, flashing lights, have you ever walked? Do you miss it? Would I, in your place? From that angle, this is the most boring story in America. No Michael Landon therapist ever held my hand and told me I was “gonna beat this thing,” to my knowledge anyway.(I can’t quite discount it though...it was the ‘70s. My mother would have been more comfortable with inspiration that looked like Graham Greene or Isaac Hayes, but she never mentioned Graham or Isaac either; I’m not sure how much they knew about what went wrong, right then, anyway, and she’s never been one to talk about that.

“Why do you want to know?” she says, with the kind of skepticism that would have been nice in our family at treaty time.

“Because...”feeling lame in more ways than one...”people keep asking.”

“Fuck ‘em...” my tree of a mom that I didn’t fall far from says “it’s not their business. Tell ‘em to read a fucking book.”

“Ok, so I wanna know because I wanna know...it’s my business, right?” The search for knowledge angle never fails to work on my mother.

But still she sighs...my touchy-feely, get deep and intimate urges never have sat right with Mom since I was eight and learned to write poems from a book.”You didn’t get that from me,” she said, when I showed her. “I don’t know why you have to dig up this old crap...one question. One, okay?”

That’s what I think of when I say “ Yeah. When I was born. Brain injury.”

And I get the well-worn punch line “Gee, you seem so...normal.’

Damn, erika, just...damn.

I was just as shocked. Honestly.

erika, I'm afraid my immediate reaction is to say something remarkably forthright to your mom.

Because, fuck yes, it really is your business, and the sigh? Would have provoked me to murder.

"How many children do you have?" perfect strangers say. It's the standard conversational gambit around here.

I manage a weary smile. "None."

The flicker goes through their eyes. Bafflement, curiosity, a lurking unease that says they might be on delicate ground. Most of them just can't help saying carefully "Oh?" Some of them blithely add "Why not?"

I could say flatly "None of your business," I could just stare at them. Depending on my mood I'll say honestly, "I decided that if we weren't in a reasonable situation to raise a family by the time I hit 30, then children were out of the picture." But that gets me chirps of "But it's not too late!"

I don't tell them that I rejoice in my childless state, that I'm afraid giving enough of myself to be a good mother would have driven me mad, that I have nightmares of coping with adolescence at the same time as my husband's illnesses. Even children who aren't spawn of Satan have a keenly honed ability to be annoying, and I'm afraid of what the lurking shadows of my temper would have done. The very idea of being pregnant, of having a separate entity feeding off my body, makes me shudder. There are no give-backs with babies, no easy way to say, "No, this was a huge mistake, I'd like to return this." The stakes are too high.

Instead I shrug and say, "Just never worked out."

Wow, erika and connie. Powerful stuff.

So, is this an encouraging excerpt from a rejection letter?

I regret having to tell you that I've decided to pass on this. I wasn't convinced enough of being able to place this manuscript, considering the very tight and demanding conditions of the market. However, please keep in mind that there is a great deal of merit in your work, and a part of my decision was based on my client list being so full at this time. I'm being extremely selective when considering new work.

This is certainly a subjective decision that I've made, so I hope that you will continue to send THE SERGEANT'S LADY elsewhere. There is always the possibility that you could find someone who feels otherwise.

The sense I'm getting from all my rejections is, "It's not you, it's the tight historical romance market." Which, yeah, I know that. But it's not a dead market, just a flat one. I just want someone to give me the chance.

Which means I need to go to the next name on the list and get another query out there. Dammit.

Deb, that conversation took place years ago. I suspect it might be different now, but the pattern of not discussing is fairly entrenched now.

Susan, yes, definitely encouraging.

Deb, that conversation took place years ago. I suspect it might be different now, but the pattern of not discussing is fairly entrenched now.

Ah. Not recent, then? But the entrenched pattern is the kicker every damned time.

Yeah, pretty much.People still tell me I seem too normal to have gone through this for life, which makes me think how little they know me or that a sense of pop culture covers a multitude of sins.

People still tell me I seem too normal to have gone through this for life

This seriously boggles me. Do they think suddenly losing one's sight, for instance, would make someone more philosophical about it? Bizarre.