I am hearing nothing on my creative writing these days.

At the end of the summer, I got a piece of fiction taken by Literary Mama and I am waiting for a contract from Ladybug Magazine for a children's story, so I'm excited about both those things. I also received about ten hundred million rejections, which is, in a way, better than silence.

And in keeping with my impatient personality, I would like to hear from some other journals, even though--and history tells us it is so--the answer will probably be "This piece is not right for our publication. . .Best wishes. . ."

Perhaps my impatience derives from a deeper source: the complete absence of my own creative writing right now; it makes me churn deep down. I feel as though I stop hearing, seeing, tasting as well as I do when I am writing. I am WRITING, of course, in the form of my weekly column for the newspaper, and I am teaching my class at the U, which I'm enjoying immensely, but something feels a bit off, as if I've left the kettle on or there's something sour in the fridge that I've been avoiding for a while. And it's forming a nasty yellowish pool that will stick to the sponge when I finally address it. . .speaking of which, I think I have some rather mature tuna fish on the bottom shelf. This is not a metaphor. I really do.

On a different note, Beatrix seems to have given up her naps, which means less quiet time for one mama. What in the world?

It seems I have given up titles. I never was any good at them anyway. Did you know columnists never title their own columns? It is done for them, and it feels a bit as if you're having your shoe laces tied for you after dressing yourself. It actually is because of the lining space and is a formatting issue. . .and Bea's up again, and I'm gone.