Today, in the last boxes I have yet to unpack, I found five versions of this novel I had forgotten I'd ever written. Five versions and a publisher's rejection letter. Somewhere there is probably a whole file full of rejections."I'm sorry, darling," I whispered. "I'm really sorry."
It was the first time in my life I could remember being at a loss for an explanation. All I knew for certain was that I was to blame.
My shoulders ached, my throat was so tight I could hardly speak, my head swam in guilty panic. My entire body was shaking.
Quite rightly. It had failed me utterly.
It would not let me do what I wanted to do. What I had dreamed of doing for as long as I could remember. And it wouldn't let me do it with the first woman I had ever met whom I totally, absolutely desired.
The woman I had just married.
"Maybe you're nervous," Sonia suggested brightly. "Maybe we're both too nervous." Surely it must be obvious that, however much I tried, I was feeling no lust at all. How could she be so calm about it?
Yes, I had honestly forgotten I had written this novel. I'm not even sure it is anywhere on my computer's memory, either. Yet, when I was transcribing the opening praragraphs here just now, I barely had to check the hard copy: I knew the words by heart.
PS It is, or was, called This could be the Last Time. Of course it wasn't.
