It is good that I did not leave my home to learn about writing novels during wagon-train times. News of the novel's death would not have reached me until after I'd packed my few earthly belongings into my wagon and traveled to Michigan, knowing I would never see my friends back in Texas ever again. Upon my arrival, I would be told that the novel was dead, and after I was done weeping and cursing my very existence, I'd have to choose between prostitution or marrying the widowed butcher, who was looking for a strong-backed woman to take care of his bratty, bereaved children. He'd smell like raw meat when he'd lay me on the bed to do his business and I'd have to take up religion just so I could pray that he would kindly not beat me. Nowadays, at least I can fly home for the weekend for a visit, and if the novel is dead, we have the Internet to lament its demise. Or we can revive the novel. Blessed be the future!
~ Monique Daviau
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