Mamma Mia

Dear Lady Ursula, yesterday I spoke at length with The Lady Percy, she of the reformed tooth and manners, and we had a jolly delightful chat about the shameful plight of some talented young women writers wringing their hands after being hung out by their blase agents to cry and dry. But also we touched upon the mother as the alpha and omega of the narrative as well as its silent and often dead partner. For who knows the story of the mother, but the mother, but who writes of the mother? We asked.

The Lady Percy and myself sauntered nimbly through the databases of writers and chillingly realized the mother is an ousted figure because once in a narrative, she would be, as it were, like buttermilk in tea, churning the plot into impotability.

Whereupon, as Edward readied my mango-tini, a tuneful protest came upon me and I rose to my pink piano:

O Mammma! Mamma!
Key to all dramma!
But I dont wanna
More Dramma with you!

I know I ought
Bring you to plot--
But on third thought--
Id rather nottt!

Thus the plight of all mothers, which I selfishly, as you know, shunned.

But anon I will tell you how your quote on the mother as mother of all story rang so many chords for me that I am a jazz symphony, discordantly chiming.