said.
Her face, her smile, her breathing, would be fine at the coffee shop. If she could smile at Sid Cole, she could smile at Miriam. As she sped to town she developed the leaden sensation, though, that she hadn’t just been right in her fears, but had actually caused something, yet again, to happen. That she’d willed this into being as surely as she’d brought about Cole’s implicit confessions. She was getting everything she wanted, but also—like in a nightmare, where you’re the author and also the victim—she was getting everything she feared: Miriam’s crush, Doug’s ineptitude, even the appearance of that stupid dress. She thought, I need to be careful what I fear next . And then she thought: What I fear next is madness . What I fear next is madness . What I fear next is madness .
31
I ’m so glad we can chat,” Frieda said, though she didn’t sound glad at all. Doug had gone on an absolute tear the past few weeks and finished the two new books, FedExing the diskettes and riding his bike triumphantly home from the post office.
“Something tells me I messed up.” He sat down with the phone base in his lap.
“Well, we can fix it. It’s not unusual that our writers find their voice and start embellishing a bit, and please take that as a compliment. You’re a real writer.”
“It was the eating disorder thing.”
“The problem, in this case, is that it’s the topic of the next book in the series, What’s Eating Molly , which has already been written. And then—the Cece book is wonderful, you really have an ear for her, but we meant for the character of the neighbor to be peripheral. As it is, you’ve fleshed him out so much that I think readers would expect him to return.”
“Right. Okay.”
“What it boils down to, really, is that you’ve made uninvited changes to the world of the story. And you know, a little thing can have huge repercussions down the line. Someone discovers they’re allergic to peanuts, for example, and then five books later—”
“I get it. How long do I have to fix this?”
Frieda sighed—an actual sigh, a rope around Doug’s neck. “Atthis point, you know, you’ve been fabulous, but we have faster writers, ones who can do this in their sleep. I’m going to bring one of them in, and they’ll split the payment.”
—
Doug was surprised how upset he was. There was the money issue, to be sure, the four thousand dollars he’d counted on cut down to two or less, and there was the ignominy of being, essentially, fired. But moreover he felt a sense of failure, of stupidity. He’d messed up something that should have been a piece of cake. And for what? For trying too hard. When here sat his other project, the real project, for which he’d accomplished nothing at all beyond breaking and entering.
He poured yesterday’s tepid coffee into his thermos. He was searching for milk when he heard Miriam sobbing again, this time from inside the rooms she shared with Case. He was about to make a silent joke about another dead Kennedy when he realized Case was in there with her, that the sobs were covering the rumble of an angry male voice. Doug heard the word disaster , and he heard actually and Texas and forget it . He waited longer than he was comfortable, listened for any reason to break down the door: slaps or crashes or sudden screams. But it was just this torrent of words and crying.
Doug started humming loudly as he dumped in a scoop of sugar and shook the thermos up. He gave words to the humming: This is my cue to leave. This is my cue to leave . Okay, then. He dug in his desk and found the diskettes that were Edwin Parfitt’s prison, and he found the bound copy of his dissertation, and he found last year’s research—Xeroxes and notes and outlines. He stuck them in his bag with the thermos. It had taken a punch in the balls from Frieda and Melissa Hopper, it had taken hysterical Texans spooking him from the house, but he would finally get to work.
And
Her face, her smile, her breathing, would be fine at the coffee shop. If she could smile at Sid Cole, she could smile at Miriam. As she sped to town she developed the leaden sensation, though, that she hadn’t just been right in her fears, but had actually caused something, yet again, to happen. That she’d willed this into being as surely as she’d brought about Cole’s implicit confessions. She was getting everything she wanted, but also—like in a nightmare, where you’re the author and also the victim—she was getting everything she feared: Miriam’s crush, Doug’s ineptitude, even the appearance of that stupid dress. She thought, I need to be careful what I fear next . And then she thought: What I fear next is madness . What I fear next is madness . What I fear next is madness .
31
I ’m so glad we can chat,” Frieda said, though she didn’t sound glad at all. Doug had gone on an absolute tear the past few weeks and finished the two new books, FedExing the diskettes and riding his bike triumphantly home from the post office.
“Something tells me I messed up.” He sat down with the phone base in his lap.
“Well, we can fix it. It’s not unusual that our writers find their voice and start embellishing a bit, and please take that as a compliment. You’re a real writer.”
“It was the eating disorder thing.”
“The problem, in this case, is that it’s the topic of the next book in the series, What’s Eating Molly , which has already been written. And then—the Cece book is wonderful, you really have an ear for her, but we meant for the character of the neighbor to be peripheral. As it is, you’ve fleshed him out so much that I think readers would expect him to return.”
“Right. Okay.”
“What it boils down to, really, is that you’ve made uninvited changes to the world of the story. And you know, a little thing can have huge repercussions down the line. Someone discovers they’re allergic to peanuts, for example, and then five books later—”
“I get it. How long do I have to fix this?”
Frieda sighed—an actual sigh, a rope around Doug’s neck. “Atthis point, you know, you’ve been fabulous, but we have faster writers, ones who can do this in their sleep. I’m going to bring one of them in, and they’ll split the payment.”
—
Doug was surprised how upset he was. There was the money issue, to be sure, the four thousand dollars he’d counted on cut down to two or less, and there was the ignominy of being, essentially, fired. But moreover he felt a sense of failure, of stupidity. He’d messed up something that should have been a piece of cake. And for what? For trying too hard. When here sat his other project, the real project, for which he’d accomplished nothing at all beyond breaking and entering.
He poured yesterday’s tepid coffee into his thermos. He was searching for milk when he heard Miriam sobbing again, this time from inside the rooms she shared with Case. He was about to make a silent joke about another dead Kennedy when he realized Case was in there with her, that the sobs were covering the rumble of an angry male voice. Doug heard the word disaster , and he heard actually and Texas and forget it . He waited longer than he was comfortable, listened for any reason to break down the door: slaps or crashes or sudden screams. But it was just this torrent of words and crying.
Doug started humming loudly as he dumped in a scoop of sugar and shook the thermos up. He gave words to the humming: This is my cue to leave. This is my cue to leave . Okay, then. He dug in his desk and found the diskettes that were Edwin Parfitt’s prison, and he found the bound copy of his dissertation, and he found last year’s research—Xeroxes and notes and outlines. He stuck them in his bag with the thermos. It had taken a punch in the balls from Frieda and Melissa Hopper, it had taken hysterical Texans spooking him from the house, but he would finally get to work.
And
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