Asked — Page 25

Jan at the standing desk, midweek morning, the laptop open to Naomi's email

#01

The Email, Naomi

Naomi's email arrived on a Tuesday at 10:14 AM.

Naomi runs No. 217 — twelve thousand subscribers, an essay every other Sunday, a reputation for good prose by people who have not yet been asked to be writers. Hadn't been asked. Naomi was, this Tuesday, asking. Four short paragraphs. Whatever you'd like. A small thing. Two hundred dollars. Two hundred dollars isn't, in the world, a lot. In the world I'd been doing this work in, it was the first money. Read the email three times. Didn't, that morning, reply.

Jan in the apartment, the on — for the first time

#02

The Sage Cardigan

Bought the sage cardigan two weeks ago at a small shop on Franklin.

The second cardigan. An alternate. Hadn't, until the morning of Naomi's email, worn it. Kept it in the closet for something. The something hadn't arrived. The something had, this Wednesday, arrived. Put the sage cardigan on. Looked at myself in the small mirror. The mirror doesn't, generally, say much. The mirror said: new. The rust was the cardigan I wrote in. The sage, it turned out, was the cardigan I might draft in. The drafting is, I am beginning to understand, a different activity than the writing. The drafting is for someone. The writing was, until now, mostly for me.

Back at the standing desk on Wednesday afternoon, the reply window open, the reply visibly short (three sentences)

#03

The Yes

Wrote Naomi back on Wednesday afternoon.

The reply was three sentences. Thank you for asking. Yes. I will have a draft by next Friday. Didn't include I'm so honored, which I typed and deleted twice. Didn't include let me know if you change your mind, which I also typed and deleted. Included a thank-you, a yes, and a date. The sending was, this time, brief. Pressed the button at 3:42 PM. Closed the laptop. Made tea. The yes was a yes. The yes had a date attached to it. The date was, on the Wednesday I pressed send, ten days away.

Jan at the kitchen table, the sage cardigan on, the open and beside it a small pile of loose pages with handwritten drafts

#04

The Drafting

Drafted for four days.

About the lamp. About the cup. About the cardigan, briefly and badly. Threw all of these out — or kept them in a small folder. Folder. I am, evidently, becoming a person with a folder. At hour three of day three, no draft, and looked across at the chair. The chair I dragged off the curb in 2024. Hadn't written about it. Sat down to. The first sentence was the right one: I have, for four years, sat in a chair I dragged in off the curb. The first sentence did the work. The draft, by day five, was three pages.

#05

The Cut

Cut the second page entirely.

That page was where I tried to explain the chair. The chair didn't need explaining. The first page was the chair. The third was what the chair had held. The middle was connective tissue I'd assumed Naomi would want. Naomi hadn't asked for connective tissue. She asked for a page. Cut to a page and a half. Cut another paragraph. The piece was a page — began I have, for four years, sat in a chair I dragged in off the curb and ended I will, on the morning I find someone else has dragged in another chair, sit in that one too. Read it aloud. Read cleanly. Emailed Naomi on Sunday at 4:42 PM.

#06

The Sending

Sent the piece to Naomi at 4:42 PM on Sunday.

Attached as a .docx file because Naomi asked for .docx. The body had three short sentences: Hi Naomi—here's the piece. Title is "The Chair." Let me know if you need a change. Didn't include the apology I'd drafted ("sorry it's not longer"). Didn't include the disclaimer ("I'm not sure if this is what you wanted"). Included the file, a title, and a single offer. Pressed send. The whoosh sound. The laptop closed. Made tea. Sat on the couch. The piece was, between 4:42 PM Sunday and whatever Naomi did on Monday, no longer mine.

#07

The Publish Day

Published at 9 AM on Sunday.

No. 217's page, my name on it. by Jan. Naomi had asked what name I wanted. I said just Jan. She hadn't pressed. By 9:14, thirty-one likes. By 9:42, a comment — from a woman named Hilde who said I, too, dragged in a chair. Made tea. Sat down. Stood back up. The morning was the morning. My name was on a page someone else made.

#08

The Money

The money landed on Monday morning.

The transaction line: No. 217 LLC. $200.00. Had been, until that morning, a person whose paid work always involved an HR system and an office and a manager I hadn't chosen. This was the first money I'd ever made for a thing I wrote by myself alone. Two hundred dollars isn't, in the world, a lot. Have made, in my prior life, money in the hundreds of thousands. The two hundred felt different. Felt, specifically, like evidence. Didn't know what to do with the evidence. Closed the app. Made tea. The money sat in the account, untouched, for eight days while I figured out what it should become.

#09

The Wednesday-After

The wobble settled.

Spent the two hundred on a new pair of slightly-better shoes, a frame for the Hangzhou photo (pinned to the wall, unframed, for two years), and dinner out with August — the first thing I'd ever bought him, though I didn't know what he was yet. The piece was on the No. 217 page where it would slowly find readers. Wrote in the notebook: the wobble has settled. Wrote it because I was surprised to find it had. Closed the notebook. The lamp was on. The cat on the chair. The chair was the chair.