Nine moments of the doubt.
Late June into early July 2030. The middle of the book is the hard part. Two of the three sections are drafted. The third section — the closer-section, the and still part — is not landing. Jan considers, briefly, not finishing. She considers it on a specific Wednesday night, alone in the apartment, August at his old place. The body says: no. The body says: keep going.
Three strikethroughs.
The first sentence of the third section — the after — hasn't come for three days. Cross out the third attempt. The page has a blank space below. Sit with the blank space for forty-six minutes. Nothing comes. The lamp is on. The cat is on the chair. The work is not coming.
Walk the eleven blocks at 4:42 PM.
Most Tuesdays and Wednesdays since March the walk had produced a sentence. This Wednesday: nothing. The walk doesn't help. The bodega guy nods. The boba shop is closed. The dumpling shop is open — the son nods through the window. At minute eleven I have no sentence. Come home empty-handed.
August doesn't come Wednesday.
The Wednesdays are Jan-alone. The apartment is quieter than usual. Eat the soup. Watch an episode. Sit on the couch. By 9:42 PM I haven't written a sentence. The thought I'd been carrying for three days comes back: what if the third section is not coming because there is no third section. Sit with it. The thought doesn't go away.
11 PM.
What if I just stopped. Not a real thought — the kind that comes when the sentence hasn't arrived for three days. Hold it for eleven minutes. What if I emailed Daria and said the book is not coming. What if I returned the advance. Sit with it. The thought feels like a real possibility for those eleven minutes. At 11:25 PM the body says no. Not loudly. The way the body says things — by simply not being interested in the alternative.
Thursday at 6:58 AM, sit down at the kitchen table.
The body hasn't changed its mind overnight. The hand wants to write. On the fresh blank page, write not the first sentence of the third section — but a paragraph I'd been carrying for three days: about the lamp being the only consistent thing across the year. By 7:42 it'll become the seed of the first paragraph of the third section. The doubt doesn't lift Thursday morning. It begins to.
800 words by 9:42 AM.
Not the third section — adjacent to it. The lamp paragraph. A paragraph about Mom's voice in March 2020. A paragraph about August reading aloud on Sundays at four. Write 800 in the margin. A good morning. The doubt has retreated from the front of the head to the back.
Told August at dinner Tuesday.
About the 11 PM thought. The eleven minutes. The body saying no. August doesn't fix anything. He listens. He says: I would have come over Wednesday if you had texted. I say I know. I needed it to be Wednesday alone. August says I understand. Then: the body said no. Trust the body. I say I am. He reaches across the table. Holds my hand for the length of a sentence. Lets go. Eats. The doubt is, by Tuesday at 8:42 PM, almost gone.
Wednesday morning at 7:14 AM.
"And the lamp continued, the way lamps continue." The first sentence of the third section. It hadn't come the prior Wednesday because the body was still drafting it — in the 800-word mornings, in the adjacent paragraphs, in the Tuesday with August. By 7:14 the sentence is ready. Write it. Read it back. Don't edit. The third section is fully drafted by the end of August.
Wednesday evening at 8:14 PM.
The third section has a first sentence. An arc that is real. The doubt was a real doubt. The doubt was also part of writing a book. Two weeks of 800-word mornings, the Tuesday with August, the Wednesday-morning sentence. The chair is the chair. The lamp is on.