Page 38

The Offer

Nine moments across the seven days the email sat.

December 2029. The Tuesday morning Jan opens her inbox and finds a four-paragraph email from a small literary agent named Daria K. asking if she would consider writing a book. "A longer one. Not a memoir. Not a self-help. A book of pieces, like the chapbook, but a year of them, and a press behind it." Daria had heard about the chapbook from a reader, who had heard about it from Mira (who had bought five copies and given them to four friends and kept the fifth on the shelf). The offer: a small advance ($8,000), a 24-month deadline, the right to write the way Jan writes.

38The OfferJAN
Jan at the standing desk on a Tuesday morning, the laptop open
#01

The Inbox, Tuesday

Three unread at 9:24 AM.

Newsletter. Admin. The third: a person named Daria K., subject line "a small question for you." Daria K. had, by her signature, a press behind her. Liminal Press. Had heard of Liminal from Naomi — small, careful, the kind that does one thing at a time and does it well. Opened the email. Read the first paragraph. The second. The third. The fourth had the figure in it: $8,000. Closed the laptop. Made tea. Sat with the closed laptop for eleven minutes.

Jan at the kitchen table, late Tuesday morning, the laptop open again
#02

The Email, Re-Read

Read the email four more times.

The facts: Daria. Liminal Press. $8,000. 24 months. No editor breathing down your neck; the work would be the work. The phrase is the kind only certain presses say. Hadn't, in any month before this Tuesday, had a press offer to fund that. Her signature: "Daria K., agent, Liminal Press, Brooklyn, NY." Daria was, by a Google search at minute thirty-eight, actually in Brooklyn — which made grabbing coffee a real geographic possibility rather than a polite formality.

Jan walking down Manhattan Ave in the late-December afternoon, the chore jacket over the rust cardigan, hands in pockets
#03

The Walk

Called Naomi at 2:14 PM.

Had taken the walk specifically to call from outside — the apartment, when I'm thinking through a thing, gets full of the thing. Naomi picked up on the second ring. I said I have a question. Told her the four facts: Daria, Liminal Press, $8,000, 24 months. Three seconds of silence. She said: Daria is the right person. Liminal is the right press. Nobody would breathe down your neck. She didn't tell me what to do. She said: take a few days. Then call her back. She'll wait. I said thank you. Walked the rest of the way home with the phone in my cardigan pocket.

Day three (Thursday evening)
#04

The Pages

Day three: re-read three pieces from the chapbook with a red pen.

The pen was bought for editing in October. Now it was editing the question of whether the chapbook had a book in it. Two pieces a month over twenty-four months: forty-eight. Squarely in Daria's range. The math was fine. The math wasn't the actual question. The actual question was whether the work was in me. Made a small mark in the margin of the chair piece. The word was yes.

Day three late evening
#05

Telling August

Told August Thursday evening.

Couch at 8:14 PM. Said I got an email. Told him the four facts. He listened until I was done. He said: that's an offer to write the book the chapbook was an excerpt of. Three days of carrying it, and he found the phrase in eight seconds. It landed the way the right phrase does. He said: Daria knows what she's asking. The fact that she's asking is half the answer. He read the email. Closed the laptop. Said: yes. But you have to want it. For the rest of the evening he didn't refer to it again. The cat got on his lap by minute thirty.

Day four (Wednesday) early evening
#06

Mom's Wednesday

Called Mom on Wednesday.

Five minutes of weather in Hangzhou, the bakery's new awning, Sarah's pregnancy. Told her about the email at minute six. They're offering me a book. Mom listened the way Mom listens — quietly, the small soft okay at the right places. When I was done she said: do you want to? Not encouraging. Not restraining. Just the question. I said I think so. She said then do it. Write a real book. Send me a copy. She said eat well. The call ended.

Day six (Friday) afternoon
#07

The Notebook, Friday

Wrote it down on Friday afternoon.

The page: the offer is small. the press is right. the work would be the work. mom said do you want to. august said you have to want it. The fifth line, added after staring at the first four: I want to. I think. The I think was the cushion I needed to write the line at all. Closed the notebook. Made tea. The shape of the answer had come clear. Didn't yet email Daria back.

Day seven (Saturday) morning
#08

The Contract on the Desk

The contract was on the desk Saturday morning.

Daria had emailed it Wednesday at 4 PM with a note: "only if you decide to." Had printed it Wednesday evening. Three pages. Signature line at the bottom of page three. Standard small-press language — the advance, the rights, the reversion clause. The kind of thing I sign once and then become the kind of person who has done the thing the contract is about. Drank the tea. Looked at the contract. Didn't sign it. The signing would be a Wednesday — the day I've used for the writing about the writing for four years. The Wednesday was three days away.

Day seven (Saturday) evening
#09

The Body, Knowing

Saturday evening.

Mim on my lap. Lamp on. Notebook closed. The contract on the desk, unsigned. By minute forty the decision had moved out of my head and into the chest. The body had been ahead — relaxing when the question was asked, tightening briefly when I'd considered no, softening at minute six of Mom's call. By Saturday evening, it had said yes the slow way the body says things. The Wednesday was three days away. The signature line was blank.