The Plot by Jean Korelitz (digital book reader txt) 📗

casually ask how far into the next novel he was (answer: not far enough), and a chorus of writers he’d known in graduate school and college and during those New York years were following him like Furies, bombarding him with requests—everything from blurbs for their manuscripts to recommendations for artists’ colonies to requests to be put in touch with Matilda. In short, he could look no farther ahead than a day or two. Farther than that he left to Otis, the liaison Macmillan had sent out on the road with him. It was a strange, almost disembodied way to live.

But also: his exact dream. Back when he’d dreamed, so long ago (not even a year ago!) of being a “successful writer,” had he not pictured these very things? Audiences, stacks of books, that magical “1” beside his name on the fabled list at the back of The New York Times Book Review? He had, of course, but also hoped for the small, human connections that must come to a writer whose work was actually read: opening one’s own book, writing one’s own name, holding it out to a single reader intent on reading it. Was it wrong to want these simple, humble rewards? Hand to hand and brain to brain in the marvelous connection that was written language meeting the power of storytelling? He had these things now. And to think: he had acquired them with only his hard work and his pure imagination.

Plus a story that might not have been entirely his to tell.

Which somebody, somewhere out there, might conceivably know.

All of it, at any time, might be ripped away from him—rip, rip, rip—and so quickly that Jake would find himself helpless and annihilated even before he knew what was happening. Then he would be relegated to the circle of shamed writers forever and without hope of appeal: James Frey, Stephen Glass, Clifford Irving, Greg Mortenson, Jerzy Kosinski …

Jacob Finch Bonner?

“Thank you,” Jake heard himself say as a young man mentioned some nice thing about The Invention of Wonder. “That’s one of my favorites, too.”

The words struck him as somehow familiar, and then he remembered that this exact phrase had been another fancy of his, and for the briefest moment this made him feel so utterly happy. But only the briefest moment. After that, he went back to being terrified again.

CHAPTER NINENot the Worst

On Jake’s own printed schedule he had the following morning off, but on the ride back to the hotel after the last book was signed Otis let him know of a new event, a morning interview for a radio show called Sunrise Seattle.

“Remote?” Jake had asked hopefully.

“No. In studio. It was last minute, but the program director really wants to make this work. She moved the host’s other stuff around to get you. Big fan.”

“Oh. Nice,” Jake said, though it wasn’t, really. He had a midday flight to San Francisco in the afternoon and an appearance at the Castro Theatre that night, then he had to be in Los Angeles the following morning for nearly a week of meetings related to the film adaptation. One of these was a lunch with the director. An A-list director, by anyone’s standard.

KBIK wasn’t far from their hotel and only a few blocks north of the Pike Place Market. Early the next morning, Jake left Otis to retrieve their bags from the taxi and entered the station’s lobby, where their obvious contact was waiting: a woman with gleaming gray hair held back off her face with a frankly girlish headband. He approached her with his hand outstretched and an entirely unnecessary: “I’m Jake Bonner.”

“Jake! Hi!”

They shook. Her hand was long and narrow, like the rest of her. She had bright blue eyes and he noticed that she wore not a lick of makeup. He liked that. Then he noticed that he liked that.

“And you are?”

“Oh! Sorry, I’m Anna Williams. Anna. I mean, please call me Anna. I’m the director of programming. This is so fantastic that we got you to come in. I love your book so much.”

“Well, thanks, that’s so nice of you to say.”

“Really, I couldn’t get it out of my head, the first time I read it.”

“First time!”

“Oh, I’ve read it a bunch of times. It’s just amazing to meet you.”

Otis arrived, dragging both their suitcases. He and Anna shook hands.

“So it’s a straight interview?” Otis asked. “Do you need Jake to read anything?”

“No. Not unless you want to?” She looked at Jake. She looked almost stricken, as if she’d failed to make this important inquiry.

“Not at all.” He smiled. He was trying to figure out how old she was. His own age? Or maybe a little bit younger. It was hard to tell. She was slender and wore black leggings and a kind of homespun tunic. Very Seattle. “Really, I’m pretty easygoing. Will people be calling in?”

“Oh, we never know. Randy’s a bit difficult to predict, he does everything on the fly. Sometimes he’ll take callers and sometimes he won’t.”

“Randy Johnson’s a Seattle institution,” Otis said helpfully. “What is it, like twenty years?”

“Twenty-two. Not all of it at this station. I don’t think he’s been off the air longer than a few days since he started.” She was holding her clipboard tightly against her chest. Those long hands gripped the edges.

“Well, I was delighted when I heard he wanted a novelist on!” Otis said. “Usually if we’re lucky enough to do Randy Johnson’s show it’s a sports biography, or sometimes politics. I can’t remember ever bringing a fiction writer in before today. You should be proud,” he said to Jake. “You got Randy Johnson to read a novel!”

“Ah,” said the woman, Anna Williams. “You know, I wish I could promise you that he’s read the whole novel. He’s been briefed, obviously, but you’re right, Randy’s not what you’d call a natural reader of fiction. He gets what a huge thing Crib has become, though. He likes to be on top of a cultural phenomenon whether