Tell yourself any story you want. Whatever happens, it won’t be that.

Edith still had all the books Valerie had brought her in Alabama. Chris Kraus, Rachel Cusk, Elif Batuman. Books that worked through life’s problems with familiar tools. They made you believe it was possible, if not easy, to arrive somewhere.

Do you think making art is immoral? she asked Seb.

They looked up from their copy of The Transsexual Empire and said, Yeah.

Because you’re mining the world for, like, information instead of living in it?

You can’t make art without cutting yourself off from other people. You have to distance yourself, alienate yourself from the world, to capture it. From somewhere in the midst of Edith’s piles, they pulled out Sigrid Nunez. “If reading really does increase empathy,” they quoted from memory, “it appears that writing also takes some away.” It’s inhumane.

She reread Akwaeke Emezi, Anelise Chen, Kate Zambreno.

At her request, Seb read the abandoned draft of Black Pear Tree.

I don’t see why you’re so worried. No one could reasonably be mad at this.

Being written about, Edith pointed out, had a tendency to escape limits like “reasonable.” No one wants to be misapprehended.

Okay, but being written around isn’t so hot either. What do you think all these jabronis got out of writing the books you’re reading? Somehow this question had never occurred to her. The revelations about their fictional stand-ins must have been outdated by the time the book reached shelves. They all kept living life. Making new mistakes, writing new books.

Seb scrolled the document. Edith had highlighted every instance of their name for ease of their appraisal. Alternatively, why do you think you’re writing this?

Because not writing—­

Will make you miserable, yeah. But like, why your own life all of a sudden? The short answer—because this was the sort of book she liked reading now—was incomplete. She felt she’d spent all her life writing around instead of writing about. She was still writing around.

Edith tried reading Annie Ernaux’s diary but couldn’t get into it. The romantic obsession was too familiar. You see your lover, you gather experiences with them. Those become fuel for the fire that burns in their absence. You worry you’ll never see them again.

Maybe I should become a nun.

That’s a good call, Seb said. Nuns fuck.