Page 8 of Gracie Harris Is Under Construction

I let the silence go on too long, and James seems to sense I’m not entirely sold on the deal.

“How about this? I’ll have Josh do the most obvious thing that I’m sure is at the top of your list: the green carpet in the living room. We know there are wood floors under there. He’ll tear up the carpet and refinish the floors on the first level. They’ll be done by the time you get here next week. He’ll just charge for materials. If you like the work, I’ll bring him by, and you can discuss the rest of your list.”

Before the end of summer, I need to write thirty thousand words of my memoir, crank out essays for one of the biggest newspapers in the country, and do about a hundred interviews that I’ve put off to help grow my personal brand, develop my author persona, and hopefully build my confidence back up. The house, as it stands today, is the least creatively motivating space I can imagine doing this work in.

Like many writers, my approach is to brainstorm, procrastinate, and write feverishly at the last possible second. I know at least twenty thousand words will be written in the last few weeks(although I willthinka lot about writing beforehand). By that point, the space will be exactly what I need.

This brother—Josh—will be in my space a lot. What if he’s not sincere, kind, and self-aware like his brother? Worst of all, what if he’s really good at home repairs but a complete dick? Is home resale more important than a peaceful work environment?

I think momentarily about asking for more details about Josh, but I decide it won’t change my mind. I really do care about the resale value.

“Okay, James. I’m sold. I really hope he’s not a weirdo.”

Chapter 5

My literary agent gives meexactly three days to enjoy my sabbatical before insisting on flying down to Chapel Hill from New York to discuss my book and summer plans. She arrives in time for lunch on my final day of freedom before the school year ends. Felicity is nothing if not determined to keep me on schedule.

When the book offers came flying in after my viral Modern Love essay, I naively assumed that I would get to dictate the direction of the book. The initial pitch was a memoir composed of essays (different from my regular column, but still essays), which the publisher rejected outright. Essays are a comfort zone for me, if that’s not obvious.

“They want you, but notthatbook,” I remember Felicity telling me, emphasizing that we would find the right formula for everyone.

Eventually, we landed on a traditional-style memoir, but one that would be focused on a single year of my life: the one I’m living right now. The goal is for me to write in as close to real time as possible, mirroring the raw and unsteady tone of my essays. The end product, hopefully, will tell the honest story of the first year or soof grief. Someone at the publisher said, “Think Joan Didion for millennials,” and I just about had my own heart attack from the anxiety of living up to that.

I’m twirling the straw around in my sweet tea when I see Felicity bound into this Mediterranean café—pushing through the double doors with flair instead of just calmly opening one. Here’s what you need to know: Felicity Hines is a classic New York creature. That is, at least what we non–New Yorkers perceive they all look like. If I were to write a novel set in New York City, Felicity would be my protagonist. She’s tall, slim, always dressed in black, and her perpetually tan skin is glistening like she just left her facialist. Her hair is pulled tightly into a low bun.

This woman just got off an airplane! When I get off a plane—even after a quick flight—my skin is dried up like a roasted almond. She looks perfectly dewy and fully rested, despite the fact she was probably up around 5 a.m. to get to the airport in time for her flight.

I wave her over and stand to greet her with a big hug. I like Felicity—she’s honest, funny, and knows her stuff. I can’t think of a better person to have in my corner, even if she is sometimes the messenger of bad tidings between the publisher and me.

“It’s so wonderful to see you in real life,” she says. “Video chat doesn’t do you justice, my love.”

“Likewise. I’m glad you were able to get down here on such short notice,” I respond as we take our seats on the bistro-style chairs.

“Anything for my current favorite writer,” she says with a devious smile. “Plus, I’m going to visit my old stomping grounds down the street in Durham.”

Felicity did undergrad at Duke but left for New York the week after graduation and never looked back. And yet even people whoaren’t particularly nostalgic find it fun to return to the places that made them into adults. If you close your eyes in the quad, you can almost feel young again. What I would give to be eighteen again with Ben.

“Let’s order,” I say firmly. “And then we can get down to business and talk about the book. I assume you’re here for a reason.”

She nods. It’s a Greek salad for me and falafel for her. She wastes no time jumping into book talk.

“Okay, let’s start with the stats. Where are you?” she asks.

The answer to this question is not Chapel Hill. It’s not North Carolina. It’s not even a state of persistent stress and delusion. She means how many words have I written—this is the currency we deal in.

“Fifty thousand words done,” I answer, pretending to be proud despite the fact that when combined, those words as a whole are a disjointed mess.

“Phenomenal,” she replies, borderline giddy. “Most of my authors are not as on the ball as you are, Gracie. I’m basically begging for words. Do you still feel good about the mid-August deadline for the first draft?”

I nod but add, “I’m not sure what condition the overall narrative arc will be in. You and Jeannie will really need to help me work through this. I know the timeline is tight.”

Jeannie is my editor. She has helped birth five bestselling memoirs in as many years and has a sixth sense for what works and what doesn’t. She’s the one who killed my book-of-essays idea. I still remember what she said: “We can’t be so obvious and predictable.” She’s a tough but fair editor and the type of person I claimed I needed to get me through my debut book. I don’t need her to hold my hand; that’s what Felicity is for.

“Have you thought any more about her prologue idea?” Felicity asks, avoiding both eye contact and any emotion in her voice as she reaches for a piece of freshly baked focaccia from the basket between us.

Jeannie isconvincedthat my prologue needs to be an emotional kick in the balls: a no-holds-barred description of Ben’s death.

“I know why she wants it and what it adds,” I say, looking directly at Felicity so that she knows I’m serious. “I won’t pretend that I don’t, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to write it just yet.”

---