He began to write a prospectus for a new book, Reading Henry James. There couldn’t be a book with a title like that. Was he asking or telling himself? Wait, he’d typed that question or statement into the prospectus. Better delete. And better look it up. He didn’t want to look it up. He started to and then stopped. They could be in any language, not just English. He hung fire. Pah! He‘d written that, too. Delete. Then continued on with the prospectus. The book would be about Henry James’s sentences. Well, what else would it be about? Henry James’s dandruff? He wanted to bring up the description of Mr. Touchett’s house in the second paragraph of The Portrait of a Lady. Well, then bring it up. “A long gabled front of red brick…” Un-huh. Un-huh. Good. Red brick—what would he say about red brick? Uh-uh-huh. He saw his phone out of the corner of his eye. Flicker. No, but he grabbed. There was nothing—false flicker. His cousin had texted yesterday about another subway incident in Brooklyn, though his cousin lived in Duluth. Why would you care about this again? he thought about writing at the time. He did type it but didn’t send it. But…James…and his house (of fiction) “presented to the lawn its patches of ivy, its clustered chimneys, its windows smothered in creepers.” There would be a lot to say about that— Some other time! And he continued the message with mild aplomb, sent it, and tossed the phone at the couch—soft landing it. Back to James…. But he must have known his cousin had been waiting for nearly twenty-four hours for that reply, he was going to come back with all his firepower—bing! And there it was—wait. Another bing? Duller? There were two texts, but from different people. What had he done? “Covered in creepers”—the cousin had texted the uncle and complained in those micro-seconds of time and now the uncle forced his way into the debate: Please let my son worry. It’s no skin off your back. (Had James ever used that cliche?) You don’t have to reply—you know not to reply mister big english teacher. He was an academic literary critic, not an English teacher. He hadn’t taught in seven years—he’d scammed…never mind. He needed the prospectus to get finished. The skin on James’s back depended on it. But now there was another text. A third person in the room. His mother: Did you get attacked on the subway? Oh for—no, don’t write that in the prospectus. He better answer his mother, but started typing to her, Do you know why Henry James called it the New York Edition? and in his quick bid to delete the text he pressed send. No. Yes. And before he could compose a “forget that text ever happened,” she’d magically replied, What the hell is this Jeopardy? Oh god. Not good. The prospectus was really getting to him, though it wasn’t getting any closer to being done. But there were other texts. The uncle, Why are you asking my sister about Henry James? Are you insinuating something about her? Hell are you insinuating something about me and my son? Then another text. It’s okay if you don’t like to visit Duluth—I could really care less. The son was also back in the room (you have to keep up otherwise you’d be quickly forgotten)—I didn’t say anything about your job or your Mark Twain or anything. There’s nothing wrong with working in a factory, there’s nothing wrong with bowling, there’s nothing wrong with having a Star Wars room… But there was something wrong with the New York Edition changes for The Portrait of a Lady—wasn’t “presented itself to the lawn” better? Well, maybe not… He composed a group text in order to quickly dispose of everything, but he knew this would just make it worse. It gets worse or it doesn’t get done.