Todd found himself gripped by the dilemma of the writer in limbo. Should he sit back and wait? Or should he call, or write, or even go to New York? He felt certain that if he intervened in person—gave someone a little nudge—he could get the ball rolling again. But the problem lay in the fact that he didn’t know where the ball was or what it looked like or even if there was a ball. And he was also powerfully scared that if he did call, or write, someone would say, “Oh God, did nobody tell you? We decided not to go ahead with your dumb book.”

(There was also a part of Todd—located in a secret corner in his mind, in his memory, maybe even in the deepest, darkest place in his soul—which was terrified that he had been found out, that somebody had walked into Franklyn and Sullivan, picked up his manuscript and said, “But this isn’t by Todd Milstead at all! It’s stolen from that other guy! How come nobody noticed!” and everybody in the office would just wake up and go, “Jesus, he’s right. This Milstead fellow is a rotten thief. Let’s kill him!”)

And then the call came.

“You’re on the Fall list,” said Nora with no introduction or preamble.

Todd was so thrown he just said, “Is that good?”

“It’s good,” said Nora. “Believe me, it’s good.”

“Fall next year?” said Todd. He was a little disappointed. “That’s a way off.”

“Fall this year,” said Nora. “I know, it’s insane, it’s like tomorrow, but they are very eager to get it out there. And for you to promote the book.”

“I don’t know what that means,” said Todd. “Will I be on local radio?”

“Maybe,” laughed Nora. “Think bigger.”

“NPR?” hazarded Todd.

“Radio, yes, and newspapers,” said Nora. “But we’re also pushing for TV.”

“TV,” said Todd. He stared at his reflection in the hall mirror. Did he look authorial enough for television, he wondered.

As if reading his mind, Nora said, “Relax, Todd. With that firm American jaw and a tweed jacket, you’ll look the part to a tee.”

“TV,” said Todd again. Like everyone who’d ever wanted to be a writer, his secret fear and desire was television.

“Did they give you any dates yet?” he said. His mind was racing so fast he almost forgot his diary was an aching empty void. Not for long, he thought.