“The NYT would be interested in a piece from your perspective about how Coetzee processed your personal pain into fiction, and how that made you feel. They publish that stuff all the time. Think of the Angelina Jolie piece. And Jodie Foster. And Salma Hayek. And . . . and Bono.”

“I can think of several ways in which I am not like those people.”

“No, but listen. You’re not nobody. You are the girl who was raped. You are the real-life inspiration behind Lucy. She is one of the most important female figures in literature today, and she was based on you.”

Pride expands in my chest like a gas leak. I am somebody. I matter. Hubris yawns and stretches inside me, waking up for the first time in two years. But the doubts won’t be banished.

“Coetzee is the darling of the literary world. No one will be interested in a piece that challenges him.”

“The media built him up, and they can bring him down again. He is perfectly poised at the apex of his fame. If you brought him down, the schadenfreude would be immense. It would be delicious.”

I am dazzled by this vision of myself as the woman who brought down John Coetzee. No—The Girl Who Brought Down John Coetzee. That’s better.

“How do I do it?”

“First, write the piece. Make it punchy and heartfelt. Serious, but not too serious. Tap into the #MeToo hype. Check the submissions guidelines on their website. Clean up your piece and hit send. It will be published by the end of the month. I guarantee it.”

* * *

Lucy: I am writing an op-ed for the NYT.

Putting it in a text makes it feel real. Eugene’s reply comes back fast.

Eugene: Wow! Really? That’s amazing. You are the only person I know who has ever done that. What is it about?

“What will it be about?” would be more accurate. I can’t seem to get the words out of my mind and onto the screen.

Lucy: It’s about being the real-life inspiration behind Coetzee’s Lucy. How it affected me. What he got wrong, etc.

My text stares back at me in all its prissiness. What he got wrong, etc? When did wrongness become a measurable concept in fiction? When did the extent to which a piece of fiction is true to life become a gauge of its worth?

Eugene: I think that’s great. Good luck with the process. I’m looking forward to our date. Should be a fun night.

His use of the word “date” surprises me. Our arrangement for Saturday could easily be tidied away under the heading of two people hanging out together. Is he acknowledging it as a date because I am writing an op-ed for The New York Times? Is that the alchemy that has turned me from an acquaintance into a date?

Lucy: Me too. See you on Sat.