KEEP PLANNING time / space / about #019 Jon Doughboy The Third Draft of a Short Story titled “Forty-Four” Including Notes from the Author’s Girlfriend in Brackets and His Responses in Endnotes

Life inevitably dries you out was what she thought to herself as she cursed at her exes standing in an apologetic row before her [I’m not a writer so I don’t know what the convention is but it seems a little presumptuous for you, as a man, lacking the lived experience of a woman, deprived access to a woman’s inner life, no matter how imaginative you are and we both know you are, to talk about what this female character “thought.” Maybe some men struggle with this less than others but we know which camp you’re in not that I want to rehash those arguments now. Just food for thought. No judgement] (1). She felt old, crusty, a fried drumstick wasting away under a truck stop heat lamp for eternity. [Why a drumstick? Why a truck stop? Does this mean something to her or for us, the readers? Is she supposed to be especially familiar with truck stops? Does that signify some connection to the working class? Are you still angry at your father for always being on the road?] (2) She chewed out an ex with the gall [I don’t like this word “gall.” The usage feels medieval. I’m a chemist but I know human anatomy and I know modern science long ago disproved any emotions stemming from organs like the gall bladder or spleen. These are just cells forming tissues forming organs forming systems that make the human body run which is a miracle in its own right so I see no need to inject any superstition into it] (3) to lock eyes with her. “Fuck you, pimple dick!” she yelled. “Your crotch is minefield of whiteheads, boils, and ingrown hairs and you know it [This sort of body shaming feels unfair. Dermatosis is nothing to be ashamed of and some of these issues can be credited to things outside this person’s control such as overactive sebaceous glands]. We all know it. Quit fidgeting, pimple dick!” She broke into song, a showtune bully on an off-Broadway playground: “Pimple dick, I see you,” jazz hands and disdain, “pimple dick, pimple dick, pee-eew,” fingers pinching nostrils trying to guard against the stink of him, the stench of fate. One of the state-appointed mental health experts behind the mirrored glass called for order through an overhead speaker. A sonorous voice, stern but soothing. The taupe cinderblock walls pulsed with institutional, medicated calm. Last week she took a bath with her toaster—attempt number forty-three—but the outlet was dead. [This introduction of suicide feels abrupt and glib. Imagine how readers who’ve harbored suicidal thoughts of their own or lost loved ones who committed suicide might feel reading this. You could both alienate and upset your readers. I recommend cutting this. If a story is a cell, think of this process as a form of catabolism and let this deleted material serve to energize the rest of the story though of course you’re the nucleus so the decision is yours] (4) Now the experts mandated she confront her exes before they determine her mental fitness and whether she could be rehabilitated into a functioning, actualized, tax-paying citizen. [This is a worthy goal and I’m rooting for her] (5) In the windowless room she berated her exes. “And fuck you, Lonnie, you’re a goddam electrician supposedly, certified, supposedly, half-way competent, supposedly. Yet you can’t even replace a fucking outlet right?” She attacked the next in line. “Keith, don’t worry. [I think you should change the name of this character. Your boss’s name is Keith and I know you dislike him but in the unlikely event that this is published and he reads it, he might take offense. Not that I’m saying you shouldn’t quit your job. We’ve talked about this and I’ll support your decision either way but I think you should go back to school for nursing because we’ll always need nurses. It’s a recession-proof job whereas a guidance counselor at a charter school…] (6) I haven’t forgotten about you. How could I? Mr. Cuddle. Mr. Cunnilingus. Mr. I Want to Satisfy You But Can’t Get an Erection so Forget about Your G Spot. Well, fuck you!” [Is this directed at me? I didn’t say I never orgasmed. I just said it was difficult and inconsistent and that penetration was more gratifying, more effective, than clitoral stimulation. If I knew you were going to hold such a grudge, I never would have mentioned it] (7) She dug her fingers into her scalp and pulled out graying hairs and scaly dandruff [Again with the dermatosis? And is there anything wrong or shameful about achromotrichia? It’s a natural process] before turning to Danny, her most recent ex. “You, you little shit. You I loved. And you loved me back. And so I grew to hate you.” She kissed him on the mouth, hard, then whispered “Fuck you.” [This is beautiful. It reminds me of that time we broke-up and I moved in with my folks in Colombus and was miserable mooching off my parents and doing contract work for the city testing sewage for drugs, shit and pipettes all day, pipettes and shit, and you stayed in Bellingham until flying out three weeks later and we kissed at the departures gate where I picked you up because you said arrivals would be too crowded. Your teeth hit my teeth so the kiss stung but it still felt good. I wish we could get back there. Back to that feeling. I’m sorry for what I said above about penetration etc.] (8) To the team of therapists, neurologists, psychologists, and healers, she said, you guessed it, “Fuck you.” To them, to her reflection, to the world. She faced the ceiling, pressing her palms to her temples, and screamed “Fuck you.” The experts took this last outburst as a good sign. Catharsis, perhaps. Doubtless a promising development. The first step, a hand on the banister in the stairwell to good mental health. She faced the mirrored glass again. “I need to take a leak. Where’s the bathroom in this shithole?” [This is the third story of yours I’ve read where a character experiences a strong urge to urinate. I wonder if it isn’t about time to have your prostate examined? It’s important to stay hydrated but you may be suffering from polydipsia as a symptom of hyperglycemia. You mentioned pain once while urinating. Perhaps there’s a pinch in your urethra? I could help you find a good urologist if you find the process daunting] (9) The sonorous voice spoke over the intercom: “And is the patient feeling better?” “Grand,” she said. “Peachy. Now, where’s the pisser?” The voice gave her directions: “Down the hall, past the lunchtime yoga class, past the heart healthy griddle, the organic salad bar, and the air fry station. The first door leads to the baths. The toilets are behind the second door for sanitary purposes. You can’t miss them.” “I’ve missed a lot in my life but I won’t miss this, of that you can be sure.” [Is this about that part-time sensory lab gig you wanted me to get you? You didn’t miss out on anything, I swear. I told you our lab doesn’t work that way. Not to mention they wanted people who’d taken Bio 101 at a bare minimum and you and I both know you wouldn’t know the difference between an erythrocyte and a thrombocyte if you were bleeding out on a gurney] (10) She looked hard once more at each of her exes in turn, then the mirror, followed by the ceiling [I can’t help but think this attack on her exes has something to do with me working on a paper with Peter about the health effects of orthophosphates added to drinking water to combat pipe corrosion. We’re both passionate about the project because we’re from the Rust Belt. It’s a chance for me to put my knowledge to work for the public good and I don’t appreciate being vilified for it, even elliptically, in one of your little stories. Our research could have a real impact on people’s health] (11) Her facial muscles contorted into something between a grimace and a smile before she nodded and headed for the door. Two minutes later, the lights flickered across the hospital as if the world itself was issuing one final and luminous “Fuck You.” Though management is working on it, the air fry station, sadly, remains out of order. [I find this ending disturbing. Do you feel ignored or underappreciated or unloved? After all I’ve done for you and am continuing to do? After all these years? Do you wish you were dead? Or do you want to kill this relationship? Is that how you feel? How do you think that makes me feel?] (12)

1.__Assuming knowledge of oneself or another is presumptuous, courageous, a leap of faith. No self is knowable. The human animal is a mystery. There is no karyotype of the soul. Regardless of the conclusions you come to with your therapist. 2.__I just liked the image. It’s a little gross, a little exhausted, which is how the character feels. This makes it apt. Or telling. And I buried my anger at my father when we buried him so I’d appreciate it if you stopped bringing him up. 3.__It has nothing to do with superstition, I assure you. I just like the word. The sound of the word. The strength of the single syllable and the way it riffs off the “l” of the word “lock” later in the sentence. 4.__I’m not against feedback or editing suggestions, clearly. I wouldn’t have asked for your thoughts if I were. But what if I want to discomfit my readers or elicit feelings of alienation in them? Wouldn’t such goals make this line successful? I don’t think it’s wise to assume a specific intent on the author’s part. Each writer has their own aims, values etc. Writers are artists, not cytologists. 5.__While I appreciate the compliment, I wanted that line to land as comic, as if the goal of being a tax-paying citizen is more important than being healthy. It’s a critique of therapy and of the state viewing it citizens solely as resources to exploit. 6.__First of all, fuck Keith. He’s a hack and a crook and the only reason he’s in charge of the advising office is because he’s an expert at kissing ass so I’m not changing the name. Also, I don’t think this is the right forum to have this conversation again suffice it to say I’m still considering nursing, the prereqs etc. I know I’ve made a mess of my life and that you made all the right choices, STEM, internships etc. and now you have a CAREER while I have merely a JOB and a poorly-paying and tenuous one at that but please just focus on the story because I hear enough about work from my mother. Also, I didn’t appreciate that “unlikely event” bit. It is unlikely, fine. But pointing it out seems unnecessary and cruel. 7.__First off: this isn’t about you or us. It’s fiction. But if it were—IF it were—I might add some lines to the effect that if we had sex more often and used that foam wedge I bought online that you’re so embarrassed by, maybe this wouldn’t be an issue anymore? We have sex once a month. Barely. I don’t know how you expect our sex life to improve if it has no life and we have no sex. We might hold fewer grudges, the both of us, if we held each other more. Is what I might say if this were about us. 8.__Thanks. Me too. I’m sorry. Really. Let’s talk. 9.__THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH MY URETHRA. For characters to feel real, they have to be embodied. Pissing, shitting, eating, farting—all that good stuff. It helps readers connect with their characters, ok? It’s purely a strategic choice in the narrative and has nothing to do with any perceived undiagnosed health issues. 10._If you recall, I never wanted your charity. I just wanted to earn a little extra money and I knew I could do the work. If this is about me only paying a quarter of the rent last month, I told you I would pay more than my share this month. My piece of shit Elantra didn’t pass inspection so I needed new rotors which set me back, ok? Or did you want me to walk twelve miles to work? Would that make you happy? 11._Stop making everything about you! We’ve already had this conversation and you know how I feel about your dear friend Peter and your important collaborative research. He’s had a hard-on for you since high school but you’re just too dense to see it. And this story isn’t about you or him. And it’s not just a “little story” to me either. It means something. Maybe not as much as the biopsies you inspect under a microscope, but it’s alive to me in the same way, a piece of living tissue. 12.

*** Jon Doughboy went to his yurt because he wished to write deliberately, to front only the essential fictions of prose, and see if he could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when he came to die, discover that he had not written. He did not wish to write what was not prose, prose is so dear; nor did he wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. @doughboywrites 26 August 2025