I gave him a suggestion, something he could change. Change, not fix, he kept saying what can I fix, and I took particular care to use my "What ifs" and my "Maybe if we's," "How would you feel about's," and he kept asking if it would make it better. "That would make it better?" as if I could say "No," or, I forbid, "Yes." I say "I don't know," "I don't know if that will make it better," and I ask if he thinks it needs to be better." He says "Apparently," and he's got a point. So I say "Maybe," "Maybe it will make it better, but we can't know from the change alone. We have to change it, and see where the ripples go, what they bump up against. We have to reread it; the word, the line, the whole. We have to read it again, if we have to. We have to leave it alone, come back to it. We have to shut the lid, wait for it to think we've walked away, and Boo! see what's new. If new. We have to compare what was changed with this new thing. We have to compare it with your past work. Your peers’ work. Your generation’s work. With everything that's ever been written. Then we'll see."

"Too much," he said.

"I agree," I said. "Too, too much.”