Tomorrow, I Promise

Kevin lived in Dublin and wanted to be a writer. In January, he promised to finish his novel that year. "Three hundred pages," he said. "Easy." In October, he had forty.

The problem wasn't the writing. The problem was starting. Every morning Kevin made coffee, sat down and opened his laptop. Then he started checking his phone. After checking his phone, he needed to check it again. After that, it was time for more coffee.

In the afternoon, he avoided sitting down at all. He cleaned the kitchen. He walked the neighbor's dog. He thought about writing, but thinking about writing is not the same as writing. At six, he called his friend Sean and suggested going to the pub.

His sister Maeve was tired of listening to him. "You keep talking about the novel," she said. "You never write it." "Tomorrow," said Kevin. "I promise." "No," said Maeve. "Today. I'm coming over."

She arrived at nine with her own laptop. She took Kevin's phone and put it in the fridge. "You can have it back at one," she said. Then she sat down next to him and started working. She didn't talk. She didn't look at him.

Kevin looked at the fridge. He looked at the window. He looked at the empty page. Finally, because there was nothing else to do, he started writing. At one o'clock, there were six pages on the screen. He didn't ask for his phone.

Maeve came every morning for three months. In March, Kevin finished the novel. On the first page, he wrote: "For my sister, who put my phone in the fridge."