Genevieve writes a story called “Conversation Error.” It is about a conversation that runs along smoothly until it arrives at the plane of error. There’s a blocking in the dialogue; something won’t budge. Then a mechanic comes to fix it and only makes things worse. Genevieve sends a draft to her editor. The editor discovers the error and sends it to his mechanic. The mechanic fixes the error (he is more skilled than the mechanic in the story) and sends it back to the editor. The editor tells Genevieve that the error has been fixed and the story should have its title changed accordingly. It should no longer be called “Conversation Error” he says. Genevieve voices agreement—the change, after all, makes sense on a plane of rationality with which she cannot dispute. But this is not the only plane. There is another, more controvertible plane, one not bound to error but certainly in its shadow. On this plane, there exists something which Genevieve knows they’ve all been missing. The editor, the mechanic, even (especially) herself: the moment she began to write. The moment she began to speak. The moment she began to. She began to. She began.