It was a typical Saturday night. I was out doing a little celebrating over the fact that I'd just taken -- and aced, I must add! -- my GREs that day (scores available upon personal request. Seriously, I'm aching to brag about them). It was my boyfriend, his friends, a few friends of mine.
And suddenly I turned into Barbara Walters. "J, do you have an MO for approaching women at bars? Deciding who you want to talk to? Do you scan the whole room over a certain period of time? No? You figure it out at a glance? There's a certain something? Tall, blonde, confidence. Got it."
"P, would you have qualms about dating an older woman? Would the fact that she's past prime childbearing age ever factor in? Interesting."
And now I walk down the street passing shops, thinking things like, "Ah, a rare book dealership. I wonder what kind of hero a rare book dealer would make. Could I use my friends at Christies to set up interviews with someone in the -- ah! an Irish pub. What if there's a family of brothers who collectively own a pub. Need to start talking to publicans, stat."
My journalistic instincts have kicked in more now that I'm committed to writing than they ever have in my career as a pseudo-journalist. I'm itching to talk to people, to get down in the muck of their lives and figure out those details. Only problem is my terminal shyness and hatred of calling people I don't know.
I only hope those instincts kick in three weeks from now when I attend my first writers' conference ever. And have my first meeting with an agent or editor.
More on that later...