For each day that I’ve been here, at the Tin House Writers Conference,  I meet with nine conference attendees for a ten minute agent consult from 4:30-6:00. I never did speed dating (I was more interested in long drawn-out painful dating), but it must be a little like that, you’ve got this tiny window to make an impression. Boom!

Some writers are like the little bird in the children’s book, “Are You My Mother?” In the story, a mother bird goes off to look for food. The infant bird awakens and falls out of the nest. He wanders the countryside asking all manner of animal, cow, horse, dog, etc., “are you my mother.” Of course the book has a happy ending, but it always broke my heart, maternal longing being what it is.

Others come somewhat shattered from a rough workshop session. Others come with questions written down on index cards. Index cards! Some of the writers are all over the place and you feel the ten minutes ticking down as they race to get everything in.  With some, I dig a little, curious about their project, their day jobs and lives. With others, I begin to wonder why I was born.

Last night, I broke through a shyness wall and hung out with the big game, the published authors. Drank.

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