Page 14 of Play Along With Me
I'm the only one who hasn't finished a manuscript yet. Priya is shopping her fantasy novel to agents. Arielle just self-published a collection of personal essays. Marisol is halfway through her second thriller. And I have... fragments. Beginnings without endings. Characters without plots. I'm the group's perpetual work-in-progress.
My current project is a novel about a woman who can see people's deepest regrets floating above their heads like thought bubbles. I've written the first three chapters four different times. My writing group is getting understandably impatient.
I open the document and stare at the blinking cursor for several minutes before giving up and clicking on a different file labeled "Random Scenes & Dialogue." This is where I dump all the little pieces that don't fit anywhere yet—conversations overheard at the bar, character sketches, descriptions of interesting people.
I start a new entry:
Door Pounder/Hockey Guy: Tall (very tall), broad shoulders, dark hair, serious eyes that crinkle at the edges when he smiles (reluctantly). Carries himself like someone who's used to wearing bulky equipment. Listens intently—head tilted slightly, focus undivided. Responds thoughtfully rather than rushing to fill silence. Left a dorky note on a receipt. Potential character trait: earnest but guarded? Backstory: Spends life waiting for phone call that will change everything?
I close the laptop, feeling vaguely guilty for using real people as character templates, but not guilty enough to stop. Writers are professional observers, which is a nicer way of saying "socially acceptable stalkers."
Speaking of stalking, I allow myself one more quick Daniel check (breaking my twice-daily rule, but today's been stressful) before getting ready for bed. Janine has posted a Story—something about their new coffee maker. I tap through it quickly, absorbing details about their life together like a masochistic sponge.
My phone buzzes with a text from Leila:
Tomorrow night. Speed dating at Tryst. No excuses. Trevor the Penmanship Dad wasn't your type, message received. But you ARE coming tomorrow.
I groan. Speed dating? Is she trying to kill me? But before I can craft a plausible excuse, another text comes through:
If you don't show, I'm telling everyone about the Michael Bublé concert incident.
That fight-dirty little witch.
Fine. But I'm wearing jeans and you can't stop me,I text back.
Wear whatever you want as long as it doesn't have ice cream stains,she responds.
I look down at my current t-shirt, which features what might be chocolate from last week or possibly soy sauce from tonight's late dinner. Hard to tell in the dim light of my bedroom.
"Mr. Darcy," I announce to the cat now curled at the foot of my bed, "tomorrow I might meet my soulmate, or more likely, collect material for at least three new characters for my unfinished novel. Either way, it's a productive use of an evening."
He blinks at me slowly, unimpressed.
As I drift off to sleep, my mind unhelpfully offers a final thought: I wonder if professional hockey players ever go speed dating?
As it turns out, professional hockey players—or anyone conventionally attractive or with a legitimate career—do not, in fact, speed date. This becomes abundantly clear approximately seven minutes into the event at Tryst, where I'm currently seated across from a man named Harold who has spent our entire five-minute "date" talking about his extensive collection of commemorative spoons.
"The Taj Mahal one is sterling silver," he explains with the enthusiasm of someone describing their firstborn child. "Limited edition. Only five hundred made."
I nod, mentally cataloging him under "potential murder victim in Chapter 3 of a mystery novel."
"Fascinating," I say. "Do you ever eat with them, or are they strictly for display?"
He looks horrified. "Eat with them? They're collectors' items!"
The bell rings, saving me from having to formulate a response that doesn't include the words "then they're not really spoons, are they?"
Leila, seated two tables away, catches my eye and gives me an enthusiastic thumbs up. She's in her element, chatting animatedly with a guy who looks like he stepped out of a J.Crew catalog. Meanwhile, I'm about to meet bachelor number four of twelve, a man wearing a tie with what appears to be cartoon dinosaurs on it.
I won't rain on Leila's parade—she's clearly having the time of her life—but I make a mental note to revisit the Michael Bublé incident leverage she has over me. There must be an expiration date on embarrassing concert behavior from 2016.
Dinosaur Tie turns out to be a paleontologist, which at least explains the neckwear. He's actually interesting, but also clearly fresh out of a divorce and mentions his ex-wife six times in five minutes. I add him to my mental file: "Man Who Hasn't Processed His Baggage Yet But Has Potential In 18-24 Months."
Oh my God. I am categorized under that same category. I meet his eyes. Poor him. Poor me.
By the end of the night, I've collected exactly zero phone numbers but enough character material to populate a small fictional town. Leila, on the other hand, has three potential suitors lined up.
"Well?" she asks as we leave, her eyes bright with post-socializing adrenaline. "What did you think? Any connections?"
