Yesterday I was one of several agents who flocked out to the Long Island Romance Writers annual luncheon. I'm not exactly sure where it was on Long Island; the LIRW ladies were kind enough to provide people to meet us at the train and take us to the destination.
I was lucky enough to end up in Monica Spence's Chariot of Death (that's an inside joke referring to her ability to turn left no matter what the light says.) I'm not sure exactly how I weaseled the info out of her but it turns out she sews authentic 16th century dresses. And writes historical romances.
Despite her best efforts to kill me (believe me, I was laughing even at the time) I was enchanted. I threatened her with grievous bodily harm if she didn't show me pictures immediately (well, ok, I let her stop the car first).
Now here's the thing. She had no clue how fabulous a hook this is, and how enchanted I would be about this. She was just doing a good deed for her chapter of RWA cause she's a nice person (How she ended up with cold cruel sardonic moi is a mystery for the ages).
I don't know if she's finished her novel. I don't care. I've got her card, and her email is on my data base. When she's ready, she'll query me (or suffer that GBH I like to threaten people with so much) and I'll remember her.
That's why you belong to RWA. That's why you volunteer when the local chapter president says "I need a volunteer to haul that sorry slacker Janet Reid around when she slithers off the train tomorrow."
I'm still clueless about why the LIRW thought I would be suitable for a lovely lunch event but I'm damn sure glad they did.