MWF Seeking BFF (38 page)

The rest of the day is productive on the work front, if not the friending one. There’s a table of women in their seventies who appear to meet here weekly, and it’s a nice reminder of why I launched this search in the first place. Even if I don’t meet a new friend at Starbucks today, I could be meeting old ones here soon enough.

* * *

FRIEND-DATES 43 AND 44.
Kelly and Julie are both writers. I met Kelly at a reading for her new novel. I hadn’t read it yet, but I decided to go to the event anyway because a) her book,
The Lost Summer of Louisa May Alcott
, is a fictional story of the
Little Women
author, right up my alley, and b) despite my recent misfires, I still thought a book event would be perfect for picking up a compadre. Amanda—the new friend who blogged about me back in the day and is now in my cooking club—came with me. She was the perfect partner in crime. She loves making new friends and I knew she wouldn’t be offended if I made a move on someone else during our date. Also, she’s the type who’s good at approaching total strangers, so she could inspire confidence.

I didn’t end up finding a new friend in the crowd of book buyers that day, but when I realized that Kelly lived nearby, I took the plunge and asked her out as she signed my new copy of her novel.

“I’m a writer, too, and I’d love to pick your brain about the business,” I said. “I was wondering if you would be up for getting a drink sometime?”

“Of course! We writers need to stick together,” she said.

I followed up by email the next day. A week later we were eating sushi and trading war stories from our New York City publishing days. After dinner, we had a beer at the bar next door while Kelly graciously fielded my barrage of publishing questions and prepped me on what to expect if I pursued the life of a full-time writer. We parted with plans to get dinner with our husbands.

Julie is a freelance magazine writer. She’s working on her first book—the story of her ten-year friendship with an online pen pal she’s never met—and came across my blog during her research. When her email address appeared in my in-box I
couldn’t figure out why it looked so familiar. Until I searched my old mail and realized we’d exchanged messages three years earlier, when I’d just moved to Chicago and she was editing a local fashion magazine. My networking has come full circle.

Swap the sushi and beer for tea and cookies and my date with Julie wasn’t much different than the one with Kelly. Publishing stories, advice, repeat. But I’d been craving the writerly camaraderie, so I could have talked shop all day. Julie says she may leave Chicago for her home state of Michigan soon, but until then I plan on making her my Starbucks buddy.

Writing can be a lonely endeavor. Kelly was exactly right when she said writers need to stick together, not only because it’s such a solitary pursuit but because there aren’t many of us in the Midwest. If I still lived in New York City—or, even better, Brooklyn—I’d probably meet an author or journalist at every turn. In L.A. I could maybe carve myself a niche in the screenwriters’ circle. But in Chicago we are few and far between. It’s a culturally rich city for sure, yet finding someone who can pass along editor contact information or tell you what to expect from the publishing process, someone who gets what you do, isn’t easy.

Expanding my social circle this year has helped me widen my professional network, too. I have no fear anymore when it comes to contacting an author I admire or requesting a meeting with a local writer who might be good to know.

I’ve sent very little fan mail in my life. My brief love affair with writing to celebrities came when I was in fifth grade and got one of those books filled with the addresses of where you could contact the stars. It even told me which of them would write back. I sent a note off to Whoopi Goldberg and shared a bedroom with the signed 8×10 photo I got in return (I’d
framed it of course) until I graduated high school. But, until this search started, I’d never sent a note to say “great article!” or tried to make any professional connections with writers I didn’t know.
What’s the point?
I thought.
It’s not going to make any difference. It won’t even get read.
And maybe that would have been true in a pre-email world. But when I wrote my essay about feeling locally friendless, I was ecstatic to get messages from people who could relate. And sure, I’m not exactly a famous journalist, but I figured the same might hold true for more established writers. If they share their email address on their website, I choose to believe they want to hear from me.

Recently I wrote to two authors, both New York–based, to tell them I admired their work and that they’ve inspired me. It’s a lesson my parents taught me ages ago, but one I’ve seen realized repeatedly this year: You never know what kind of opportunity a new connection might bring. And who doesn’t like to be told they’re brilliant? You really can’t go wrong.

I heard back from both writers within a week and each sent thoughtful, funny, and personal notes in response. One even offered to mention my blog on her popular website.

Professional networking is very similar to personal friending. You have to believe that people will be open to your advances. We psych ourselves out of approaching a potential BFF or emailing a role model because it seems far-fetched that they’d want to be friends or network with us in return. But, as has always been the case this year, people are happy to make new connections. More often than not only good can come of it and, at least in the case of networking, writing an email doesn’t take much time or energy.

My girl-dates with Kelly and Julie were a refreshing change
of pace. I could talk about the specifics of my career goals and failures without having to do the kind of explaining I might when chatting with a lawyer or a consultant. They’re not only potential friends but potential colleagues, and each gave me great insight into local opportunities for writers. It’s not only what you know but who you know, and I’ve made some serious progress on the latter.

As much energy as I’ve dedicated to new friends this year, I’ve spent a fair amount of time with old ones as well. This weekend, Jenny, one of my old college roommates, is in town with her boyfriend. They live in Manhattan but Eric was in Chicago for business, so Jenny came at the tail end of his trip to show him our alma mater. The three of us spent all day in Evanston—walking by the lakefront, showing Eric where we lived senior year (and where the homeless man made his home on our front porch), and eating lunch at Jenny’s favorite café. Tonight we’re dining, with Matt, at a restaurant around the corner from our apartment.

“Would it be possible to get some bread, please?” Matt asks our waitress. “For the mussel broth?”

“Our chef doesn’t want to serve bread,” she says. “I’ve recommended it to him before—people are always asking—but he feels pretty strongly. And I’m kind of intimidated by him, so I was just like, ‘Whatever you say.’ ” She puts her hand up in a “don’t shoot” gesture and laughs.

I like this girl. She’s friendly and chatty. She seems easygoing and funny, and reminds me of my friends.

“Maybe she could be my BFF,” I joke as she walks away. “She’s all cute and spunky.”

“You should ask her out,” Matt says.

“How? That would be so embarrassing!”

But now the idea’s in my head, and the question of how to make my move nags at me the entire meal, like that feeling you can’t shake when you forget what you’re going to say. I try to let it go but I can’t focus on anything else.

This is my chance! It might be awkward, I might be rejected, but I’ve wanted to blindly ask a girl out all year. I need to just do it.

Problem is, there are people watching. As uncomfortable as I would be if it were just me and the waitress, it’ll be ten times weirder in front of Matt and my friends. The pressure will be serious.

“Thank you guys so much for dining with us,” the waitress says with a slightly southern twang as she hands us the check. “Have a really great night.”

“You’ve got to do it,” Matt tells me. “This is what you’ve been working toward.”

“I know, I know.” I’m wringing my hands, unsure of my next move. Jenny and Eric are, understandably, laughing at me. Not with. At.

“Write her a note,” Matt says. “Then if you get rejected it won’t be to your face.”

“Yes! Perfect. But I have horrible handwriting. And what if she sees me writing it, never responds, and then she’s our waitress the next time we eat here? This is our favorite restaurant, I don’t want to ruin it for us.”

I decide to have Jenny write the note. Her handwriting is legible, and if the waitress sees her writing it and decides we’re freaks, at least Matt and I can show our faces here again. Jenny has nothing to lose, while I stand to sacrifice the best scallops in Chicago.

The finished product is written in perfect script on the back of our check:

After my name, Jenny adds my phone number and email address per my direction.

“That’s lame, just put your number,” Matt says. “Email address is a cop-out.”

Matt’s a big believer in live phone conversations. He just recently, and reluctantly, jumped on the texting bandwagon. “Email makes it easier for her,” I say. “Gives me a better chance of seeing her again.”

If you’re trying to make a new friend, you need to make it as simple as possible for her to get on board. The less work she has to do, the better chance you have of hearing back.

See, I’ve learned a few tricks this year.

We’ve now been lingering with the check for a good fifteen minutes.

“She’s looking at us,” Matt says. “She’s definitely wondering why we’re still here.” Jenny and I can’t stop laughing.

“Okay, go! Go!” I’m like a police officer sending out the SWAT team. I’m nervous to be there when our waitress—whose name I don’t even know—sees the note. Yes, I’ve gotten braver this year, I’ve gotten better at going outside my
comfort zone, but I’m not made of steel. And this leaving a note thing is new territory for me. I’m anxious and excited all at once.

“I probably won’t hear from her,” I tell Matt later that night. “What if she doesn’t turn over the check? Then she won’t even see what we wrote.”

“She’ll see it. You’re right, she probably won’t call, but you never know. At least you can say you tried.”

The next morning I wake up with the slight headache of someone who drank just enough wine to think it was a good idea to ask out a potential friend on the back of a restaurant check. Does that even happen in real life? I’ve definitely only seen it in the movies.

“At least I made Jenny write the note,” I tell Matt as we’re lying in bed. “We can go back there anytime with no weirdness.”

I check my email while I’m eating my morning oatmeal. And there, the only thing in my in-box, is a note. From her. The waitress. Maritza.

She wrote the email at 2:40
A.M.
She must have sent it as soon as she got home from her shift. I immediately forward her email to Matt, Jenny, and Eric with a note of my own: “She didn’t get a chance to talk to us? I thought we were best friends!”

Jenny tells me I probably found the one waitress out of a hundred that would actually respond, but I don’t know. A year ago, maybe even last night, I would have agreed. But it’s hard to believe I could have struck gold on the first try. And haven’t I found, over and over this year, that people are flattered when someone extends a hand of friendship?

I write Maritza back that afternoon. (I’m succumbing to game-playing—a Shasta Nelson no-no—but I wait a few hours to respond. After writing the note, I don’t want to come off as desperate. Or, any
more
desperate.) I thank her for not thinking I’m crazy and we make a date for next Sunday.

Buoyed by my success with Maritza, I head to the clothing boutique on my corner. Celia, the store manager, and I have become friendly since I’ve moved to Chicago. When I wanted an outsider’s opinion on my would-be wedding dress, I showed her the pictures on my iPhone. She said I looked like a ballerina. Considering I’ve always said I was a ballet dancer in a former life, she pretty much won my heart with that single observation.

Since we first met, I’ve learned Celia has an older sister who is her best friend and that she’s dating a guy in the finance world. I’ve wanted to befriend her since I first started this project, and not only because she knows what clothes work for my body and could possibly hook me up with a discount. I put off asking her out for a while because I hadn’t built up the nerve. Starting the year with friend setups was my way of wading into
the friendship waters. This direct pickup approach? It’s the friendship plunge.