It’s around this time that the phone-checking starts. And the telling friends about him. And the putting ‘Daniel‘ and ‘male’ (in case it didn’t know) and ‘London’ into the Advanced Search on Facebook.
The whole writer thing – prone to overthinking, obsession, depression, you-name-it – doesn’t seem to put him off. No, instead I get an entertaining response which begins, ‘I’m a programmer’. That’s not the entertaining bit. It does however make me think of a funny post I read on a fellow Tinder-er’s blog, about a date she went on with someone who works in IT. She tells him she writes a ‘fitness blog’, confident that he won’t be able to discover the truth. Which he does, the next day, and comedy ensues. It also reminds me of when I met Joe, who also worked in IT, and I had to remind myself that what I considered an anonymous blog was probably nothing of the sort.
So when Daniel asks me if I’ve published anything, I conveniently forget about the two hundred odd blog posts I’ve poured my heart and soul into for the past year and a half, and say no. Which isn’t a lie, because his question referred to novels specifically, and the day I finish a novel, let alone get one published, is the day I go on a good second date; or get a stable job; or can afford to rent a room whose dimensions don’t contravene the European Convention on Human Rights.