All through dinner after the GalleyCat party, I kept making noises about being a Good Girl and skipping the LitBlog Co-op Party because my voice was in tatters and I needed rest. Blame it on the mojitos again, but I giddily piled into a taxi with Tish Cohen, Susan Henderson and Patry Francis, and decamped for Sheridan Square.
After some very clever sleuthing, we located The Kettle of Fish and elbowed our way into yet another crowded, noisy bar full of publishing types.
I said to a guy, "You look very familiar; I know I've seen you before. Who are you?" He said his name was Arthur Phillips, which didn't ring a bell. Then I remembered: "Were you on 'Jeopardy'?" Why yes, he was. "I was rooting for you!" I croaked. And I'm rooting for him even more, after reading his piece in yesterday's NY Times: My Dog Days. Oh yeah, and he also wrote Prague, The Egyptologist and Angelica.
I had a great conversation with editor-turned-agent Dan Conaway, aka "Mad Max Perkins" of the late, lamented BookAngst 101; pictured below (in glasses) with Mark Sarvas of The Elegant Variation.
I talked to a whole bunch of other people. Then by 11 (or was it later?), voice and legs shot, I tottered into the subway. My dinner dates were still going strong, but like Scarlett I was saying to myself, "Tomorrow is another day." A day I planned to walk, walk, walk, and talk, talk, talk.
And so to bed.