Mark I already know. This is because I stalked him at a previous Jewish writers function, declaring my love for his columns and his tattoos, excitedly showing him examples of my columns and tattoos, and generally becoming a nuisance for the next year or so until he agreed to be my friend. He is the funniest man I know, and quite stunningly talented, and I adore him.
Elliot I had never met, though his book 'Seven Types of Ambiguity' is among my all time favorite. He spoke in soothing, caramel tones of war and responsibility, with such cerebral gravitas I was ready to lie down before him with my legs in the air. The curly brown hair, chiseled features and twinkly eyes didn't hurt, either.
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| Poor Elliot. All he wanted to do was write books. |
After the session I proceeded to the book signing area with about 20,000 of his and Mark's other fans - bizarrely, nearly all of them female. I chatted to Mark, whose hat was cutting off the circulation to his head, and waited for my chance to
The time came. And here, for your reading pleasure, are just a few snippets of the actual, genuine, conversation I had with my literary idol:
Me: You are my fantasy man.
Elliot: Um... oh.
Me: Are you on Twitter?
Elliot: No, I don't know how to work it. I need to learn.
Me: I'm giving a course on Twitter next Tuesday, come along, I'll get you in for free!
Elliot: Sadly I'm going back to Melbourne tomorrow.
Me: That's okay, I'll come to your hotel room and give you a private lesson!
Me: Do you know any Sackvilles in Melbourne?
Elliot: I know many. I know Lindi Sackville.
Me: She's my cousin!
Elliot: I used to have a crush on Lindi at school.
Me: Well now you can transfer that crush to me!
Elliot: Um.. aren't you married?
Me: Make me an offer and I don't have to be!
All in all I was devastatingly seductive and practically had Elliot drooling in anticipation of a special, two person book club all of our own.
Except that I wasn't, at all. I was a tragic, middle aged groupie, who had to get home to her husband and kids. Which I did, with my tail between my legs, and a copy of The Street Sweeper clutched in my hands.
It was inscribed 'It was a pleasure to meet you'. And that, my friends, is what I cling to.
