The Write Match

‘The Write Match’. It sounded so cheesy that I had to bite. If nothing else, I figured I’d get some material to blog about. An online dating service specifically geared toward writers? What’s not to love? Sure, it was probably just a roster of adverb-slinging losers with no friends outside of their characters, sitting on their asses all day and procrastinating until their muse showed up, but I’d been in a slump. A MAJOR slump and I needed to knock the rust off of my ‘after-dinner’ banter. I figured if it was a date with another writer, at least I’d get some interesting conversation out of the deal. Maybe we could bond over our dislike for E.L. James and a bottle of red.

After sifting through the ‘winks’, ‘blown kisses’, ‘nibbles’, and ‘pokes’ at all the other dating sites I’d tried, it was refreshing to see a site where discussion was encouraged. The forum boards were full of people talking about favorite writers, new projects, ‘likes’ and ‘dislikes’ about the business and the problems writers have in finding partners who understand their need for writing space. There was even a section where members had to write a ‘first date’ scenario to be critiqued by the rest of the group. If a member liked what you were selling, they could click a ‘takers’ button, where if the other party were so inclined, you both would to agree to meet and re-enact the scenario on a real date.

Maybe the best part was that before membership was approved, you had to take at least one picture of yourself holding a current newspaper, magazine or anything that would prove you weren’t posting pics from twenty years ago. Some of the members got really creative, taking pictures of themselves holding iPhones, newly released music CDs or standing outside of movie theaters next to the ‘coming soon’ posters. Okay, I was intrigued.

I mostly sat back and observed for the first couple of weeks. The conversations were interesting, as they should be. I mean, we’re talking about writers after all. They should at least be able to string together a few engaging sentences. However, none of the females caught my eye until I wandered across the date scenario pitched by one April Banks.

‘Lunch: McNuggets at the Suburban Station Courtyard. Your choice of sauce.’

Aha. Punchy. Quirky. Funny. And I suspected that like me, she didn’t take the whole ‘online dating’ business too seriously. The post had been out for about two days. She’d gotten lots of looks and comments but no takers. I figured it was destined, so I threw my name in the hat. She accepted my ‘take’ and we agreed to act out her fast food dream date. I took the train into the city and met her the next day. After navigating the station, I spotted her standing outside the McDonald’s wearing jeans and a faded Red Sox t-shirt.

Great smile. Dangerous eyes. Just like the picture.

I walked over, trying my best to find the right balance between walking too fast—overly eager and walking too slow—a dude trying too hard to look cool.

“Nice to meet you April.”
Confusion fell over her face. “April? Who’s April?”
Oh shit. A brick formed in my stomach. “I’m sorry, but you look just like this girl in the profile…”
She took a step backward. “Profile? What are you talking about?”
“Uh… ‘Write Match’. It’s a dating site. I was supposed to be meeting someone named—”
“Gotcha,” she said, flashing a slick grin.

Yes she did.

After some mild gloating over her prank, we headed to the counter to place our order. As promised, I got my choice of sauce. We ate our nuggets out in the square, under a bright sky and observed the hustle and bustle of the people moving back and forth on Market Street. I was pleased to find out that like me, she was a people watcher. I didn’t meet too many of those. Most of my dates just found it annoying or they’d accuse me of trying to check out other chicks. I guess it takes a writer to understand a writer.

We shared the usual pleasantries—‘where are you from?’, ‘what do you do?’, ‘what do you think of the site’… blah, blah and blah, but we learned more from each other by watching, describing and positing our own theories about the lives of the pedestrian parade scrolling in and out of our view.

“He’s a doctor,” she said.
“Nope. Serial killer.”
“Serial killer doctor with duct tape in his briefcase.”
“That woman is a librarian.”
“Librarian with lots of cats.”
“Librarian with lots of cats who buried her husband under her house.”
“Oooh. I like that. And she’s actually a two-hundred year-old witch.”
“A two-hundred year-old witch who collects men’s souls to stay young.”
“What about him? Is that his daughter or his mistress?”
“Mistress, but she’s best friends with his daughter.”
“Mistress, best friends with the daughter and she makes him dress up in a top to bottom leather suit and ball gag.”
“Don’t forget the nipple clamps.”
“I didn’t forget,” she said smiling. “thought they were implied. I mean what’s the point in dressing up in a leather suit and ball gag if you’re gonna half-ass it?”
“Ahhh. Good point.”

We carried on like that for hours, until many of the familiar faces from the lunch rush had returned to the station to catch their evening trains home. I found two things that day—lots of characters for my next book… and the woman I married