Kate Winslet's bum

I'm back from New York. I've been back for many fewer hours than I would have liked, thanks to a horrendously late return caused by bad weather. The high point of my return trip was the moment, sitting in the departure lounge, absorbed in a book about how our brains are not like computers, when a woman brushed past my knees. I looked up, watched her bum recede as she walked away. The woman sitting beside me leaned over and told me that it was Kate Winslet's bum that I was fixating. And that it was Forest Whitaker who was ambling along beside her.

My meetings ranged from the bizarre to the unexpected. The meeting that I had been most excited about was postponed because the editor had torn her retina and was in a waiting room awaiting laser repair. The meeting I was more worried about than excited about was terrific. There's no feeling like being shut in a small room with an extraordinarily intelligent, perceptive, and energetic editor who 'gets' your book. There was a great connection between us. I left hoping that this publisher would buy my book. I don't know yet if they will.

My second meeting was rescheduled for later in the day. Here are a few little warning signs that perhaps you have not found the editor you want for your book. When she says things like:

"Why do you have so many children? Was that on purpose or did you feel that, because you've done experiments with gerbils you should breed like one?"

Or when, in response to a statement you've made about why children should be taught how to understand spatial extent she says:

"Yes. And they should also be taught to taste and smell."

Or when she says:

"You've listed this book (X) as a competing book. It's one of ours. Is it any good? "

Or when she says:

"Your book is a bit like this other book we did. We didn't do anything to promote this book and it has done very well."

In the words of Dave Barry, I'm not making this up. I left the meeting wondering whether this editor had been given some powerful drugs for her laser surgery, but I'm told not. I'm told she's always like that. I left the meeting thinking that this woman must have decided (or been told) long before I got there that she would not be buying my book. But I'm told not. I'm told that she will probably offer. I can't believe a decision to give an author money could be based on what came to pass in that room. I'll believe it when I see it. Mostly, though, I left the meeting thinking that unless this woman offered me about a zillion dollars for it, I would not let her anywhere near any of my work. In fact, what I really wanted to do was to snatch my proposal from her desk and run for it. Back to Greenwich Village, to Washington Square Park, where a giant of a man, a huge, friendly, black Vietnam vet sat at a chessboard waiting for a return match so he could whip my ass again.

New York is a crazy place. Full of surprises. Full of crazy people. I miss it already.