What a Business Card Brought Back to Me

Recently I attended a book critics’ lunch hosted by a group of publishers—an opportunity to network, talk about books, and hear about upcoming releases.

Walking into a room like that for the first time isn’t easy. You know no one and wonder, Who am I going to talk to?

But once I commit to something, I see it through.

Even though I arrived a few minutes early, the small room at the back of a Mexican restaurant was already full. It wasn’t the sit-down luncheon I’d imagined, but more of a cocktail-style event.

I gravitated toward a massive table overflowing with tortilla chips—like someone had overturned a giant bowl and let them tumble all over the tablecloth. I was fascinated. All I could think was, How do they get the grease stains out?

Groups had already formed. People were deep in conversation. But someone greeted me warmly, showed me where to stash my coat, and just like that—I’d made contact.

A table held nametags for all of us. People looked at your tag, then at you, maybe deciding what to say—or whether you were worth talking to.

I struck up a conversation with an editor and felt at ease with her right away. I told her the kinds of books I like to review—queer stories, New York stories—and she mentioned a couple of titles that might be a fit. I asked for her card. (Do people still exchange cards in 2025? I didn’t have one. But I’m not much of a social media person either.) She fished one out of her bag and handed it to me. I slipped it into my pocket without looking.

But we kept talking. The conversation turned personal. She told me she’d just come back from a trip with her adult son—one she’d originally planned with her husband, who had recently passed away. Her eyes filled with tears. My instinct was to hug her. Not wanting to overstep, I gave her elbow a gentle squeeze.

The presentation started then. Each publisher brought galleys—advance copies of books, not quite final but close—and gave short pitches about why these books mattered.

The editor and I drifted into different conversations afterward. It was easy to talk to people now; we had new books to discuss.

On the subway ride home, I thought about my exchange with the editor. It had such unexpected depth and intimacy. It’s like I knew her, I thought, pulling her card from my pocket.

That’s when I realized—I did know her.

Her name triggered a flood of memory. I’d met her during my very first job in publishing. We worked for two different imprints under the same publisher: mine, commercial; hers, literary. We didn’t interact directly, but I read everything she acquired, hoping one day I’d get to work on books like hers.

I remembered she once wrote a kind note about one of my reader’s reports—internal memos editorial assistants write to help senior editors assess submissions. That early encouragement meant more than she probably realized.

Meeting her again reminded me how much that kind of encouragement matters—and how far it can carry you.

It brought me back to the backroom of a Mexican restaurant, surrounded by people who had committed their lives to books.

No one was in it for the money (probably). They came to this work because they valued ideas—and for the expression of those ideas.

I felt proud to be among them.