The warning signs are easy to miss. It begins innocently. Someone asks, “So, what are you working on?” The author says, “Oh, just a small book.” Twenty minutes later, the bread has gone stale, the wine is untouched, and everyone at the table has been introduced to twelve symbolic systems, three narrative layers, a dead philosopher, and a city that is apparently also a metaphor. By the main course, the author has moved the salt shaker to demonstrate “structural tension” and arranged the cutlery into a diagram of the protagonist’s psychological development. At dessert, somebody makes the fatal mistake of saying, “That sounds interesting.”
Now there are publication dates. ISBNs appear. A napkin becomes a marketing strategy.
Someone is asked whether they know a curator. The waiter quietly removes the plates, having learned more about experimental literature than he ever intended.
And when the bill finally arrives, nobody remembers who invited whom. Was it dinner? Was it networking? Was it an artistic intervention?
No one can say.
But if an author discusses manuscripts before coffee, save the receipt. You may already be in a meeting.
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