Two months ago I met with another writer to have coffee and talk books. Although I felt a flash of failed confidence after our coffee date, I still enjoyed meeting with him, and a few days later asked if he’d like to meet again. He said he would but after the holidays.
The holidays came and went, and then a month of crazy busy came and went, and before I knew it two months had passed. Knowing that if I waited too much longer he might not remember me, I emailed him again to see if we could schedule a coffee date.
I was a little nervous to do this again. I didn’t want to seem desperate; I’m not desperate, but I worried I would come off as such. Remembering that I’m an over-thinker and an over-analyzer, I pushed past the nerves and sent the email.
Thankfully he didn’t send back a strained email wondering who I was. He is, however, in and out-of-town for the next few weeks, and so wants to meet next month.
Even if we never get together for coffee again, I’m happy that I didn’t stop trying. It may never amount to anything, but at least I’ll never wonder.