"Are you a writer?" she asked.
"Yes...yes I am," only after I say this do I realize it's true.
"I knew it. You look like a writer."
(Is that, "You look like a writer: sexy, hip, intellectual," or "You look like a writer: disheveled, antisocial, frumpy?")
"So..." she says, "what do you write?"
"Novels...and things. I've finished a first draft, but need to go back and edit it."
"Is it due out soon, then?"
"Not if I have anything to say about it. It has a long way to go," I tell her. Then I tell her I'm also a consultant, which is also true, but which feels like a cop-out somehow.
I ask her about what she does (runs a tea website, spends a lot of time outdoors). We chat for a while, and then I leave to catch the 146, thinking I'd better get back to this writing stuff, because it's not good enough to look like a writer.