I employed exactly this strategy when I decided, at age 26, that it was time to find a mate. My (Catholic) biological clock was ticking ever louder, and I figured with a few years of dating, I’d be able to be a mom by my early 30s.

Even though I don’t fish, I used a fishing analogy: the sort of fish I wanted would determine my bait and my pond. I wanted a man interested in the intellectual life, but also the physical one; I wanted a man who loved history; I wanted a man who loved women with brains and the means to use them. My chosen fishing pond was, fortunately enough, my work; I was a park ranger, and the many volunteers we got were fun and interesting people. Why look any further?

So I picked Barbara Tuchman’s The Guns of August, a highly readable history of the run-up to and early months of World War I – female, check; history/intellect, check. I carried it with me, and after heading to a bar after a sail with volunteers after work, he struck up a conversation about it. I baited my hook, tossed it in the water, and 18 years later I am still married to the first fish to come along. (I haven’t finished the book yet.)