It's a long way down

Major developments today. None of them good.

This morning I drove out to Monroe for my second interview at the dental magazine. I was ten minutes late, but they didn't seem to mind (I called to let them know I'd gotten caught in a traffic snag on the highway). I met with the editor and the senior editor (my last interview was with the president and the managing editor). The interview took the form of a pleasant discussion and a series of what I hoped were amusing anecdotes--I talked about working in Toledo, editing at the Herald, my career ambitions (or lack thereof). I thought I was effective at ingratiating myself to these women, and if I wasn't already a shoo-in for the gig, I must have been at this point. I ended by asking when they expected to make their decision (half-assuming that they'd tell me right then that they'd want to hire me), and they said that, well, they had a few more interviews next week, so I should probably hear by the week of the 10th. Two weeks from now. I was crestfallen. Here I was, thinking I'd come out for a pre-offer-of-employment formality, and I come to find out that they've got several more interviews and that I won't get an answer for at least eleven days. I was told that I was at the top of the list. I was told that they knew who they were looking for when they saw him. And I'm only lukewarm on this job! What went wrong?

Flash forward a few hours to the daily ritual of mail-getting at my father's North Haven residence. I'm generally hoping for one of my magazine subscriptions to come in, or maybe a piece of informative literature from a graduate program. Today I find a letter addressed to me from the Yale you know what. I paused upon discovering it--why would they be sending me a letter? I speculated without really speculating (maybe they're extending an offer in writing, how quaint!) as I tore through the envelope. What I found inside was an exceptionally polite letter from the marketing director (the woman who I spent the bulk of my morning at the Press talking to, the one whose daughter was my supervisor a few summers ago) informing me that they'd found someone whose "experience was better suited to their needs." The phrase puzzled me--it had been nearly, what?, a week since last I'd seen those words arranged in that order.

A step back for a moment: In recent weeks, I've been actively trying to take note of my emotional reactions to various situations. I'm drafting an emotional map of myself. What I observed myself feeling after reading this latest rejection letter was anger. Looking back at posts in recent weeks, I find that anger is a common emotional thread, at least in my employment adventures. It was fury I felt upon receiving the demure email from the editor at Time Warner (or was it a wholly-owned subsidiary?). It was rage that washed over me when less than 48 hours after my chat with the literary agent in Manhattan who had sought me out I was informed that someone more qualified and more interesting and more better had been hired. And here again was that old familiar anger. Looking at these responses objectively, I can't say that I think they're very healthy. Isn't it probably true that all that anger is misdirected outwardly? Isn't it easier to get mad at the world than it is to look inward and identify flaws and actually attempt to correct them?

The saddest part of all (when I make the effort to nudge anger out of the way for a moment) is that I've been walking around all week as though I was already employed at the press. Getting the call from them last week was about the biggest victory I've had in this miserable war since it began. Interviewing in New York was exciting, but none of those jobs ever felt truly viable. But a morning worth of interviews at my own university's press, now that felt like it could go somewhere. In fact, it felt like it should go somewhere. They knew my story--the months of fruitless searching, the nearly-trampled spirit. Wasn't it the obligation of the institution that chewed me up and spit me out thirteen unlucky months ago to make good on its promise to open a few doors for me? Here I was with my English degree and my writing samples and my timely submission of my homework. It was in the bag, and I spent the week strutting around like a member of that exclusive club called the publishing industry. Christ, I'd practically picked a futon for my new i'm-so-special-i-work-for-the-YUP apartment.

But like every bubble that I've allowed to inflate beyond any reasonable proportions, this one was vaporized (with a few polite sentences on a piece of cream-colored stationary). The letter was dated on Tuesday, a full two days before what they told me would be the earliest day on which the department would be able to confer about potential candidates. The unkindest cut of of all.

So, that was that. Out of today's news comes my current conundrum: I've obliged to wait out this other job (which I wasn't all that stoked about until it became apparent that it's the best thing within my grasp that's come along since I moronically turned my back on that Edith Wharton job last September) for almost two weeks, and pray that it works out cause if it doesn't it's probably time to load up the shotgun and move out to Ketchum (only kidding).

Speaking of failure, these latest episodes have seriously called into question my desire to pursue a career in writing. Having lived a life of constant rejection lo these many months, I can't imagine willfully prolonging this kind of lifestyle for much longer. Thus far, I haven't been able to land a job anywhere near the field of writing. How much faster will those rejections fly at me when (and if) I actually attempt to get something published? And how much worse will I feel when it's not just my "skills and experience" that don't measure up, but my thoughts and my feelings and the ways that I express them. I don't even want to think about it.

Oh right, there was one more tiny little newsworthy event on this fine penultimate June day. I got my LSAT score. It's a little more than halfway between my version of bad and my version of good. It probably means no Duke, Penn, Georgetown, or, sadly, Michigan. But BC, GW, USC and Cornell might be within reach. Listen to me with this namedropping. Where do I find the gall to be so pompous? Especially in light of my abject inability to--well, do anything, really.

Limbo once again

Yeah, it's been a while. Again. I'm at a loss for a substantive explanation, other than that I've once again found myself in one of those pre-employment offer limbos.

I had three interviews last week. One at the dental magazine. One at a literary agency in New York. And one at a publishing house on the campus of my alma mater. (I'd rather not put myself in jeopardy by mentioning its name--but it's a university press in New Haven. Needless to say, I'm ecstatic about the possibility of working there.)

The dental magazine, as I might have mentioned, seemed interested in hiring me. I've got a second interview tomorrow (today at this point) during which I hope to get an offer.

The literary agency got back to me within a day with the wholly unsurprising news that they didn't want to hire me.

Then there's the YUP. My interview last Thursday began with a 9:30 a.m. proofreading test at the human resources building on campus (separate from the Press offices). I was done by 10 and headed over to the YUP offices to meet the director of marketing (the position I applied to was called 'marketing assistant'). I did my best imitation of a charming, intelligent, capable would-be YUP employee. At one point we stumbled upon the realization that I had spent a summer working under the supervision of this woman's daughter at another university facility. After 30 or 45 minutes, I left to speak with two other members of the department under whose auspices the new assistant would find him- or herself (does that make sense?). Then I met with a young woman who recently vacated the currently vacant position. At the end of this series of meetings, I was given a take-home assignment (produce a mock newsletter, in accordance with a template that I'd be using if I got the job). And I was asked to provide a few references and writing samples. By noon of the next day, all my homework was submitted. I'm supposed to get their decision by the end of this week.

I'll probably get the dental magazine job tomorrow. I'd really like to get the job at the press. Like, a lot. The work would be good; it's a top-notch operation; it'd be good experience; the money is very good; the work is relevant to my interests (yeah, that's a jab at the dental mag job). I'd put my chances at 50-50. That figure is based on nothing but arbitrary speculation, and the fact that I was told of at least one other scheduled interview.

You know what will probably happen? I probably won't get an offer from either of these places. That outcome is much more in line with my recent job-hunting history. How can we forget the lost month of Febrary 2006, when I loafed around and twiddled my thumbs as my first day of Kaplan training approached, only to find out that the training was being put off for another month? Or all those weeks in November 2005 when I waited to hear back from the editors at Food & Wine?

Perfect world: Get both jobs and turn one down. My world: Get neither, take another month off to hate myself, and start all over in August.

I should probably be writing more. I hope I've just been distracted by this job offer lag time and the impending arrival of my LSAT score.

By writing I don't mean blogging. To be honest, I don't think I'm going to get any better as a writer by relying on this that you're reading to keep my wit sharp and limber. Blogging is much more akin to diary writing than it is to memoir or essay writing--I don't think that David Sedaris sits down and spends all day writing about the lousy things that happened to him the day before. Actually, I think that might be exactly what he does...

Well, one clue that I'm doing something wrong is that I still get caught up on about five words in every New Yorker article I read--words that I recognize but can't quite define and wouldn't have readily available for use in my own writing. For example, today's words included: recalcitrant; assiduously; oblique; and a couple of others that I can't remember. Not difficult words, but words whose meaning I've got only a vague notion of, and that wouldn't roll off my fingertips even in appropriate contexts. I want a concrete notion of words like that, and I want to be able to use them without any special effort. Step one toward that goal is reading more. Step two is writing more.

I'll be sure to update the blog as soon as any new news comes in about either of these prospects. Stuff to look forward to this weekend, other than potentially getting a job (and, hence, a life): two graduation parties (one with open bar), LSAT scores, family reunion/hot dog bonanza.

Back from No Chance Land

When last we left our hero he was tossing the night away on his damp childhood bed in his dirty laundry-strewn childhood bedroom, hyped-up as he was for his third (charmed?) interview on the island of Manhattan.

A chronology:

7:30 - Alarm, shower (ahem).
8:50 - Train leaves without me.
9:29 - Last best hope. It'll be a squeaker.
11:10 - Metro-North touches down at Grand Central Terminal.
11:11-11:15 - A frenzied rush to a Brooklyn BRIDGE-bound 6 train.
11:20 - Ascent from the sultry depths onto the dingily glistening corner of Park Avenue and 23rd Street.
11:22 - The Flatiron Building whizzes by in a blur.
11:25 - Rubber-soled "dress shoes" don't make much noise on the marble inlaid lobby floor of the building where publishing industry dreams go to die.
11:29 - Shirt tucked in, brow wiped dry (don't touch it again), knock and enter.
11:31 - Interview begins (don't say "entice").
11:55 - Let me introduce you to my assistant. She'll tell you about the specifics of the job.
12:10 - Thanks for coming in*! Thanks for having me! *An old Heraldism come back to haunt me.
12:15 - Trudge back to Park and 23rd.
12:25 - Hello again, GCT. Someone told me that that ball-shaped clock is "priceless," as in infinitely valuable.
12:35 - Lunch in the Terminal bowels.
12:45 - Back on the train.
2:40 - Hello New Haven.

I don't think I'm going to get this job. And I think it's because I'm not a girl. I've been getting an inkling that women in publishing prefer female underlings. Not that I blame them. (Feel free to vehemently disagree with my assessment whether or not you've got any hard evidence to back up your vehemence.)

I suppose I should try harder to convey my many girlish tendencies.

I've still got that mag from yesterday, and it's looking pretty good.

And: There's been one more nibble on the line (a voicemail just after 5 this afternoon). I'm not even going to discuss it, because I don't want to jinx it or even think about it too much (ha). I'll say that it's ideal in every aspect except geographically, and leave it at that. More to come (hopefully soon). Stay tuned.

Jobs, jobs, everywhere (??)

I drove out to Monroe this morning for my interview at the dental laboratory business-to-business publication that called me back last week. Things were off to a good start when I was greeted by a young, charming and very attractive black lab (i.e., woof woof). We hit it off immediately. Unfortunately, I wasn't interviewing with the pup (whose collar tag said Zoe). Fortunately, I was interviewing with a couple of exceptionally pleasant women who seemed at least moderately interested in bringing me on board as an Assistant Editor.

I might have come across as a little keyed-up during the interview. I think I used variations of the verb "entice" a few too many times. ("I would be enticed to go to law school if I got a good LSAT score," "In my articles at the Blade, I tried to strike a balance between enticing readers with good writing and keeping the focus of the story on the people involved," "I would probably be enticed by a job in book publishing.") One of the women asked me on a few occasions if it was too hot in her office. (One of my nervous interview tics is wiping my brow even if I'm not actually sweating. In this case, I may have been sweating.) I also made the mistake of repeatedly (but jokingly) bringing up the fact that one of the women had been reading off the wrong resume when I first went in. (She thought I was a physics major from Cornell with a high GPA. Ha.)

In spite of all that, I felt quite confident afterwards, and I think I presented myself favorably but honestly.

They asked me to come in a week from Thursday for a second interview with a couple other editors.

I'd like to find out a little more about the specifics of the job before I make any committments, but from what I already know I'd say the outlook is quite promising (both in terms of the experience I'd gain and the degree to which I think I'd enjoy what I think I'd be doing).

Taking a job in Monroe means staying around New Haven for at least another year. I'm a little more OK with that than I'd like to be. I'm listening to "Move Along" as I write (for old times' sake) and I'm reminded that one of the only ways I'm going to develop as an individual is by...moving along. If I do get/take this gig, I'll move out of the house immediately and cut down mom and dad visits to, at most, one day per week. (Eesh. That doesn't sound like much of a change; it sounds kind of like college, but with more parental visits.)

Oh yeah. Then there's the interview at the literary agency, which has been scheduled for tomorrow. Manhattan + Job Interview is usually an equation that equals 40 bucks wasted on train and subway fare. Why should I think this one will be any different? But what if it is? That'll be a big change. It'll be goodbye cozy pathetic suburban nonexistence, hello literary professional cosmopolitian impoverished hyperexistence. Isn't there some step in between? Conversely, am I really someone who should be looking for a slow and steady road to self-actualization?

Gahh. What's my friggin' problem?

Too good to be true

This will be one of those posts where I don't really say anything, I just copy and paste a piece of noteworthy correspondence and allow it to speak for itself. Without further ado, this email appeared in my inbox approximately an hour ago.

I heard from [so-and-so], with whom I share office
space, that you have recently been looking for a
position as an assistant at a literary agency. As you
may already know, she has filled the position at her
agency, however, I'm looking for a new assistant for a
regular full time position as an assistant at my
literary agency.

Duties for this position include answering the phone,
reading manuscripts, drafting letters to send out
(rejections, updates, submissions, etc.), filing,
preparing checks for clients. I'm looking for someone
who is reliable and eager to learn the agency side of
the business. You can learn more about my agency on my
company’s website...

I’m looking to fill this position very quickly as my
current assistant is leaving soon. If you would like
to come in for an interview, please feel free to
contact me. If you are no longer looking for a
position, please disregard this email.

Cordially,

XXX
XXX Agency

Good God. Is that the sound of a door opening? Is this the first step toward the career that I think I want? And did it just fall into my lap? (Incidentally, I have no recollection of the so-and-so to whom the agent refers. Maybe I've become notorious among NYC publishers and literary agents. Haha. Doubtful.)

As usual, my first instinct is that this is a joke/hoax. No second chances if you're behind this one, Clickito.

Fortunately, I've got a backup plan. I've got an interview lined up for Monday. Yesterday I submitted a cover letter and resume to a "trade magazine" that operates out of the Connecticut town of Monroe (a few towns west of New Haven and a little inland). Within two hours of emailing my materials, I got a call from the HR person asking me to come in for an interview. The trade covered by the mag is, apparently, dental equipment. Sounds mundane, to be sure. But the job description makes it sound like I'd be doing a lot of layout and design and copyediting--legit editorial assistant-type stuff. The kind of stuff that stoked my fire at the Herald.

Both of these operations seem like they're eager to make a hire. Looks like I'm in the right place at the right time twice over. What could go wrong?

I'm trying not to get too cosmic about all of this stuff, but quite honestly it seems miraculous that I've got TWO decent prospects lined up within a week of starting to look again. Good thing I'm a *lapsed* Catholic. Otherwise I'd probably be getting my rosary out.

Needless to say, I've got qualms about both of these gigs. (Surprise, surprise.) Nothing serious. I'd probably classify them as butterflies in the stomach. Perhaps the biggest qualm of all is that just when it looks like I'm on the verge of landing a decent job (knock on wood), I get a tip on a casting call for a reality show about unmotivated schmucks who watch television all day and drink all night. Figures.

I'm writing this instead of applying to jobs

The LSAT's over, and I'm back to my old tricks (blogging included). It feels much worse the second time around. Sure, the two part-time jobs I used to have sucked. But at least I was making some spending money and at least I had something to do during the day. Now it's no more jobs, no more LSAT studying, just me and my broken dreams again.

I'm not sure what to make of my LSAT performance. I know I did well on the one section that gave me the most trouble in practices (the Analytical Reasoning section; you know how those go--Ursula, Victor, Wilmer, Xenia, Yu and Zacharias are sitting in a row; Ursula is in seat 5, Yu cannot sit next to Wilmer, yada yada yada). Reading Comp was fine too, but the other two sections felt a little shaky. Now I have to stew for three weeks until I get my score by email. It's unsettling to think that my performance on this test may have an enormous effect on the rest of my natural life. Do well and be a lawyer, or do poorly and [dot dot dot question mark].

There's not one single aspect of applying to jobs that I find enjoyable. I don't like searching for them; I don't like tailoring cover letters (I especially don't like tailoring cover letters just because I'm so sick of revising and submitting the same vacuous dreck over and over again); I don't like the idea of competing with hundreds of other people for the jobs I apply to; I don't like following-up; I don't like getting offers for jobs that suck; I don't like getting rejected for jobs that I really want.

It's just now starting to dawn on me how much my LSAT studying was a distraction from my re-unemployment. Now I've got zip. Nothing on the horizon, no prospects, no leads. Jack shit. How long will it take this time? Should I bother setting a time frame? I feel like I should have something by the end of the month, but how reasonable is that? By any normal standards, it's probably perfectly reasonable. By my grandiose expectations, who knows?

*****

I spent the day up in Cambridge on Saturday (sorry I missed you again, Lisa; I'll call you soon). While there, I had an interesting encounter:

I was with my friends Brian and Liz. Liz was looking stunning in a green "party dress" and cowboy boots. We were having coffee and a nice chat in a smallish cafe outside of harvard Square. There were about twelve seats in the place, all of which were full.

At one point during a (nauseatingly boring) discussion of Brian's career ambitions (only kidding, bro), I looked over at the counter and noticed a tall, scruffy-looking guy ordering a drink. I thought to myself, "Ha. Isn't that funny: that guy looks a little like Ben Affleck, and we're in Boston." I paused for a moment, furrowed my brow, and took another look. This Boston Red Sox cap-wearing fellow was, in fact, Mr. Ben Affleck. The co-author of my "favorite" film was ordering coffee five yards from where I was sitting!

At this point I thought, "Gosh, wouldn't it be funny if Jennifer Garner were here too?" At that moment, a slender young woman (her figure mostly hidden under a navy raincoat; it was a wet day in Lamebridge) walked up beside big Ben. Could it be? It was! Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner were perusing the biscotti case within spitting distance from where we were sitting! But hold on: what that a baby stroller she was pushing? It was! Baby Bennifer! Good gracious!

At this point, Brian and party-attired Liz noticed my withdrawal from the conversation. In as hushed a tone as I could manage, I informed them that we were in the presence of two fabulously famous and wealthy actors. They were impressed, but they're no starf***ers.

At that point it would have been impossible to continue our conversation, and I didn't want to make a scene, so we decided to leave. I got a good peek at the infant Garner-Affleck on our way out (in deference to Ben and Jen's privacy, I will decline to provide a description).

As I mentioned, the few seats in the cafe were all occupied when they walked on. I can only hope that they took our departure as an act of courtesy and went and enjoyed their beverages at our recently-vacated table.

Every now and then I fall apart

Unemployment 2.0, Day 2

All the bright ideas I had for what to do next have fizzled out. A few weeks ago I found an ad for an associate editor job at a textbook publisher in Worcester. I told myself I'd apply this week. Today I discovered that the ad has expired. Last week I saw a posting for a residential counselor job in Amherst for the summer. I thought I'd apply to that one today; it's gone. I spent an hour or so scouring websites for all the local Catholic schools, and there wasn't a hint on any of them that they were looking to hire any teachers. Even if I still wanted to apply to AmeriCorps, by now it's too late to start anything that will end before September 2007 (i.e., when I'm supposedly going back to school).

I also spent a fair chunk of time today gathering data on law school admissions. It's not easy to make sense of all the info that's out there, but it's beginning to look a lot like I won't be able to get into any of the schools that I want to go to, even if I have a really good day on Monday. The school I keep thinking about is Michigan. I can't quite say why--it's big, it's far from home, it's got good sports, it's got a good reputation. It seems like it'd be a fun place to do. But I don't think I'll have the numbers.

It's been a while since I've put much thought into alternative graduate-type programs (like the writing MFA). I've heard that there are graduate programs in publishing, a fact which strikes me as fairly ridiculous. Would it be worth it to drop a few thousand dollars just to get a slight edge in a cut-throat industry?

It's beginning to feel more and more like I'm just taking a very long, roundabout road to a career in teaching. Those who can't wed plan, after all.

I wonder what my summer will be like. I had a good one last year--fun travels, lackadaisical days on the lake, summer movies, beach reading, drinking, romance (just kidding).

Last year. Long time ago. But not really. Where'd I go wrong? Any chance I'll do things right this year? If I was a religious man, I might be appealing to a higher power right now.

Just for fun, here's my rejection letter from the editor I interviewed with. (Do you think it's unreasonable to imagine that at least one main factor in my not getting the job was that I wasn't female? Also, I like the line about my "great career in publishing." I guess that just means that I look good on paper.)

Mike, thank you for your interest in XYZ and for coming in to interview with me. Although your credentials are impressive, we decided that another candidate was a better fit for the position here, and she just notified me on Friday that she'’s accepting my offer. Our HR department will keep your resume on file in the event that another position at XYZ becomes available in the future. You have a great career in publishing ahead of you and I wish you all the best.

Back with a vengeance

I feel very bad for those of you who have come to rely on my plaintive diatribes for regular procrastination and entertainment.

Did that sound surly?

Back in college, people used to call me surly. I can't imagine why. Whether I was surly or not before people started calling me that, I was certainly surly once I'd been labeled as surly. There's no way to refute an accusation of surliness without sounding surly. ("Stop calling me surly," I'd say. "Boy, you're surly today," would be the reply.)

In a nod to a convention from the early days of this chronicle, let's see what the dictionary has to say about the word "surly". (I'm obligated to turn to Merriam-Webster. The OED would be my first choice, but use of that resource is a privilege reserved for those currently enrolled in America's finer institutions of higher learning.)

surly: irratably sullen or churlish in mood or manner.

Sounds about right.

By way of comparison, I might describe surliness as anger with the temperature turned to low and left to simmer. I may have been surly back in the day, but a lot of stuff has been happening lately that has (if you'll forgive the extension of the metaphor) been turning up the heat.

In short, I'm angry.

Consider: The Friday before last I took a train into Manhattan for an interview at a publishing company. Even before I found my way to where I was supposed to be, I was a mess. The office was on 6th Avenue at 50th Street; I brilliantly walked all the way to 60th Street on 5th Avenue before realizing my error. I made it on time, but I was hot and probably sweating profusely. The woman I interviewed seemed completely disinterested almost from the get-go. She asked a few standard questions (which I answered with as much gusto as I could muster) and then ended the interview with an abrupt, "Well, that sounds good. We'll let you know." Today I got an email telling my how impressive my qualifications were, but how they'd found someone else who was a better fit. Imagine my surprise. It took considerable effort to keep myself from punching a hole in the wall.

Consider: My job at the biz mag ended on Friday. (I dropped Qpac a couple of weeks ago.) Where does that leave me now? The same place I was a year ago. Un-f***ing-employed. I can't think of anything I would rather do *less* than applying for jobs again.

Consider: I had to pick up my dog's remains from the vet on Friday. You might wonder why this might make me angry. Without getting into too much detail, let's just say that my own emotions have, by necessity, taken a back seat to the emotions of the other parties affected by the loss.

Consider: One year out (plus a couple of weeks) and I'm still in the same place: physically, emotionally, geographically, professionally.

Consider: I'm taking the LSAT a week from today. I had a good run of practice tests for a couple of days, but then I took a nose dive (relatively speaking). I can say with confidence that I'll score within a five-point range. Doesn't sound like much, but the difference between scoring at the top of the range and the bottom is the difference between getting into a law school I'd be excited to go and...well...not.

Consider: I've got two God-awful unfinished short stories decomposing in the Works-in-Progress folder of my Word Documents. (The part that makes me angry is that I wish they were good.)

What's the next step? Keep studying for the LSAT. Apply to a job at the Yale Press. Apply to a couple of Craigslist jobs. Call around to a few area Catholic schools to see if they're looking for an uncertified English teacher.

Finally, what bona fide T(U) post ends without a platitude? How's this one: Stop spouting platitudes and do something with your pathetic life, loser.