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.