Fourteen emails from Linkedin, ranging from people I kind of know to those I know slightly better, all stating that they accept my invitation, gave me a bit of a start this morning as I sat at my computer with my first cup of coffee. The invitation in question was news to me. Did I click the wrong button? Was this avalanche of responses somehow my doing? Do all of these people now think I am actively looking for employment? Am I?
When I think about how difficult it used to be to find a suitable position, I marvel at what technology now offers. What used to take me hours on my Smith-Corona typewriter as I methodically typed out cover letters, had my resume copied at Kinko's to send out into the world with hope, a prayer and far less postage, has now been replaced by a few clicks here and a few clicks there.
I was originally invited to be on Linkedin as a reference for a friend. Hesitant to open up my life to the wider world, I cried when I finally pushed the button, completing my profile. Not sure why I felt so emotional, I tried to think my way through it. Wasn't being KNOWN one of the goals any writer has? Hadn't I worked hard to gain a higher level of education? What was I afraid of? Ashamed of? Ah . . . there it was. My failed writing career.
My claim to fame interview, as I like to refer to it as, happened while I was in graduate school at Marshall University in Huntington, West Virginia. By some miracle, an editor from Glamour magazine responded to my letter seeking employment and set up a time for me to come to New York City to interview.
As a student with no transportation or much money I was able to take the train up and found accommodations at a youth hostel. It was 1987. I would wear my best wool suit, my only silk blouse, and my brown leather pumps that I hoped I wouldn't have to wear often since I wasn't exactly a high heel kind of girl. My portfolio at the time contained the articles published in the student magazine for which I was a staff writer and those featured in the student newspaper during my undergraduate days at Michigan State University. I had added to it the articles published in the student newspaper at Marshall. As a journalism student who began as the assistant editor for my 8th grade newspaper, then becoming the co-editor of our high school newspaper, I had been writing and editing for years. And though I was not a reader of Glamour magazine as anyone who has ever known me could plainly surmise, I knew I could become one of its copy editors.
Walking into the Conde Nast building on 5th Avenue was one of the most exciting moments of my life. The woman at the reception desk pointed to the elevator where I had precious few moments to work at breathing normally before emerging to greet a woman at the desk in front of the Mademoiselle offices. I would soon be shaking the hand of an editor as she ushered me through hallways with editors discussing stories and ad placement, features and photo shoots, back into her office. We sat and talked as I was aware of every word I spoke and every nuanced gesture I made, longing to make the best first impression I could possibly make. About to go on maternity leave, this editor was eager to get someone in place as soon as possible. Copy editors were paid less than teachers which meant I would probably have to share an apartment in the boroughs somewhere and take the subway into the city each day. Hours would be long and I would at times feel like I lived at the magazine. In a few years, if I had adequately proven my abilities, I would begin the long climb up the editorial ladder, like in the movie, The Devil Wears Prada, or at least that is how I picture it. Journalist girl with little fashion sense becoming glamourous in her own right. Well, she does comes to her senses by the end of the film, but let's not digress.
So back to the interview. I felt comfortable as the editor's genuinely friendly demeanor put me at ease. Toward the end of our time together she told me that she usually can pick out a potential copy editor in about ten minutes and I should be encouraged that she was willing to spend twice as long with me. With a promise to get in touch I was sent back out onto the streets of New York to contemplate my fate. I wondered what it would be like to live this kind of life. I already had two years of living in an inner city neighborhood of Denver, Colorado before heading to graduate school and had acclimated nicely. I enjoyed taking the bus or walking downtown to my favorite coffee shop. College had prepared me for living in close quarters with a variety of people and I had even gotten used to noise levels I never thought possible growing up on a farm, six miles from a town of 2,000. I knew I could adjust.
By the time I received word from Glamour I was back home on the farm wondering where my future would take me. The letter, obviously not written by the woman I had interviewed with, indicated that a mistake had been made. I should never have been invited to interview, according to the letter. Not that my skills were lacking, but more because the departments were being changed. Apparently the editor who had been in contact with me had not received the memo. At least that is what the letter stated. In other words, the answer was no. I would not be working on my novel during the long subway rides to and from the city, meeting a guy, getting married, having children and then setting up a permanent household out in the boroughs and perhaps giving up what began as such a promising career.
Instead I would take a position with a ministry that did not work out for me or the people who hired me, head to California to have a short stay with a friend who lived with people who had something to do with the creation of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and then find my way back to Denver, to the same neighborhood where I had lived before ever going to graduate school. And just as I was about to accept a reporter position on a newspaper in the mountain town of Gunnison, I would decide to marry, eventually have children and years later wonder if I would ever write again.
So maybe it is not terribly strange that coming up with a profile for an employment website would bring about some pretty strong emotions. My life is good. Even with my failed writing career. But maybe it is not too late.
When I think about how difficult it used to be to find a suitable position, I marvel at what technology now offers. What used to take me hours on my Smith-Corona typewriter as I methodically typed out cover letters, had my resume copied at Kinko's to send out into the world with hope, a prayer and far less postage, has now been replaced by a few clicks here and a few clicks there.
I was originally invited to be on Linkedin as a reference for a friend. Hesitant to open up my life to the wider world, I cried when I finally pushed the button, completing my profile. Not sure why I felt so emotional, I tried to think my way through it. Wasn't being KNOWN one of the goals any writer has? Hadn't I worked hard to gain a higher level of education? What was I afraid of? Ashamed of? Ah . . . there it was. My failed writing career.
My claim to fame interview, as I like to refer to it as, happened while I was in graduate school at Marshall University in Huntington, West Virginia. By some miracle, an editor from Glamour magazine responded to my letter seeking employment and set up a time for me to come to New York City to interview.
As a student with no transportation or much money I was able to take the train up and found accommodations at a youth hostel. It was 1987. I would wear my best wool suit, my only silk blouse, and my brown leather pumps that I hoped I wouldn't have to wear often since I wasn't exactly a high heel kind of girl. My portfolio at the time contained the articles published in the student magazine for which I was a staff writer and those featured in the student newspaper during my undergraduate days at Michigan State University. I had added to it the articles published in the student newspaper at Marshall. As a journalism student who began as the assistant editor for my 8th grade newspaper, then becoming the co-editor of our high school newspaper, I had been writing and editing for years. And though I was not a reader of Glamour magazine as anyone who has ever known me could plainly surmise, I knew I could become one of its copy editors.
Walking into the Conde Nast building on 5th Avenue was one of the most exciting moments of my life. The woman at the reception desk pointed to the elevator where I had precious few moments to work at breathing normally before emerging to greet a woman at the desk in front of the Mademoiselle offices. I would soon be shaking the hand of an editor as she ushered me through hallways with editors discussing stories and ad placement, features and photo shoots, back into her office. We sat and talked as I was aware of every word I spoke and every nuanced gesture I made, longing to make the best first impression I could possibly make. About to go on maternity leave, this editor was eager to get someone in place as soon as possible. Copy editors were paid less than teachers which meant I would probably have to share an apartment in the boroughs somewhere and take the subway into the city each day. Hours would be long and I would at times feel like I lived at the magazine. In a few years, if I had adequately proven my abilities, I would begin the long climb up the editorial ladder, like in the movie, The Devil Wears Prada, or at least that is how I picture it. Journalist girl with little fashion sense becoming glamourous in her own right. Well, she does comes to her senses by the end of the film, but let's not digress.
So back to the interview. I felt comfortable as the editor's genuinely friendly demeanor put me at ease. Toward the end of our time together she told me that she usually can pick out a potential copy editor in about ten minutes and I should be encouraged that she was willing to spend twice as long with me. With a promise to get in touch I was sent back out onto the streets of New York to contemplate my fate. I wondered what it would be like to live this kind of life. I already had two years of living in an inner city neighborhood of Denver, Colorado before heading to graduate school and had acclimated nicely. I enjoyed taking the bus or walking downtown to my favorite coffee shop. College had prepared me for living in close quarters with a variety of people and I had even gotten used to noise levels I never thought possible growing up on a farm, six miles from a town of 2,000. I knew I could adjust.
By the time I received word from Glamour I was back home on the farm wondering where my future would take me. The letter, obviously not written by the woman I had interviewed with, indicated that a mistake had been made. I should never have been invited to interview, according to the letter. Not that my skills were lacking, but more because the departments were being changed. Apparently the editor who had been in contact with me had not received the memo. At least that is what the letter stated. In other words, the answer was no. I would not be working on my novel during the long subway rides to and from the city, meeting a guy, getting married, having children and then setting up a permanent household out in the boroughs and perhaps giving up what began as such a promising career.
Instead I would take a position with a ministry that did not work out for me or the people who hired me, head to California to have a short stay with a friend who lived with people who had something to do with the creation of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and then find my way back to Denver, to the same neighborhood where I had lived before ever going to graduate school. And just as I was about to accept a reporter position on a newspaper in the mountain town of Gunnison, I would decide to marry, eventually have children and years later wonder if I would ever write again.
So maybe it is not terribly strange that coming up with a profile for an employment website would bring about some pretty strong emotions. My life is good. Even with my failed writing career. But maybe it is not too late.
You do realize that "glamour" means a spell or enchantment to make something seem attractive and exciting (implication being that the thing is decidedly NOT attractive without the spell)? Yes, of course you do. I was surprised, though, to find that "glamour" is considered to be a corruption of "grammar;" in the sense that Middle Ages scholarship often included the occult practices popularly associated with learning.
ReplyDeleteI'm sure it all has something to do with your observation that witches are usually portrayed with red hair.
Always managing to look like Dorothy on her way to Oz no matter how hard I try to be glamourous, I was relieved to find the copy editors and editors appearing as normal people and not like the models in the magazine.
ReplyDeleteOf course this does not adequately address your comment. Perhaps because I have red hair I thought that it did. Maybe living on Enchanted Lane has done something to me.
ReplyDelete