26 Days and I'm Out!

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I am an Ed success story, or How Ed's Girl #1 went from intern to EA in six steps...okay, and in a year and three months

It’s weird how things work out. Oprah calls it her ‘aha’ moment, but I don’t think I had any realization when HR called me. Would I accept a job? Wait…what?

Rewind to three months ago. I decided to take an internship at my favorite magazine. Yes, I had been out of school for over a year, yes it was another internship, but it was my favorite magazine…how could I compete with that? Some people called my decision stupid, and I couldn’t help but wonder if they were right. But the bottom line was I wanted to work there, regardless of the pay or the time commitment.

So how exactly did I make the leap to the path of career success?

1. Someone had to leave. Face it, peeps. If you want to get on staff, someone else has to get the boot—or in this case, get offered a big promotion at another magazine.

2. So a spot was open. I approached the editors to let them know I was interested, passed along copies of my resume, and discussed talking more formally about the job during the following week. Things looked good—I was a candidate!

3. Then…HR brought in more girls. Okay, okay, so I know it’s their job, but it still meant I had to watch my competition float from office to office in chic interview attire to talk with the editors, all the while thinking, Crap, why did I wear my fat jeans today? (Or maybe the question is, Why do I own fat jeans?)

4. My interview! I talked with the editors about why I wanted the job, what I felt I had learned over the past few months, and what I thought I could bring to the position. I knew them, so that helped ease the nervousness, but it still didn’t make up for the overall magnitude of the situation—this is my dream job!

5. So, in an effort to take an extra step and prove myself worthy, I offered to do an edit test, and one of the editors marked up an issue with requests for new heds, deks, and ideas.

2:40 am, night before test due date: Still at work on edit test. Must write thank you notes.

9 am, due date of edit test: Speed walk to work to get in the building before editors, so I can place said thank you notes on each respective desk. Turn in edit test.

4 pm, due date of edit test: Editor tells me she liked edit test.

7 pm, due date of edit test: Call friend at ridiculous phone bill rate, because it’s before 9 pm, to tell her editor liked my edit test.

6. And the next day? I got a call from HR. Immediately, I started thinking the worst--was this the editors' way of letting me down easy, so they wouldn't have to break the bad news face-to-face? Instead, I heard the words I've been dying to hear ever since I moved to the city--benefits and salary. Yes, that’s right. I’m employed!

I went shopping to celebrate, ate some ice cream, and spent my evening searching Craigslist for a new place to call home. It happened fast, guys. I still think it hasn’t hit yet. But I was in the right place at the right time, and my whole job search made sense, because if it hadn’t worked out the way it did, I wouldn't be here now.

I’m finally where I want to be, and I’m happy. The year and 3 month struggle? Forget about it—it was worth it.

Much love, Ed's Girl (the first one)

"To be or not to be... an intern" or "Am I as disconnected as my computer?"

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It's all in the timing.

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Is this annoying...is this annoying...IS THIS ANNOYING?

Today I amped up the pestering. If someone said, I'm not sure if we have any open editorial positions, I pushed them further to see if they'd do an informational interview. When a friend sent an email to get me an HR interview, I didn't wait for a response and sent the HR woman a second email.

My newfound energy comes from a conversation I had yesterday with an assistant editor. She got her job by emailing cold resumes to every editor in New York. She gave me some advice: “Bug 'em. Call them every week if you have to. Just make sure they can't forget you when a job opens up.”

I hung up and made a list. I picked 16 magazines I'd really like to work for and would conceivably be qualified to do so (I love the New Yorker and Harper's, but with no political or world culture background, those EA positions don't look feasible... for now.) I spent an hour or so combing the racks at a Barnes & Noble, writing down the names of editors I'm going to contact over and over again, and stepping over all of the people sitting on the floor flipping through Cosmo, Dwell, etc. (is this floor perch a trend in New York?)

The 16 magazines on my list crumble to three when I think about where I could truly be happy. The three are exact, triangular opposites. And the glue holding them together? Each magazine grabs a part of me—my sense of adventure, my competitive streak (about a mile wide), and my loyalty to family. And the staples reinforcing their bond? I went on informational interviews at all three. Frankly, the informational interviews do me in—I haven't had a bad one yet. All the editors I've met are laid-back, sincere, and professional. Of course, waiting for a job to open at one of three magazines would do me in too.

Back to the 16. I wrote down mostly assistant editor names because they're closer in age and not at the bottom rung. Tonight I'm going to write out a plea to meet with them. I'll try to make it witty and brief. I'll send them out tomorrow and a second email on Monday if they don't respond (I'll let you know if this tactic works or if I'm eventually blacklisted at several large magazines).

In the meantime, I was “messenger-ed” my first national freelance assignment yesterday. I don't think you could have found a happier, dopier kid. It was like I was waiting for the ice cream truck. And boy, did it deliver. I received two previous issues of the magazine, a contract, and the materials to begin my 200-word FOB piece. I laid the materials out on the coffee table and gazed lovingly at the fragments of my soon-to-be child. 'Tis a wonderful thing.

P.S. While I was writing this blog, I got an email from the HR woman—woohoo interview!

Here Comes the Sun, Do-Do Do-Do

Google has a great word of the day today:

Aubade. A song greeting the dawn.

Aubade is also a form of poem—-one that represents two lovers separating at dawn. Like Romeo's last words to Juliet the morning after they're married. But I don't like aubade for its poetry merit or desperate farewell. I like the word and its first definition because it represents renewal. (can you see where I'm going with this?)

My weekend was a trying one. I enjoyed St. Patrick's Day night, but there was no song at dawn Saturday morning. And I mean that not in the sense of being hungover, I mean it was the first time I'd lost a job that I put everything into—my time, my heart, everything. I don't mean to sound dramatic. It was the first job I've ever REALLY wanted. I'm a romantic and I imagined it to be the redefinition of what I was meant to do. I was one sad sap. And Sunday wasn't any better.

Yesterday, I applied for a new job, sent out emails, made a few phone calls, and at 2 pm I knew I had to get out of the apartment. I walked down the streets of my neighborhood and checked out a couple of restaurants I knew were hiring.

I walked around George Washington Square and ended up finding a cafe I'd been meaning to check out. Inside, a few waitresses leaned against the heavy, wooden bar. Warm yellow lights hung from the ceiling and made the brick restaurant hit that amber note of coziness. I found a small table in the back next to a couple of Russian men and behind a pair of NYU students. The waitress brought me the best cup of hot apple cider I've ever had and between sips, I finished John Irving's “A Prayer for Owen Meany.” And the combination of an incredible drink and the best character ever written brought me out of my funk. New York may slap me around from time to time, but it apologizes by introducing me to what may be my favorite spots in the city.

The last time I was mopey, I found Books of Wonder—-an amazing children's book store complete with a cupcake bakery. That same day, I discovered Print Icon across the street and found it the most miraculous stationary store I've ever laid eyes on (I'm a nerd). Sure, it's a circle of abuse and forgiveness, but I like the fight because what comes after is so good.

This morning, at exactly 10:37 am, I called the woman I interviewed with last week. I left a message. Maybe she'll call back, maybe she won't. Maybe this morning was my poetic aubade—-damn the sun for parting me from the job I loved (And oh! Those 4 weeks of vacation time!) And tomorrow will be my song to the dawn--because I'm not letting anything else go.

Ring, Phone, Ring!

During my interview on Wednesday, I asked when they would pick the lucky candidate (I recommend asking this question, so you don't fret about a phone call everyday as I have in the past). They told me at the end of the week. That's today. Friday. St. Patty's Day. My mom's grandparents, the O'Connors, came straight from County Kerry—I'm banking on a smidgen of Irish luck as I squirm, fidget, pace, and look in the fridge every five minutes today.

To occupy my time today I made a to-do list:

1. Run
2. Email a friend about securing me a second informational interview with an HR department (the first interviewer did NOTHING to help me in the last 3 months)
3. Apply for a new job opening
4. Call my freelance agency to see if there's anyone desperate for an office temp
5. Write this blog
6. Go for a walk (or several depending on my anxiety level)

Here's what I've done:

Went out for a three-miler, ran over six. I knew the more time I wasted outside of my apartment, the less time I would be physically near my phone. On my run I thought of funny on-liners I could have used at the interview, a better way I could have answered, “Why did you pick our company?”, and why I wish I could truthfully answer that question with, “Because you have a job opening. Doy.” (my favorite alternative to 'duh') I was the Forrest Gump of the East River path, I had no reason to stop, so I just kept running. Maybe interviewing is the key for marathon training. NYC marathon, watch out!

I hobbled into my apartment with a tight hamstring and checked my phone. No messages. No missed calls.

I took a shower. I turned on my computer. I checked my email. Checked the status of my bank account. Saw what the world was up to on MSNBC. Read the Village Voice.

No messages. No silent rings and no missed calls.

I tidied up my room. Heated up leftover oatmeal. Thought about where I will do my first load of laundry tomorrow. Checked email. Checked Ed2010. Checked Mediabistro. Clipped my toenails. Ate a couple of undercooked hardboiled eggs.

No messages, double-checked ring volume.

Began to calculate the probability of an afternoon call. Would she be busy in the morning and not get to the pressing urge of hiring until after lunch? Could she have made her decision already? The woman in HR said they would call everyone that was interviewed and even explain why they weren't picked if asked. This phone call has two very different outcomes. I've prepared myself for the worse and when she calls, I have a few questions ready to ask about future openings.

Two failed attempts at writing a cover letter later, I read an email my dad sent me about a program that raises monkeys to help handicapped people perform simple tasks. He wants one. I want one too.

I spend five minutes looking around my apartment. Another three trying to remember a funny joke I heard last week.

It's currently 2 pm. That means 3 hours until I know, for sure, whether or not I got the job. 3 pm will make me worried, at 4 pm I will begin to console myself, and by 5 pm, I will know that the HR person will have to pick up her “so sorry...” calls next week.

I think I'll put in a movie. A funny one. And tonight, I'll look forward to a few pints. Because job or no job, being 1/8 Irish is grand.

It only happens to me...

Second only to my ability to attract strange people (once, a man in my small-town library asked if I would show him my "naked" feet), is the way I bumble through life.

When I came to New York, I packed everything I could into 2 ½ bags. Clothes, books, a couple of pictures, some pens, and a bottle of white-out. My shoes didn't fare so well. I brought a pair of sneakers, a pair of running shoes, and a pair of black, scratched-up kitten heels. They were my hostessing shoes and the heel was small enough to survive the wear and tear of restaurant life. But when those heels wore down, my survival chance plummeted.

Metal peeks out through a few scraps of rubber left on the heel. I sound like a tap-dancer when I walk. Without the rubber traction, I look like a first-time ice skater when I hit those freshly-cleaned, glossy floors. The moment I put weight on my heel--and I'm a heel-to-toe sort of lady--my foot shoots out and my arms fly up like I'm calling a touchdown. Alright, so, mildly embarrassing. But until I reach carpet or a stone floor, I'm in peril of acting like a lunatic every few steps. And saying “whoops” and laughing is only fun a couple of times.

In preparation for my interview yesterday, I stopped by a K-Mart to pick up a bottle of superglue. Why superglue you ask? Occasionally I go overboard with my resume presentation. I found a great paper store and bought a green folder for my resume and clips. On my way out, I noticed some very cool, translucent paper covered with circles. I decided it would be perfect to print my name on and paste to the front of my new green portfolio. Cute idea until 8:30 am, an hour from my interview, when I realize I have no glue.

K-Mart's floors are commendable—-clean, smooth, and nary a rough patch. I could hardly stand up. I asked an employee where I could find superglue and nearly knocked the guy over. Once I reached the hardware section, I'd perfected a way of twisting my heels with each step so that the front part of the shoe would grab the linoleum at the same time as the back. I looked worse than a girl learning to wear heels—I looked like a girl learning, and failing, to walk.

Luckily, when you're an interviewee, the host leads wherever you go. I lagged behind the interviewer so the only sympathetic looks I got were from the cubical crowd, who no doubt wondered what defect I had when I implemented my walk.

I concluded the first part of my interview with the HR woman with a fond goodbye, a boisterous thank you, and “It was mice to meet you.”

During my interview with the head honchess, a delivery man decided to fling the door open without knocking. I watched my interviewer's eyes widen as the knob swung towards my left temple. Fortunately, the delivery man grabbed the door before impact.

After the interview I clinked into St. Patrick's to light a candle. I forced my way through the tourists and put 85 cents (all that I had) into the $2-per-candle box. I lit a candle and squeezed into one of five pews they let the public use midway through a mass. Behind me, the smelliest bum in midtown made pig noises while I knelt. Afterwards, I sat back to take in the booming organ music and the candle flame they were showing on the TV screen (the massive columns blocked my view of the actual mass).

I couldn't help but think life is good. I have a coat on my back, a second interview under my belt, and it's a beautiful day outside. Slowly, the camera panned back to show a coffin and the dearly departed's bereaved family members. I stretched to find the meaning of it all. The candle for this job has extinguished? There are more important things than finding a job? This person has died and given my employment life?

The bum snorted.

I sneaked out of the pew and exited the church, managing to stay on my feet—at least for a while.

Rent and Prostitution--separate entities?

I read Ed's message board every day. In fact, several times a day. And I love the mix of opinions—there are people in the throes of interview anxiety, New Yorkers ready to throw in the towel, and fresh graduates doe-eyed and ready to begin the daunting job search. Basically, it's a spectrum of my emotions every day—as I imagine it's many of yours.

When a friend of mine was offered a writing position outside of the city, she offered up her room and her two male roommates for the going price of $1050 a month. I wrote her back immediately. It's too expensive, but good luck, you'll find someone to rent it.

But I continued to talk about it with my parents. I could sell my car, and since I was coming into a lease 7 months in, there would be no deposit, and I could use the 5 months to see if I could weasel my way into a job, and if I did, I could look for a cheaper apartment (cause I'm not a high roller, my parents aren't helping, no sugar daddy, and I'm not selling my body... yet).

I just needed to make the move and do some self-supporting. After college, I moved back home to help out my parents. My dad was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig's 3 ½ years ago. Because I was in sports, I could only come home a few times a year, so once I graduated I hauled my life back into my basement room (how typical, right?) and became my 15-year-old brother's personal driver. I've taken these past few years to freelance and be poor, but supported (and I'm VERY lucky for that chance). And for 'anonymous' who replied to my last blog, I don't “only have” three clips (that's how many I bring to an interview)-- I have 35, seven of which are feature articles. And no, I didn't need a journalism major to do that—just hard work.

I'm not normally a gamblin' lady. I couldn't sign my bank documents until I read ALL of the fine print. I can't play darts in a bar if I know I won't win (I rarely play). I spent 30 minutes trying to pick out a candle for my room last weekend. But I had to trust my instincts on the move. I knew I had to start my life, finally, as a 24-year-old, and try to squeeze out of this quarter-life crises.

All it takes is a little faith in yourself—and a ridiculous amount of work.

For example:

Yesterday, I interviewed at a freelance agency. I don't know LexisNexis, so if I want a freelance fact-checking/research job, and I do want one, then that means tomorrow I have to rent the LexisNexis Book for Dummies from the library and see if I can convince someone I know in publishing to let me look around their system.

I have an interview tomorrow morning. In the past 32 hours, I've spent 8 hours on my computer researching the company, the person interviewing me, the people they used to work with, their old company, their competitors, their writers, their style. I've spent an equal amount of time in bookstores and libraries reading. I'm not alone in this either. We all work hard. In fact, I actually ran into a girl who was researching for the same position I was in a bookstore yesterday. Yeesh.

I figure if I do everything I can, I mean EVERYTHING, then if I don't get the job, then so be it. It wasn't meant to be. But if I work this hard, then to be self-assured isn't cocky. It's a selfless confidence that I've done my best. And I figure to make it in this publishing world (so I've heard) you have believe in yourself and know that you're worth something even if someone else doesn't see it, otherwise you're toast.

And I'll admit, I've lit a few church candles since I've been here (although it was more along the lines of pushing in a button) because being positive ain't easy.

We all know the statistics of making it out here. We all know how hard and how depressing and how uplifting-for-a-second-before-plummeting-down-again this industry is. Don't think for a moment that anyone is naive or jaded enough to forget that, especially if we're dedicated Ed-sters.

It's just when I'm fighting back tears, I put on my Amelie soundtrack. And there's something about accordions that make me smile.

Job-hungry.

Thursday night I had a dream that I broke my Lenten promise to not eat processed sugar (ambitious, I know). After swallowing a forkful of chocolate cake, I realized my mistake. But instead of repenting, I took the opposite action. Like a starving psychiatric patient, I voraciously shoved in brownies and ravaged two or three cupcakes as if the next 5 minutes were my last. My wanton lust for sweets was trumped only by the intensity and speed of which I downed the chocolate. If I was to be damned, I'd go down in flames.

It was not until I woke up that I realized how desperate I am. Not for desserts, but for a job.

For those of you who nabbed an apartment and not a job first know my anxiety. I sold my '97 Buick LeSabre before I left, netting me a cool $4K for my expedition to New York. My old AARP-stickered car now revs under the foot of my 16-year-old brother.

I live in the East Village for $1050 a month--$600 more than my priciest apartment in college. My 23-year-old brother pays $200 a month for his room at college. He often reminds me of this.

I'm considering paying my second month of rent early because with $2600 left after paying my first month rent, buying sheets, a couple of pillows, a vase, a candle, and groceries, my nerves are as rattled as my checking account.

On Friday, I looked at a couple of gyms and decided carrying home groceries and taking out trash was an adequate compromise to toning my arms at Crunch. Later, I opened a checking account with Charles at Chase bank after giving these answers: Unemployed. Yes, I plan on getting a job soon. Yes, I know it's hard. No, I'm sure I'll be fine. I can always walk dogs right? Yes, of course I'll have a job in two months (nervous laughter).

My checking account is free for 2 months, but to be qualified for a free account after 2 months, my money has to come through direct deposits. Read: a job. Within a couple of months I could pay for leading an insecure life (in more ways than one).

I just want to see numbers in the right-hand credit column on my bank statement again. I have a couple of freelance interviews next week--one at a freelance agency, another with a magazine. Otherwise, it's all a waiting game, isn't it? Waiting to hear back, waiting to find out, waiting for an opening, waiting a couple more days before sending your next email.

Waiting 35 days to gobble down that gooey brownie.

Lock and load

Today is my first HR interview that didn't include buying a plane ticket. My trips to New York before seemed so... adventurous. But now, each interview I go on is really going to count--I have 22 days until I pay rent.

My interview arsenal includes:

A black folio from Target that smells like gasoline no matter how much Febreze I've dumped on it.

Updated resume (New York address!)

Color copies of my three clips: a clip of shorter, 100-word gear pieces, a home article, and my first full-length six-page feature. Each separated with my ultra-sleek page points from Levenger.

A list of questions on everything from “What do you look for in a candidate?” to “What improvements can I make for ___ to hire me?” For effect, I'll open the folio and say “I hope you don't mind... but I wrote down some questions I wanted to make sure to ask”, ask a question, and then focus on the HR person with an intense, speculative stare that says, yes, this girl is serious and beyond your wildest job expectations.

Glasses.

Non-black outfit. Everyone wears black—I refuse.

New York City map because I'm still a country mouse.

In the meantime, a friend just passed my information on to a freelance agency. Hopefully this will return better results than the 10 resumes I sent out yesterday asking magazines if they needed a new freelance fact-checker. I got one reply within two minutes, and the others... well, the others... nothing so far.

So my days are spent writing press releases for an independent book publisher back home. Yesterday I finished a press release about a raw food dieter who researched a chimpanzee's diet and found out we are not eating enough greens. My other favorites have included: a sci-fi book about a seven-year old handicapped girl who embodies Jesus, Buddha, and Mohammed and ends AIDS and the rest of the world's problems; a book about how to clean sex stains complete with a manifesto about why women should be spreading the word—and their legs—about their sexual revolution; and a book about open-water marathon swimming. It's not a bad way to make some extra money, plus I have a wealth of random knowledge that could one day come in handy at a trivia night—can any of you talk about phacoemulsification surgery?

Well, I'm off to prepare for my interview. On a final note, I'd like to share three words I wish we could expunge from the magazine vernacular:

Eats (as a noun). Reads (as a noun). Foodie. Does talking on a phone therefore label me a “phoney”?

Ah, the glory of friends...

There is a certain magic about networking. Just when you think you've exhausted all possibilities, a friend comes through.

I'd been trying to get a second interview at a big HR department, but my only contact there shot me back curt replies like “There is nothing available right now. I will be in touch when something opens up.” I kept hearing about openings, yet my HR contact was nowhere in sight.

So I emailed one of my ex-boyfriend's friends who works for the company.

Not a half hour later, an HR person wrote him back, giving him the names of 3 other contacts and her personal phone line to pass on to me.

Simply amazing.

But that's how it works. I remember the first time I mentioned wanting to get into a national magazine, the mom of one of the high school girls I coached gave me the name of her best friend who is a successful freelance writer and the email address of her brother-in-law who writes for National Geographic.

The more I talked about what I wanted to do, the more help I found. I found out my aunt's best friend from middle school is a Managing Editor—now she's sent out emails to several magazines on my behalf when I've heard about openings.

A friend of a family friend works in printing out here. He introduced me to a well-respected Editor-in-Chief who in turn got me a writing assignment at her magazine. His other contact was my first interview in January. And just when I thought he'd done it all, he's offering to hire me as a temp while I look for jobs.

Not bad considering I didn't know anyone in publishing in October.

Now to get a job. I have a meeting at another HR department later this week and an interview for a freelance fact-checking position coming up. Unfortunately, after my big move, I'm behind on applying to the latest EA positions. So for those of you that applied for Child EA or Zagat EA, you have one less applicant to worry about... and I have one more day to watch my savings dwindle.

My Story...

My job search began after a broken engagement, a canceled move to Los Angeles, and three years of living with my parents in the Midwest while I wrote for a regional magazine.

I'm 24. And as of last week, the East Village became my home.

Things seem to fall into place for me. Maybe it's my Midwestern hopefulness. Or my Midwestern naivety. But I have been looking for 3 months, and on the two trips I've taken to New York to follow up on connections, I've managed to meet with 3 Editor-in-Chiefs, turn down one internship, and snag a freelance writing opportunity with a major publication.

But in February, I heard back about my first job interview. After heaps of praise from the managing editor and confessions that the staff was “pushing” for me, the EIC went with someone who had more experience. I wasn't crushed (I hadn't heard from them for a few weeks), but it was a sharp dose of reality: this isn't going to be easy.

I've never had an internship at a major publication. I'm just now learning how to use Quark.

But I have 9 full magazine features under my belt, an internship at a regional magazine that let me edit, fact-check, and write 14 travel articles on everything from sunset cocktail cruises to antique shopping, and the confidence that that's all I need.

Thank God for that internship, because I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life after college.

I was a four-year varsity athlete, a Big Ten Champion, and an All-American. I know what it feels like to work towards something for the majority of your life and actually be blessed enough to achieve it. I reached a pinnacle in my life that most people aren't lucky enough to reach once.

Of course, at the end of my senior year, after I decided I wouldn't aim for the 2004 Olympics, I realized my medals, my rankings, and my identity as an athlete would vanish. It was my “Holy Shit” moment. Everything I had put my heart into wouldn't help me get a job. At the most, I'd get a slap on the back and a “wow, so you must be a team player, huh?” from a hiring manager.

But as fate would have it, I took an essay course during my last semester that changed everything. One day, my teacher explained the difference between a good and a bad Vogue article: a bad Vogue article would only talk about Charlton Heston's home, a good Vogue article could describe Heston's NRA politics through his coffee table. I was hooked.

And now I'm beginning to climb again.

So for those of you who are wondering if it's too late, it's not. For those of you who are wondering if it's worth it, it is.
I'll prove it to you.