I woke up this morning feeling a bit like Andy from The
Devil Wears Prada. I’m beginning a small internship at a publishing house in
Richmond today. All in all, things haven’t gone that bad so far. Granted, I don’t
have to be in the office until about ten and it’s still before nine, but I’m
determined to start the day positive. So I was positive when I had to get up at
5:45am to catch the last bus into the city at 7:15. And I was positive when I
realized I forgot to bring both my iTouch (for musical inspiration) as well as
my phone. I was also positive when I got off the bus a stop too early, and when
I walked around the city for fifty minutes desperately searching for somewhere
to set up camp (i.e. take out my laptop to keep track of time).
With a possibility of rain, I couldn’t hunker down on any
old bench. I tried the public library—only a block over from the publisher’s
office—but it doesn’t open ‘till ten. How convenient, right? So I trudged on,
heavy briefcase hanging from a strap that dug into my shoulder. I tried not to
walk down the same streets more than once after a man asked if I needed help
and directed me toward a small, local, hole-in-the-wall diner when I asked for
a Starbucks.
But I kept going. Mostly because I had no choice, nowhere to
stop and sit, and I needed to find a place to pull out my laptop—I had to check
the time. I needed a watch. After all this, I was not going to be late on my first day. This was my dream job.
Internship. Whatever. And after being told by my interviewer that the company
has never taken an intern from my university, and that they normally only take
grad students, and they normally come from the University of California, or
from UVA, or Yale, I was not going to
be late.
I want to work in publishing. In the business of
books—preferably the printed version. It’s a romantic’s job. One where words
aren’t just power, but money. Where our main goal is to teach the world
something new. Where fiction and adventure and romance are as integral a part
of our realities as whatever is featured in the New York Times. Where plot and character development fuel our
sanity. Where I feel at home.
I did not feel at home next to Marie’s Dry Cleaners, where a
homeless man sat jingling a cup of change, shouting “Hey baby!” And if
publishing was home, then why did I wake up feeling like Meryl Streep was about
to blame me for traffic on the freeway? Maybe it was because I felt
like I had to measure up to Yale and UVA. Maybe it was my irrational fear of
disappointing people, particularly superiors. Maybe I was afraid I wouldn’t be
good at the very career I had my heart set on.
It’s all those things. I’m terrified of a rerun of my first
job at Friendly’s. No training and exasperated sighs whenever I would need
assistance—it wasn’t the friendliest
environment.
But, like the Brady Bunch, I’ll keep on keepin’ on. I did in
my search for a Starbucks, and here I sit, in a cozy corner of one of VCU’s
dining facilities, drinking a tall, white chocolate mocha frappuccino. I may
have asked for a light with no whip, and it may have come back neither light
nor without whipped cream, but I’m staying positive. And together, with any
luck, my positivity and my frappuccino will cool the sweat from my back and
deliver me to my internship scent-free.
I’m ready to dive into the world of publishing. I’ve
struggled my way up the ladder, and forced myself to the end of the board. Now,
all that holds me back is the daunting look of my destination from a distance.
I’m about to take that first step. It’ll lead to a total submergence in
manuscripts, marketing, and mental exhaustion. But here’s the thing;
I’m pretty sure I can swim.
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