Trials of An English Major: Misadventures and Piteous Overthrows in Magazineland     By E.A. Hanks There comes a time in every English major's life, when we must set aside our index cards, bequeath our favorite library seat to some naive youngster, and let the final click of our highlighter caps echo off, slowly fading away along with that exigent time of the evanescent pursuit of the throbbing heartbeat of true literature's greatness. Oh - and get a fucking job. After graduating in the Spring and fleeing from reality all summer, a plethora of other twentysomethings, twixters if you will, and I arrived not particularly bright-eyed nor bushy tailed in Manhattan, desperately in need of a job. If you fancy yourself a writer, or simply enjoy books, chances are you're going to end up at one of three quasi-literary jobs: a magazine, a publishing house, or (god help you) the office of a literary agent. Your dreams of making enough money on writing to pay an insane rent will be dashed, even if you decide to live in Brooklyn. It's not that much cheaper and you're not that good of a writer. With both these facts in mind, I set off to find some employment. My first meeting was with an uber-cool, uber-populist media conglomerate responsible for several magazines with varied demographics. With my resume in hand, new shoes all shiny like, and idealism intact, I tried my dangdest to convince any of the obviously intelligent people there that clearly, surely, I would be better suited to be a minion at one of their publications more geared towards politics and arts, rather than at their gossip and fashion magazine. We'll call that publication "Mag X." Unfortunately, my arguments were moot, as my goal magazine had no openings, while Mag X was in need of a Editorial Assistant. Everyone whom I had spoken to as I was getting ready to head east and find a job made it clear that I should advertise that all I wanted was work and that if somebody actually hired me, I'd work my ass off for them, which was actually the case. Not only did I want whatever work I could find, I wanted to do a good job at whatever was asked of me. Blame my parents for drilling a potentially antiquated work ethic in to my head, or more likely, my total conviction that if I didn't put a ridiculous amount of effort into the most unimportant and tedious of tasks, someone higher up the food chain would immediately smoke me out as a mediocre worker who should be replaced by some maniacally efficient girl from Wesleyan who didn't need the spell check buttin. With all this in mind, I gratefully sat down with an editor from Mag X. "Would you be willing to stand outside a restaurant and hound a celebrity until the paparazzi showed up?" I wasn't prepared for that. This man, who was bright, nice, even a little awkwardly friendly in his extremely blue polo shirt had totally thrown me off guard. We'd started off so well - he'd asked about my last job, my degree, we even chatted about my thesis, and then things took a drastic turn. "So. Do you read Mag X?" "...Well we certainly always have it around the house. I look through it pretty regularly." "Right, but do you read it?" "I certainly read all the captions, and make sure to browse all the photos." "But you don't read the articles?" No, I don't read the articles, why the hell would I subject myself to that? I feel guilty enough when I just flip through the pages. "No. But it would seem to me that you draw subscribers by promising them the photos of celebrities, rather than full length articles." "No, our subscribers read us cover to cover." "Ah...well..." This is fun. It only got more awkward from there. The crux of how discomforting my hour with this man was rested in the fact that we were both in on it. He clearly knew that I was horrified with the possibility of working with people he described as "red carpet fiends" and I could tell he was on to me, and was maybe even a little embarrassed because of it. He assured me that all Mag X editors were very accomplished, had proper journalism degrees, and that Mag X was the least "bitchy" of the celebrity magazines. As for him, he was once an intern at Harper's - clearly he didn't actually belong at Mag X. He was just caught up in the hullabaloo and was making do. Of course, pounding through the back of my mind was a constant debate of whether or not I'm an awful person for sticking my nose up at a magazine that the majority of the country reads - but then no, I'm not a horrible person because it relentlessly hocks the cult of celebrity, plays to the lowest common denominator, and convinces the majority of people who read it that they're way too poor and fat to ever be really happy - if happiness if defined by enough wealth to decorate your navel with diamonds and existing entirely on food with no food in it. If people want a little escapism here or there, Jesus, go listen to some Lil Jon, watch some Seventh Heaven, or read some Jonathan Franzen, why don't you! Finally, Blue Polo Shirt Man ended our interview and explained that his assistant would be happy to answer any questions I had. Excellent, thought I, I could get the scoop on what would actually be required of me. There seemed to be a mix up though, because instead of me being able to ask Assistant Girl some questions, like - how often do you really have to ask actresses when they're planning on losing the baby weight? (It was explained to me that I'd have to be willing to ask such things of celebrities on the red carpet) - I somehow ended up being interviewed again. "So. How did you get interested in Celebrity Journalism?" Is this some sort of cruel joke? "And who would you say is your favorite celebrity?" "....You mean, like...my favorite actor?" "No. Your favorite celebrity. To watch." Duh! "Ummm...I guess...Alison Lohan -er...no..washername...Lindsay Lohan." "Oh. My. God." Oh my god. "She's my favorite too! And why do you like her so much?" "Well....she's a bit like a beautiful car crash, isn't she? Can't really take your eyes off the destruction and all that." "....Yeah...Umm....She's gorgeous." I think I'd lost her at that point. My time at Mag X ended after meeting with a lovely woman in the office of Human Resources, who didn't seem disturbed when I alternately laughed out loud and then cried a little. Me? Work at a magazine where Lindsay Lohan would be my bread and butter? Never! I read Harpers, the New Yorker, I actually look forward to waking up to NPR- my first schoolgirl crush was Garrison Keillor ! Next up: Mag Y. The best thing you can do when you graduate school is to have friends who graduated before you. That way, they can pass your resumes on to their bosses, and get you interviews with little to no effort on your part. Such was my luck at Mag Y. Once again there was an open spot for an Editorial Assistant (not to be confused with Assistant Editor, which is far above the minion level) and after some very grammatically correct e-mailing, I was all set to interview. So, shoes polished once more, soul a little banged up but brave nonetheless, I took up my seat in the Mag Y office and waited for my moment to shine. And waited. And waited some more. And then, what do you know, waited a little longer. Finally, a woman looking slightly panicked came out carrying nothing but a pad of paper (and no pen) and pulled me into a random conference room filled with boxes. Surprisingly enough, she didn't have a copy of my resume - No worries! I came prepared. "Ohh....Always love an English major...good with the words and all." "Mmm." "And I see you have some magazine experience." "Yes, while I was living abroad." "And you've taught literature?" "Well it was more of a teacher's assistant position. It was at a school's summer program." "Ah, well that's lovely.... Ok, well, the position has already been filled." Huh? "But we'll keep your resume on file in case anything opens up, and here's our Feature Editor's card, if you'd like to pitch an article." You'll keep my resume on file? Like the two others I sent you? "Well...Thanks..." "Ok, bye!" And then, six minutes (at the most) after I sat down with this lady, I was in the elevator feeling like I'd just been a victim of a drive by dissing. What the hell was that!? And then it dawned on me: They totally forgot I was coming. They filled the position a week and a half ago and just plum forgot to cancel my appointment. I had dragged my ass across Manhattan in the full flush of commuter rush hour for a six minute meeting with a grown woman who was wearing pink fuzzy UGG's. Three weeks later, after meetings with people who did not want to hire me, and then some meetings with people who would want to hire me but there were no positions available (or so they said), I was convinced that I'd found a happy ending: Mag Z took pity on me and brought me under its very glossy wing to be a researcher and general editorial bitch. Here was I happy! Here I could bask in a warm intellectual glow. I prepared stupidly detailed memos on the Endangered Species Act. When I wasn't researching I was cheerfully color copying and answering phones. And then one day, one fateful day when I instantly became a lot older than I was before, an editor stopped by my desk. "Any chance I could get some research from you?" Of course, I assured her, anything. What would it be? I wondered. Delay's indictment scandal? UN investigations in Syria? Maybe even write a caption- a veritable wet dream for a bullpen dweller such as myself. "Could you pull together some information on Lindsay Lohan for me? There's just so much crap out there. Thanks so much."