Sometimes I think I am cursed. Well maybe cursed isn’t the right word. Cursed implies broken mirrors or angry old gypsy ladies that shake their nobby-boned fingers at you, condemning you to eternal damnation after you thoughtlessly run over their cats with your car. No, on second thought, the word I’m looking for is probably plagued.
Yes, it seems I am plagued with wanting. The thing about wanting is that it grows in proportion to the age you are. When I was little kid, I wanted things like chocolate or stuffed animals or tree houses, and because these were smaller wants, they were easier to satisfy (well except for the tree house – there would be no tree house).
But then I started to get older and things started to get more slightly more complicated. My wants required more strategy and effort. I found myself wanting things like red hair, to get into college and to kiss that boy with the smirky lips. Sometimes it was tricky, but I always, always managed it because I had plans.
I was determined and focused and I would not be denied.
But now that I’m an adult, I’ve reached this horrible stage where a box of Clairol, an all-night cram session or a tube of strawberry lip gloss won’t do the trick anymore. It’s a stage where, in spite of all my concentrated efforts, I just have to throw myself out there and just hope through the grace of the universe that everything works out.
And that sucks. One, because I am not that good at waiting for things and two, because it just makes the want more intense and tension filled. Because all the while that you’re waiting and wanting, you’re wondering what the hell the universe is doing.
Right now is one of those times. I have thrown myself out there to the big one. Penguin freaking Books. This is my Holy Grail. My Moby Dick. My whatever clichéd literary reference you’d like to insert here. My brain is too dead and too preoccupied with wondering to come up with anything good. It’s only been a day and already have checked my e-mail a million times. My stomach is welling with anticipation. I have been popping Tums like candy. My nerves are physically conspiring against me.
If you don’t know much about the literary world, let me educate you now. Applying to gigs is incredibly thankless and the few times you are actually given a name to apply to, chances are you will never see what the face that actually matches it looks like because it is so wildly competitive, landing an interview is rare. Internal promotions are common and the external posting is mostly a formality.
Since I have been applying for book gigs, Penguin has been at the top of my list. The woman in charge of hiring at Penguin is named Paula and I have submitted to her at least a dozen times. Sometimes it’s been for things I’m unqualified for. Sometimes it’s been for things I’m half qualified for. I’ve basically been operating under the law of averages: if I do it enough, somehow in some way, the resume will end up working and land me an interview. But this time, I feel like statistics are working in my favour. I mean, yeah I’m always kind of screwed because I’m applying to perhaps the biggest book producer in Canada, but this gig, I am totally and completely qualified for. I know in my head and feel in my bones that I could do this job.
I’ve written a persuasive cover letter and spiffed up my resume, but for now, that is all I can do. Except wait. Wait and want and hope that the universe will do me a solid and help Paula to pick my application out of hundreds, possibly thousands, to call for an interview.
So, this is why I did not write today and may not tomorrow. Because I am plagued with the wanting.
I think I’d rather take my chances with the pissed off gypsy ladies. At least them I could escape. 😛