Interview
by
Theric Jepson
“So! You must be Eric!”
I looked up from my book and remembered to smile, stand, shake.
“What you reading?”
I held it up. “It’s The Undertaking. By Thomas Lynch.”
“Is it good?”
It was. I wouldn’t have brought a book that wasn’t. I chose The Undertaking because it would show an appreciation for fine writing, some culture and, I hoped, sophistication. It was a bit morbid, but I figured that couldn’t hurt too much—Stephen King writes bestsellers after all. Besides, it was a little worn—no one could accuse me of just bringing it for the interview’s sake.
“I like it. I would recommend it.”
“Fine. Follow me.”
He led me down a narrow hallway, past several open office doors. I looked in them as we passed by. Myopic typers, one per room. He opened the door at the end of the hallway and pointed me to a seat, then walked around an old, sturdy oak desk and sat across from me.
“Now, Eric— Oh, excuse me.” He half stood and leaned across the desk, extending his hand again. “I’m Stan, by the way.”
Stan? Stan Connelly! I hadn’t expected to meet with the big man himself!
“Good to meet you, sir,” I said as I shook his hand. We sat again and he opened a folder.
“Well, let’s see here. Eric Jepson . . . . I’ve never seen it spelled that way.”
“Two Ps do seem more common.”
“My wife’s mother was a two-P.”
I made a polite noise.
“And ‘Theric’?”
“That’s my working name.”
“I see. So, ‘Theric,’ you’re interested in the novelist position.”
“Yes.”
“How did you hear of our opening?”
“I went to school with Dave Brown, one of your editors. He gave me the tip. Sir.”
“Oh yes. It’s right here.” He closed the folder and looked up. “Let me start by telling you about the position. It’s a novelist position, so there are, naturally, a good number of applicants. You would be replacing Lilly Caruthers—” I must have gasped because he continued by saying, “Yes, yes, that Lilly Caruthers. That bastard Jacobsen over at Random House offered her some stock options to go along with a salary increase and off she goes to work with them.” He kept a few more choice words for Lilly Caruthers under his breath.
“Of course, you being new and less proven, would receive an hourly wage for starters, which we can chat about later if you like.”
He cleared his throat and shuffled the papers before him. I looked attentive. “If we hired you, your first task would be to take over the rewrites for her next book. I’ld rather have one of the editors do it, believe me, but that fool writers union would throw a hissy fit. All our other writers are busy on other projects, and so it was expedient to hire someone new.” He looked at me. “Honestly, otherwise I’m not sure I should have bothered.” The look snowballed meaning. “We’ll see how our new hire handles the rewrites before we start talking career.”
I pursed my brow in a Gary Cooper go-gettim imitation and did my best to look determined.
“After that, we would let you move onto your own projects. What sort of books would you like to write, Eric?”
I was caught off guard by the timing of this, a question I had carefully crafted a reply to over a week ago.
“Oh, all kinds! Haha, what kind do you like?” I tried to gain control over the verbal avalanche. “But I would like to start with a comedic fantasy novel. Also a book about a college girl dealing with her parents’ deaths.” Brilliant, Eric.
“That is quite the variety.” He opened the folder again and pulled out my resume. “I see you’re working now as a video preparer. Tell me about that.”
“I’ld be happy to.” The greatest test of my skills, I knew, would be in my ability to make this job sound interesting, exciting—vital even. “You see, sir, video rental is quite the vital and interesting field right now. It’s quite exciting to be part of it. My role in this industry involves the reception of VHS video cassettes from various sources and making them ready for delivery to outlets and rental to customers.” I paused. He wasn’t buying it. “In other words, I take stickers off and put new stickers on all day long.”
As I spoke, the words had typed themselves in my mind, the mental red pen following along and marking my answer up. If I wrote final drafts like I talk first drafts, I would never even hire myself.
“Very interesting,” Stan said. “And vital.” He raised his tone. “So! It would appear that you have never held a fulltime writing position before.”
“Um, yes.” I opened my mouth to say, “But may I hasten to add,” but he beat me to it.
“So, Eric, if we were to consider bringing you on, how could you assure us that you have what it takes to come in each day, punch a clock, and get words down all day? Do you have what it takes to write a novel, Eric?”
Finally!
“I believe so, sir. As you can see, I have a BA in English, which required me to be persistent and hardworking in completing my various assignments, but even more tellingly, working on my own I finished a five hundred page nonfiction book last year, so I have, of recent date, demonstrated an ability to finish book-length projects.”
“A nonfiction book?”
“But fiction is my first love! My home country!”
“Um, hum.” He looked down at the book in my hand. Crap. I didn’t even think about it not being fiction. I felt its paper cover warping in my sweaty hand.
“Well, Stan, nonfiction’s just a shyer form of fiction, after all.” I had no idea where that came from or what it meant, but I hoped it sounded profound.
He looked back down at the papers. “We all have English degrees, Eric.” He picked them up and shuffled them. He pulled my resume back out. Suddenly he looked up, nearly friendly again. “So! Looks like Dave speaks highly of you. And your writing sample’s not too bad. But it’s about a kid, Eric.”
I jumped on that. “Yes, sir! But I hope you’ll agree that it appeals to the adult reader as well. With the recent commercial and critical successes crossing over from books originally marketed to younger readers, I figured including a story that showed I could adapt in that direction as well would show my vitality as a writer.” Silence. “Besides,” I tried again, “ being able to take a story to its most basic elements for young readers surely shows a greater understanding of the craft than filling up an empty hole with fluff.”
More silence.
Stan cleared his throat. “I still think Harry Potter and whatnot are a fad. But I’ll forward your story onto the children’s department to see what they think. Anyway, it’s been good talking to you, Eric. We’ll be calling you in the next few days to let you know if you’ll be coming back in for a second interview with me and the chief editor.”
I stood, numb, and shook his hand, dumbly smiling. That was it? I walked out through the offices with that fake enthusiasm of the interviewee. I took the elevator to the basement, opened the car door into my knee, and drove home.
* * * * *
Lynsey met me at the door with a kiss. “Welcome back, hon. How’d it go?”
I shrugged. “Not so hot, I don’t think.” We walked into the kitchen and I pulled up a chair. “Maybe I can ask Dave to drop another good word for me before they decide.” I cracked my neck. “They should be calling about second interviews in a few days.”
I stood up, opened the fridge door and took out a bulk jar of salsa. Lynsey grabbed the chips for me. Man, was I starved.
“But I have an interview tomorrow for that job as an administrative assistant. That one looks good. It’s not writing, but it’s for this computer company—I forget exactly. But it sounds kind of interesting.” I looked up at Lynsey; she smiled and handed me a bowl.
I opened the salsa and was about to start pouring.
“Wait,” said Lynsey.
I lifted the bowl and Lynsey spread the classifieds under me. “Here,” she said. I sat the bowl back down next to an ad circled a half-dozen times with blue pen.
Small publisher looking to expand into nonfiction.
Qualified persons should bring resume and apply in person
at 248 Martins Street, Hamilton between 9 and 5.
“Nonfiction,” I said, shook my head, and laughed. “Right up my alley.”
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