I think I'm being paid in chocolate...

Two weeks ago the food closet got cleaned out. We sold the unopened products (proceeds go to charity), but the opened ones get tossed. Or fed to interns. Good thing the opened products were chocolate. I also ended up with some unopened bars (bizarre flavors, though. Curry chocolate, anyone?).

Today I got a taste of Dylan's Candy Bar.

Since their product preview event was after work, I got to bring a +1 (David), and we definitely enjoyed the spread. Excess is a way of life for PR people. We ask for one sample; they send us their entire line. Events like these are definitely meant to butter us up (this time with cocoa butter), so I wonder about ethics and how these little perks affect our work.  I still feel awkward taking advantage. But I guess if you keep the magazine's best interests at heart, you're able to draw a line in the sanding sugar. From the professional view, this fun treat seems a little conflicting.

From the kid in a candy store view, though, I like chocolate. Once they had relieved us of our coats, the PR people loaded us up with treats: themed plush toys, a champagne and strawberry dark chocolate bar, a mini paint can to fill with bulk candy upstairs, and a solid chocolate Ken doll (his box says he "satisfies all [your] cravings"--sounds a little sticky to me). Press members had their choice of wines upon entering, but we chose branded water bottles to, ah, cleanse ze palette. After we checked in with the other intern, and ran into one of my old 'Cuse classmates on the PR side of the equation, we table hopped. Each table had a seasonal theme, and a lot of stuff to taste. It took a while for David to get used to just taking samples, but he got there eventually. Me? I'm a natural. They actually had some really fun products for the month we're working on now at the magazine. I even brought one sample back for the boss.

Meanwhile, for the non-kosher-keepers, savory appetizers circulated. David and I broke up the sweetness with a teeny-tiny "hummus sundae" complete with "sprinkles" (chopped celery and red pepper) and a wafer (itty-bitty cracker). A very cute concept.

The life of a magazine intern isn't glamorous. I don't party with celebrities or do yoga with designers. I spend most of my time compiling information and transcribing interviews and fixing paper jams in the copy  room. I probably won't write anything in the next few months. It isn't enlightening, it isn't stylish, and, no, it isn't glamorous. But every now and then, it's kind of sweet.

Intern Rules

1. Make a schedule. I created a spreadsheet that's always on my desk Across the top it reads: Project, Due, Started, Notes, Complete. I put in the date I started so that I can search by date in my inbox or files weeks later and still get the right documents. If I'm still waiting for something to come in, I make a note. On days when I have a lot to do, I number the projects in progress by priority. Nothing gets a check in the "complete" box until the editor who assigned it has emailed me back saying she's happy with the work.

2. Now or never: as in, do it now or you never will. As soon as an email comes in either write down the request or forward it to the appropriate party. You'll forget. I promise.

3. Have a personality. I'm constantly nagging myself on this one. I always feel like a maid in a really fancy hotel (or Anne Hathaway in The Princess Diaries): I strive to be invisible. I can't imagine editors want to acknowledge me, or worse, waste an extra two minutes (or even 10 seconds) reading a cutesified email. I know the standard goal is to be noticed for your talents and nothing else, but frankly, people like working with people they like. So in casual interactions, toss in some personality. Be interested in your coworkers. If someone looks extra nice one day, say so. Don't suck up, but when you get the chance to be nice or even just be yourself, take it.

More later!

The Cowardice of Writing in the Shower

I'm a good editor. So good, in fact, that I think I'm editing myself right out of a job.

I can edit 500 words down to 250. Edit a photo into an all-new image. I can edit myself down to two inches tall. Or at least that's how it feels.

For the past few years I've told everyone, myself included, that I'm not a writer; I'm an editor. After years of being a pretentious teenager, giving myself a pen name and swapping poetry with friends, I gave up. Writing articles, it turned out, was nothing like writing poetry. Nothing like wading in the puddles of my shower waiting for words to dawn on me, as if falling from the shower head into my own. So for years, I've spared myself the discomfort of sitting in front of my computer and writing. But nonetheless, in the shower, with my guard down ever-so-slightly, those darned words come back. And I think I'm starting to figure out why.

I can't commit things to paper in the shower. There's no blank page, no blinking cursor that may as well be a tapping foot. I can't write anything down, so I certainly can't edit it. I have to go with my first blurt, and don't things always sound better on first blurt? I know they always sound better in my head.

In the shower I write like I fantasize: rewind, play, rewind, fast forward. Anna Wintour's coming toward me at a party. Fast forward: headlines say NataLee is surpassing old newsstand favorites. Rewind: I'm saying something unbearably cheeky. Fast forward: I'm in a conference room in front of a blown-up cover image, rallying my troops. Rewind. Fast forward. Rewind. Play. Lede. Body. Nutgraf. Lede.

It doesn't matter how ridiculous or implausible it is. It doesn't matter that I have no intention of going head-to-head with Vogue at any point in my career. It's all in my head, for heaven's sake, and moreover, it's all in my shower.

My inhibitions have gotten the best of me. I'm using failure as an excuse to stop trying. Well enough of that. If I can't just get over this insipid meekness that's taken over, I'll have to get around it.

So I'm changing my thinking. It looks like I'll have to write before I can edit. Until I'm actually an editor I'm going to stop calling myself one. I'm going back to being a writer--and not just in my shower.

Now that's more like it

Day 2

And this time I did see David Carey. But I didn't talk to him. I did, however, get some research assignments, which I love, and start working on a few little projects. Nothing too fancy yet, but I'm perfectly happy to transcribe an interview or update the index for now. It just feels so natural to me to be sitting at a desk typing away or hunting down information. I finally feel at ease with this whole change.

Today got me thinking more about what my goals are. Yes, I know I want to climb the masthead hitting every level I can. Yes I'd like to be EIC. And president. And Cathie Black. But there's more to it.

I want to reach the point in my career where I can walk into someone's else's office without an appointment. I want to sit at a table or, more likely at a magazine stand at a wall, and discuss ideas freely. I want to come up with the assignments, and test them out on an excited intern.

I feel very aware of the lines drawn between the top editors and the junior editors, the junior editors and the interns. I'm just looking forward to the time when they don't look so solid.

Distinctly Unglamorous Beginnings

Day 1

And I did not ride the elevator with Cathie Black or David Carey or Anne Hathaway. I did not meet Gayle King. I did not hug Oprah.

I didn't expect to, either. But I did expect to finish a full day of work. Maybe even get my hands inky.

All in all, it was kind of anticlimactic. I walked up to this remarkable, important building thrilled, and left it a little disappointed -- five hours earlier than expected.

Still, everyone was so kind. The old editorial intern is still there, and they hadn't gotten my computer running, so there wasn't anything for me to do but read the intern manual. I didn't even sign any paperwork! So I went home. Oh well.

I think it'll all get grooving when the other interns show up and the old editorial intern leaves. I'm keeping my hopes high.

Goodnight!