Having once been an ambitious young lady myself, however, Ive decided to offer you some advice: go to your local newspaper and get an entry-level job. You included in your letter that you immensely enjoy writing. When youre not making mimeographs or fixing your bosss coffee, look around, investigate, and write. Dont waste your time on the obvious things. Write about what disturbs you, particularly if it bothers no one else.
Yours sincerely,Elaine Stein,Senior Editor, Adult Book DivisionBelow the pica type is a handwritten note, in a choppy blue scrawl:
P.S. If you are truly serious, Id be willing to look over your best ideas and give my opinion. I offer this for no better reason, Miss Phelan, than someone once did it for me.
A truck full of cotton rumbles by on the County Road. The Negro in the passenger side leans out and stares. Ive forgotten I am a white girl in a thin nightgown. I have just received correspondence, maybe even encouragement, from New York City and I say the name aloud: Elaine Stein. Ive never met a Jewish person.
I race back up the lane, trying to keep the letter from flapping in my hand. I dont want it wrinkled. I dash up the stairs with Mother hollering to take off those tacky Mexican man shoes, and I get to work writing down every goddamn thing that bothers me in life, particularly those that do not seem to faze anyone else. Elaine Steins words are running hot silver through my veins and I type as fast as I can. Turns out, it is a spectacularly long list.
By the next day, I am ready to mail my first letter to Elaine Stein, listing the ideas I thought worthy journalism material: the prevalence of illiteracy in Mississippi; the high number of drunk-driving accidents in our county; the limited job opportunities for women.
Its not until after I mail the letter that I realize I probably chose those ideas she would think impressive, rather than ones I was really interested in.
I take a deep breath and pull open the heavy glass door. A feminine little bell tinkles hello. A not-so-feminine receptionist watches me. She is enormous and looks uncomfortable in the small wooden chair. Welcome to the Jackson Journal. Can I help you?
I had made my appointment day before yesterday, hardly an hour after Id received Elaine Steins letter. I asked for an interview for any position they might have. I was surprised they said theyd see me so soon.
I had made my appointment day before yesterday, hardly an hour after Id received Elaine Steins letter. I asked for an interview for any position they might have. I was surprised they said theyd see me so soon.
Im here to see Mister Golden, please.
The receptionist waddles to the back in her tented dress. I try and calm my shaking hands. I peek through the open door to a small, wood-paneled room in the back. Inside, four men in suits bang away on typewriters and scratch with pencils. They are bent over, haggard, three with just a horseshoe of hair left. The room is gauzy with cigarette smoke.
The receptionist reappears, thumbs me to follow her, cigarette dangling in her hand. Come on back. Despite my nerves, all I can think of is the old college rule, A Chi Omega never walks with a cigarette.[52] I follow her through the desks of staring men, the haze of smoke, to an interior office.
Close that thing back, Mister Golden hollers as soon as Ive opened the door and stepped in. Dont let all that damn smoke in here.
Mister Golden stands up behind his desk. Hes about six inches shorter than me, trim, younger than my parents. He has long teeth and a sneer, the greased black hair of a mean man.
Didnt you hear? he said. They announced last week cigarettesll kill you.
I hadnt heard that. I can only hope it hadnt been on the front page of his newspaper.
Hell, I know niggers a hundred years old look younger than those idjits out there. He sits back down, but I keep standing because there are no other chairs in the room.
Alright, lets see what you got. I hand him my résumé and sample articles Id written in school. I grew up with the Journal sitting on our kitchen table, open to the farm report or the local sports page. I rarely had time to read it myself.
Mister Golden doesnt just look at my papers, he edits them with a red pencil. Murrah High editor three years, Rebel Rouser editor two years, Chi Omega editor three years, double major English and journalism, graduated number four Damn, girl, he mutters, didnt you have any fun?
I clear my throat. Is that important?
He looks up at me. Youre peculiarly tall but Id think a pretty girl like youd be dating the whole goddamn basketball team.
I stare at him, not sure if hes making fun of me or paying me a compliment.
I assume you know how to clean He looks back to my articles, strikes them with violent red marks.
My face flushes hot and quick. Clean? Im not here to clean. Im here to write.
Cigarette smoke is bleeding under the door. Its like the entire place is on fire. I feel so stupid that I thought I could just walk in and get a job as a journalist.