So in my continuing quest to upgrade the slime trail of my career to a slightly more 3D installation—maybe a lumpy sludge trail—I joined LinkedIn, the Facebook for “professionals.”
As a longtime freelance writer who’s taken on more random assignments than a windshield takes on bug species, let me just be clear: it ain’t no easy feat to list what you’ve done as a freelancer and make yourself sound remotely stable or solid, no matter how talented you are. Because you wind up filling in the “How long did you work at this position?” boxes by going, Er, let’s see, that article took me a month to write, so, January 2004 to February 2004? And that next one, that was a two-week gig, so….
Which, of course, is exactly what employers are dying to see. “Here’s our shining star! Look at the way she lurched from gig to gig like a one-legged drunk on a pub crawl!”
Doesn’t matter how much work you do, how many hours you spend interviewing subjects, how many days you spend editing and tweaking and crafting—it’s just a harder road, if you’re not working for one place.
So I thought it was a plenty smart, totally kosher move on my part to ask the editor-in-chief of a Big Magazine in Our Little Pond for an endorsement. I thought this was Proactive and Career-Savvy. I’d never bothered him for a recommendation before. But I delivered four feature articles for the magazine, and they wuz gooooood, my peeps!
In other words: At no point did I scrawl REDRUM in my own feces on a wall of the Big Magazine in Our Little Pond’s office and sing, “Sign, Sealed, Delivered” buck-naked with a daisy tucked behind one ear.
So I wasn’t exactly prepared for Mr. Editor-in-Chief’s response today, which was:
Dear Jenn:
I’m sorry, I won’t be able to do this.
Sincerely,
Mr. Editor-in-Chief
Big Magazine in Our Little Pond
Really?
On LinkedIn, an endorsement can be one sentence. I was not asking for a letter of reference. I was not asking him to wait by the phone to recommend me to any potential employer. I was simply asking, straight-out and old school, for ONE or TWO sentences that would acknowledge the fact that I had, in fact, worked for Big Magazine in Our Little Pond several times, and that they had, in fact, published my articles.
I’m sorry, I won’t be able to do this.
Wait, no, seriously? Won’t? Then why not say why not?
Or can’t? That busy? His Facebook update at the time read, “Oh no, I just got Google Buzz. This could well be the beginning of the beginning of the end of the beginning.” I guess dude is busy.
I just wanted one crummy sentence of recommendation. He’s a writer himself. That’s the part that knocks me out. Because presumably, he actually knows how hard it is out there.
I have four sentences: Buddy, I spoke up for YOU. I talked up your magazine, whenever possible. I praised it, and the people there. I interviewed my subjects on behalf of your mag with intelligence and professionalism and moxie.
Just. Not. Cool.
*****
I wrote back after the initial intense wave of shame and nausea subsided (they hate me he hates me when did they all begin hating me? did he hear about Mousegate? when did I suck and why do I suck and why did they not tell me?).
I simply wrote:
Is there a reason?
A few hours later, and nope, he’s not offering a reason. Google Buzz has him by the gullet, possibly.
Now, I’m a reasonable sort. Sure, I’d like to think it’s because he’s got cancer and several days to live, and he’s got other things to do, like making peace with all of the other writers who once sought him out for a kind word. Or I’d like to think that his limbs have shriveled up from typing his new book too close to his microwave, and that he can only peck out a few words at a time now with his nose—which leaves him, of course, exhausted and drooling into his anti-radiation poisoning pills and vodka.
I could accept that information.
I would have been okay if he’d simply ignored the request.
But actually taking the time to say no, with no other information provided—that leaves me feeling pretty lousy, pretty sure that a gym membership and pole dancing classes are not a bad way to go. That freelance writing is just not my gig.
Unfortunately, it’s the cat that keeps coming back. And I keep taking it in. Because it’s my only marketable talent, unless you count eyeliner application and Haz-Mat-level dog poo cleanup and an MFA in Acting and Playwriting. Oh. Wait. Scratch the last bit. I said marketable, as in marketable in 2010, as in haven’t seen anyone tossing Elizabethan coins to burlap-sack-garbed thespians in some time.
So maybe I’m down to just the eyeliner and dog poop, and I don’t know it yet.
*****
When my life started to go down the crapper a few years’ back, and the shampoo bottles began singing those arias, I did turn down freelance work from the magazine. And now I’m wondering if that’s the reason there’s no endorsement. She’s wack, yo!
(I’m also wondering if I forgot to wear deodorant the day I went to a magazine mixer, and that’s the reason.)
As far as I knew, I was still on good terms with the editor-in-chief. He accepted my LinkedIn invite. I didn’t take Logic 101 at Grinnell, but seems to me you don’t link with someone on LinkedIn if you don’t like what they do. Uhh?
Or is that just my lacy naivete peeping out? Caught you looking.
No, seriously, am I missing some LinkedIn etiquette? Was there an FAQ I missed? I was all up for trading good recommendations with colleagues. I thought that was what people do there. Am I a LinkedOut doofus?
I recognize that some might consider it (further) career suicide to even bring up this minor development, in Our Little Pond. But living where I live has turned out for me to be effing career suicide anyway. I wasn’t going to tell you guys about this, but it makes me miss the days I worked full-time for Big Butt Magazine in NYC. They appreciated my assets.
At the time, I didn’t realize that I was living the dream, and that’s my bad. So what if my best friend from high school and I used masking tape in our studio apartment to delineate imaginary walls? It was a nice regular paycheck in a city that shows up on TV all the time. That kind of rocked.
I’m going to try to find my old boss on LinkedIn RIGHT NOW and see if I can get her endorsement. Well, first she’d have to be willing to admit she’s heard of Big Butt Magazine. But, oh, if she did, she of her four-inch-long glossy orange fingernails! Suddenly I am feeling downright nostalgic.
Big Butt probably get me further, careerwise, anyway. It occurs to me only now: Who wants to hear about Our Little Pond, when they can hear about Mendi Teats (loved her, honestly, the sweetest gal, she brought me Hershey’s Kisses) and her fabulous rear (it really was) and what all the boys at the state pen want to do to it (not real creative, those fellers, but yes, some of the letters are real)?
Live and learn. When I get my book published and Oprah asks where I honed my writing chops, Big Butt Magazine will get the nod, not your mag, Editor-in-Chief of Big Magazine in Our Little Frickin’ Pond. Big Butt, you and I understood each other. And you’ll get my exclusive photos, too, when I get famous and pretend to go all “unaware” on my equally big-assed yacht. Providing you’ve got a good airbrusher on hand.
Yeah. And I want to say thank you, too. To the good folks out there. Thank you HUGELY (like, BIG BUTTEDLY) to my colleagues that I respect and adore who have endorsed the blog over at LinkedIn. I really, really appreciate it. You’re classy.
Not assy.
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