Could Be Interesting

I met with both recruiters. The first was very official, giving me the ra-ra speech about her company and what they have achieved over the years. I did my best to look like I cared. For those not in the software biz, a recruiter fills a vital role, one which I respect and value, but some recruiters think there is more to it than there is. Once I take the job, they send me a paycheck and I never speak with the recruiter again. They know it and I know it, so I don't understand why all the hoopla.

Anyhoo.

The second was my kind of guy. Being a recruiter is a sales position, and you may or may not know, but I hate sales people. But every once in a while I meet one that knows how to do it right. He introduced me to the account manager that has a particular job in mind, but my salary requirement is a little higher than the client is willing to pay. I suggested that he put me in front of the client and let me do the talking. They loved my spunk. We'll see.

But here is the real news of the day, and this is why I like to get out of the house once in a while, because shit has a way of happening. Chloesuggested that I take this opportunity to become a professional writer. I only mildly scoffed at that--there are bills to pay after all. I walked into the building--all marble, glass and steel--fifteen minutes early and looked for the company name on the directory by the elevator. I had just taken a deep breath and thought to myself, "And so the job hunt begins." Across the lobby was a sign on a window that said, "The Globe West."

If you are not from here, that naturally means the Boston Globe.

I couldn't help but feel a small sense of destiny. Go ahead and laugh, but things happen like that to me, little coincidences to which I've learned to pay heed. I stood in front of the doors and put my hand on the knob, but chickened out and turned to walk away, when I saw a beautiful woman wearing a long coat and winter hat.

She looked at me as I was turning around. I asked her, "Do you work here?"

"Yes I do," she said with a curious expression.

"So you write for the newspaper?"

"Uh huh."

"Alright, how does one become a writer?"

She laughed out loud, but not in a way I felt was directed at me if you catch my meaning. "That is a very good question, and every writer has a totally different answer."

"A friend mine," I said, "once wrote stories for a small California paper. Apparently there is a list of stories that the staff reporters won't do, but for a guy like me who is hungry to see his name in print..."

"Sure, we have a pool of freelance writers that choose from a variety of stories. I'm sure our editor would give you a trial piece to do."

And so she wrote down the names of her two editors, and gave me the phone number, and let me use her name as a reference. As I was leaving she said, "And stop by anytime."

Wow. I swear that wouldn't have happened in California.

I called and left a message, but the receptionist gave me the man's email address, so I introduced myself properly, in a manner appropriate for the task I wish to acquire: in writing.

The wheels of fate are turning?