“We’re going on a bear hunt.
We’re going to catch a big one.
What a beautiful day!
We’re not scared.”
Michael Rosen
Having won a literary award in the summer of 2018, my novel, Splintered Lives – the ten billionth draft when I’d finally rewritten it – spent months of this year with an agent for an evaluation. During which time, marooned in a desert of insecurity – it was rubbish, I’d wasted my time, I should just give up… I tried to focus on freelance commissions.
An interesting research project on the Impact of the Smartphone on Journalism, to inform the content of an exhibition of the same name, and a chapter in the book to accompany the exhibition. Proofreader for the crime imprint (Little, Brown Books) of publishing house, Hachette. Loved that – got paid to read crime novels and mark them up in blue, black and red.
Working at home has some advantages – fall out of bed and be at my desk with breakfast and coffee in minutes. But all day, everyday, working in solitary with no one to talk to – depressing as… So, I started a job hunt. For a job in London with humans, rather than one at home with the dogs.
But nothing’s more thankless than spending entire days manipulating your work experience to fit the requirements of another puffed-up job description with an over-inflated sense of its own importance; particularly those that don’t include a salary. Transparency is an issue in the publishing world. Some companies I called out, but in the end, I stopped wasting time on the ones who seemed to think it would be an honour for me to work for them without revealing what they were prepared to pay.
Then, in September, the agent got in touch. Her critique was positive and constructive. I tried to take it all in. She actually liked it! We discussed plot and structure and which character’s story it really was. Another rewrite, she suggested. Another rewrite, then it will be submission-ready. I agreed. She wished me luck.
I have a lot of confidence in the story (I love the story) but, not really knowing where to start with another rewrite, even though we’d discussed it, overwhelmed with novel-writing fatigue, I put it to one side, asked writer friends for some much-needed advice, and continued on the job hunt.
Up in my office, in the vacuum of fear that not having a clue how to tackle my novel had created, I spent a lot of time imagining my ideal job. An editing role of some sort – subbing, copy editing, proof reading… preferably part time, or short-term contract. Not necessarily on a publication, but maybe as part of a communications team, in a charity, say. That would be perfection.
In pursuit of career nirvana and freedom from the burden of the-rewrite-that-I-didn’t-know-how-to-do, I was offered a free overhaul of my CV. (The CV that Mr S, who knows more than he ever wanted to know about CVs far superior to mine, had already perfected several times).
“Yes please,” I replied to the generic let’s play on her insecurities email. Wish I hadn’t. The ‘CV expert’ from the ‘highest-rated CV-writing service’ in the world informed me that my design was “visually uneven. The appearance is not polished, and it doesn’t say ‘high potential’ as your experience suggests.”
I came across as a ‘doer’ rather than ‘an achiever’, “a common mistake for non-professional CV writers”, and should be highlighting to employers my previous contributions, specifically how I made a difference, but, more importantly, how I am going to make a significant difference to their company.
When she put it through her whizzy CV scanning software – the raw data, pulled directly from my CV (99% of which focuses on my experience as a writer and editor), concluded that:
‘Danielle Simpson’s experience appears to be concentrated in Healthcare Non-physician Non-nurse / Social Work, with exposure to Marketing / Public Relations. Danielle Simpson has 12 years of work experience, with no management experience.’
My confidence, like my dogs during the fortnight of recent fireworks (when was it deemed a thing to extend Guy Fawkes night to fourteen days), put its tail between its legs and hid, whimpering, under the table. And I was reminded of those useless psychometric and aptitude tests you do when you’re sixteen and haven’t a clue what you want to be when you grow up. An interest in languages and drama gave me ‘customer service’, ‘humanitarian work’, ‘detective’.
That’s Dan sorted,’ my parents must have chuckled, high fiving each other.
Then I got a cold call from a recruitment consultant called Ben. “Happy Friday,” he said cheerily. “Happy Friday,” I chirruped back. My profile fitted a job he had on his books, could he send my details through to the client.
“Of course,” I replied.
“What sort of salary are you after?” he asked.
I thought of a number and doubled it. He suggested something higher. I rapidly agreed, impressed at his pro-active attitude, his flirty charm.
“I’ll email you on the back of this call,” he said. “Have yourself a lovely weekend. If you’ve not heard from me by Tuesday give me a bell.”
I stored his name and number in my phone. Kept the piece of paper on which I’d written notes of everything he’d said to me. Had myself a lovely weekend. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday came. I gave him that bell.
“I’m sorry, we don’t have a Ben working here,” the man said. “Are you sure you have the right agency?”
“Quite sure,” I replied.
“Did you ring us?” he asked.
“No, you rang me.” I regurgitated the notes I’d made, the conversation we’d had. He couldn’t find a record of our convo, or my contact info, his name was Dean not Ben, but the job I referred to was on his books. Patiently, I allowed him to make out that I was the moron, and agreed that I would reply to the email he sent me as we spoke, with a copy of my CV.
I never heard from him again. And didn’t want to either.
“Agencies are the best way to find a job,” a friend suggested. So I persevered. Signed up with a few. Another day, another phone call, out of the blue, when, focusing very intently on creating a timetable for my youngest’s imminent university open day trip, I was weighing up the pros and cons of car over train.
“I’m calling from X,” this recruiter said, “Is now a good time to go through your application?”
Panicking, I rummaged through my tip of a desk, through university prospectuses, and spreadsheets, (one for universities, one for job applications, many for my novel), through plastic wallets, and notebooks, and too much paper, finally locating the one, the only, The Job Application Folder.
“You’ve caught me on the hop,” I wittered, noticing that my phone was on 1%. “Just give me a moment…” I scurried round the house to find the charger, plugged it in. “So,” I tried to catch my breath, “What would you like to know?”
“This isn’t an interview,” she said, “I’d just like to establish how relevant your work experience is to this role.”
Stumbling and stuttering my way through her suspiciously interview-like questions, unable to find the job description at the same time as my printed out CV – What was the bloody job? What was the name of the company? Where had I worked before? – my inept answers left her in little doubt that I was suitable for nothing.
“So what have you been doing since you returned to the UK?” she asked, her tone tinged with impatience.
“Recovering from cancer,” I snapped, my spirit broken. “But I’m better now.” Her startled silence (she was probably 12) spitefully gratified me. It’s not on my CV. I don’t think it’s relevant. I don’t choose to discuss it. But she poked too hard. Does two years out of the workplace put me at a disadvantage? I don’t know. In this instance it did.
“I’ve made a right fuck-up,” I said to Mr S, in a frantic call for reassurance, straight after she’d wound up our chat – ‘We’ll be in touch’ – with indecent haste
“Did you want the job?” he asked, ever the voice of reason.
Did I want the job? No. Would I like to have sounded authoritative on my chosen subject? Yes.
“How’s the novel going?” friends continued to ask.
“It’s not,” I’d reply. “I’m job hunting.” But I wasn’t.
Jobs streamed into my inbox daily from every job vacancy site known to 21st century unemployed man. I’d save the ones I thought I had a hope in hell of being considered for, discard the rest, examine the ones I’d saved. Discard them too. What was the bloody point?
And then one day, a job that ticked many boxes, that didn’t ask for a jump-through-hoops application letter, that sounded sensible and good, caught my eye. I saved it. I printed it. I ignored it.
“I can’t find a job,” I moped to Mr S.
“How many have you applied for?”
“Hundreds.”
“Hundreds?”
“Loads. Thirty. Twenty.”
“Do you want a job?”
“YES!”
“Then apply for some more.”
Angry, I stomped up to my office. I’ll bloody show him. Fired off an application to that one saved job. And didn’t tell anyone.
The next day I got a phone call.
Another recruitment consultant. “I received your application. You have so much relevant experience. You are just what our client is looking for. Would you mind if I sent off your application?”
Then we chatted and she was nice and respectful and courteous. She said she’d call me in a couple of days. And she did.
“They’d like you to go for an interview and a written test.”
Really? I sat up.
“There are five interview slots. Which one would you like?”
Thinking back to my HR days at Mind when I’d done the interviewing I tried to recall which was the best time of day for an interviewee to be remembered. Too early, there was a danger of being forgotten, too late, there was a risk of interview-fatigue.
I went for mid-morning. My recruitment consultant briefed me on the interviewees, the organisation, the writing test. I did my research. Deliberated over my interview outfit – trousers or dress?
“Yellow snake print dress,” said middle child. “More memorable.” And went into London, repeating, over and over again in my head, my set phrases about why I was the person for this job.
The timed written test was straightforward, edit down 750 words to 150 in half an hour, use house-style, include a call to action. It was going so well. Then the laptop flashed ‘low power’. Seriously? I glanced around. Was there a hidden camera? Was this the test to see how I performed under pressure? I jumped up, scanned the room for a charger, my eyes flew to the clock, five minutes to go. Found the charger under the table. The socket in the corner. My heart racing, my time nearly up, five words to cull, I plugged it in, re-read the brief – Shit! No call to action! – added a sentence, 18 words too many…
The door flew open. “Your time is up!”
Trying not hyperventilate, muttering, “Just got to save it,” I deleted the detritus, saved as required, and went in for the interview.
Nice questions. Nice people. One interviewer wore a leopard print dress not dissimilar to mine. Yes, I had to explain the gaps on my CV – trailing expat spouses don’t have jobs to move to, have to settle their families, can then start to look… twice. Cancer, but –
“I’m so sorry,” one of them interrupted. “Are you okay now? That must have been awful.” No judgements. No shock. Just kind.
“We’ll let you know at the end of the week. We see you got the memo about animal print dresses.”
I enjoyed the interview. They gave nothing away.
Three hours later, my recruitment consultant called.
“How did it go? What did you think? Did you like them? Do you still want the job?”
She let me waffle, and when I stopped she said, “They loved you. They want to offer you the job.”
And just like that, I landed the position I’d dreamt up the job description for many months earlier when I originally started this blog post. An editing role of some kind – subbing, copy editing, proof reading… preferably part time, or short-term contract. Not necessarily on a publication, but maybe as part of a communications team, in a charity, say. That would be perfection.
I’ve still got to finish my novel. I feel bad for not getting on with it. But four weeks ago I started my new job as editor in the communications team at the National Deaf Children’s Society. Three days a week. In London. Doing all the things I love. Serendipity is a wonderful thing. Splintered Lives will be tackled slowly. And I’m not scared!
daniellesimpson 