Imagine that you’re twenty-years-old…

…have just traveled across the country and back on a journey of self-exploration, and find yourself back in the hectic roundabout of New York City, serving tables and absolutely miserable. That was my life. I was feeling stuck in complete nothingness at a job that left me exhausted and underwhelmed, hungry for more than just something that paid my bills. I wanted to put myself out there and pursue my dream job but knew that without a college degree it would be close to impossible. However, with my new found mentality of “fuck it”, I decided that I would give it a shot. I sent my resume to every writing job on Craigslist and was shocked to see an email from a fashion magazine wanting me to come in for an interview.

I spent a week stressing about what I would wear to my interview, eating nothing more than a can of soup each day in hopes that my hipbones would make a prominent impression. The day came for my interview and, between chain-smoking and chugging Red Bull, I found myself with the realization that I had no published writing online. Nothing. My resume was simply, “I wrote a book.” That was it – there was nothing about me that would impress anyone other than the fact that I had the audacity to write a book, publish it, and allow the masses to purchase it and judge me. “Fuck it” quickly diminished into “fuck this” as I waited to be shooed away from the headstrong editor who was openly interviewing a Columbia grad that had a Bachelor’s degree in journalism. Come time for my face-to-face with the editor of the magazine, I had already written this opportunity off and really didn’t care much to impress her, let alone share the fact that I had an asinine resume. To my surprise though, she seemed to like me – this validation coming in the form of her instructing her assistant to take a photo of me at the end of my interview. Five minutes after I had sat down in the office, I was on the street taking my heels off in favor of flats, walking home in disbelief. Did it go well? I called my mom to share every detail of what had just unfolded. She couldn’t tell. I went home and changed into my serving uniform.

I took the professional route and emailed the editor’s assistant, thanking her for seeing me, letting her know how enthused I was about the opportunity of working there. Two weeks passed and I more or less wrote the entire fiasco out of my memory – why would I ever assume that I would hear back? Well, I did. Despite my agonizing self-doubt, I heard back and was offered a three month, unpaid internship. I grabbed the opportunity like it was a fucking golden ticket from Willy Wonka himself, not thinking for a second that spending three months working for no pay would somehow lead me to colossal debt. The beginning of my internship consisted of a lot of copy editing press releases from random record companies that I had never heard of, scoping the internet for interesting art shows going on around the city, and going on runs to fashion closets. I was doing “bitch work” and I knew it, but something told me that I would be able to dive into real work at any given time – this kept me going when fashion runs in the blistering winter cold left me breathless and fundamentally hopeless. It took one month for me to pluck up the nerve to ask my editor if I could start writing my own articles, and exactly two weeks after that I quit my serving job. I couldn’t spend another second grumbling the words, “Hi, what can I get you?” knowing that I would be waking up the next day and writing at a magazine. Luckily I had saved up a nice sum of money, probably knowing deep down that the day would come when I would be working full-time at the office.

At the beginning of January, two months after I started working at the magazine, I began taking on more responsibilities. Writing from home on days when I wasn’t in the office became something of the norm, as did receiving emails from my editor during non-working hours asking me to do various things. I felt both accomplished and completely gratified that I had overcome the initial doubt during my interview – I was now writing my own articles with a bi-line smack dab on the bottom. My friends and family were congratulating me every chance they got, but they didn’t know that I was crippling beneath the character that I had started to form for myself. The every day bullshit that went on in the office – from my fellow interns breaking down and crying on my shoulder on our Starbucks runs, to my editor screaming over miniscule nothings – everything was overwhelming. I went to see my editor on a Saturday – something that I had never done before – and asked her if I could receive pay before the end of my internship. I expressed to her my desire to gain a stable position as a writer, smashing through the wall that was my pride, telling her that I would do anything to be able to achieve that. I left the office that weekend with nothing but a damaged ego and a confirmation of what I had already known – I wouldn’t be offered or promised anything until the end of my internship.

Weeks dragged on, the work stacked up, and my social life came to a stop as I was committing every waking hour that I had to the magazine. My editor knew this and she fucking showered in it – she loved that I was devoted and knew that I would do whatever she requested of me. I had two weeks left lingering on my internship when she approached me and told me that she was willing to pay me one day per week to come in and copy edit for the print issue – I grabbed the offer before it could even leave her lips. I knew that this meant that a permanent position was in the horizon and I skipped home triumphantly that day. I would indeed be offered a 32 hour per week position as an editorial assistant, and things would be a dream come true… for a week.

Truth be told, I was in awe of my editor. She built a magazine from nothing, she was a prominent photographer in the fashion industry, and she carried herself with the same energy that I did. She didn’t take shit from anyone, and she was quick to call people out on their mistakes – she reminded me of myself only twenty years older. Once I was on the payroll, things changed. I was not just a disposable intern anymore – I was the real deal, one of her employees. The demands came a lot stronger, and the nature of our relationship shifted from businesslike to heated disagreements. We argued like sisters, we laughed like friends, and we held some sort of jilted, unspoken respect for each other. My editor became both my most respected hero and my enemy in the blink of an eye.

While I was learning more and more about the ins and outs of the publishing industry every day at work, I was also dreading walking into the office knowing that the likelihood of a fight between my editor and myself would take place. The new wave of interns would express their anxiety, telling me that they didn’t understand the dynamic between my editor and me, but in the same breath also saying that her and I were very much alike. We would fight and then we would make up more than once a week like clockwork. Despite this, I still gave my all in everything that I did. We had a print issue of the magazine coming out and it was of the utmost importance that everyone was performing to the best of their capability. It was no longer my duty to make runs to fashion closets as a team of interns was working beneath me now, so most of my days were spent writing for the online edition of the magazine and making final touches and edits to the print edition. My days meshed together – everything becoming tremendously humdrum. Before I knew it, the print issue was out and the interns working beneath me reached the end of their contracts. At this point, it was myself, my editor, and one surviving intern working at the magazine; the dream team of three. I was given the new assignment of sifting through emails from potential interns, and just about everything else at the magazine. I took on the jobs of six people and it acquired a lot of willpower to not snap beneath the new found pressure.

When you work at a magazine, there are different positions that require essential knowledge of what the fuck you’re even doing. Being thrown into the fire with no sense of how to manage the heat is something that shouldn’t happen but, unfortunately, sometimes does. This happened to me. After the staff had all come to the end of their contracts, I found myself taking on the role of journalist, personal assistant, mail courier, social media specialist, middle-man between interns and my editor, and – outside of work – girlfriend and new dog mom. I spent a decent amount of time thinking back to how easy it was when I was just a lowly intern – going about my business in the office at my little desk with no one really paying too much attention to me. As the days passed, the duties remained the same, some overwhelming and some mind-numbingly simple, but I remained in the mindset that was once preached in The Devil Wears Prada, “A million girls would kill for this job.” Despite my repetitive reminders of this, a dark cloud lingered over what was once my dream job. If I wasn’t going head to head with my editor, I was mindlessly editing the work of interns and reminding them of the office rules – things like: don’t come in half an hour late, don’t have phone conversations in the middle of the office, don’t leave for your lunch break and come back hours later, don’t call in sick five minutes before you’re supposed to be here. You know, things that would be basic common sense in any other workplace. Amidst regulating the obvious, I was gaining the mannerisms and quick-draw attitude of my editor. So much so that my boyfriend took notice and mentioned it one night as I was delegating how he should be cutting vegetables for our dinner. It was then that I recognized that things were getting out of hand.

In an effort to remain who I was as an individual, I made changes in the way that I entered the office everyday and went about my business. Instead of reeling in the impending doom that was a lecture from my editor about something or other, I chose to remain clear-headed and positive on my mile-long walk to work each day. I even went as far as to bring donuts in for the interns on certain days when I had a feeling that the tone of the office would be ominous. I was deliberately choosing to walk around with rainbows falling out of my ass – the happiest that I could stomach being – hoping that the quarrels would come to a screeching halt. My efforts were so evident that comments were made on my hourly smoke break about how happy I seemed lately. I took this as a colossal success and showered the interns with encouraging comments about their work. Everything seemed great – my editor even appeared to be in better spirits as she announced a Hamptons party during the summer. (It should be noted that a summer party in the Hamptons is kind of a big deal – especially one that takes place during Art Southampton). But, like everything, it would all go up in flames sooner or later.

Sparing the details of a massive fall from grace from my position at the magazine, my journey ended one day during Fashion Week – not much unlike the scenario set in The Devil Wears Prada – almost too coincidental, really. I began my journey into the world of journalism as an eager, optimistic writer, hungry for the idea of a world that was so completely alien to me… and I ended that journey wishing that I hadn’t been left so callous and berated. The course of my life took a turn opposite that of the magazine’s, ending a love story so mangled with anger and competitive tendencies, walking away was almost like a fresh start. Despite the eleven months that seemed endless at the time, I will never look back on the experience with a negative feeling. I learned more in eleven months than most people do in four years of college – I experienced life, I grew as a writer, and I was able to guide other writers and help in shaping their paths as well. I realized after the flames dissipated that my editor was hard on me because she believed in m e – a thought that I will smile on fondly in years to come.

Because of my time at the magazine, I urge everyone that I know to take chances. Even if you’re applying for a position that seems completely out of your league, do it. There are people in this world that are willing to give chances to those that are brave enough to stand up and reach for the stars.

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