Last week I took a test to see if I qualify for what I thought initially might be a dream job.
Yet another Craigslist find, a small publishing house advertised they were looking for a junior editor. This publishing house publishes exclusively erotica, such as the following.
I have had a love affair with terrible romance novels ever since I was stuck in a waiting room with several friends after we had accompanied a pal to the emergency room because of a dizzy fainting spell, the cause of which turned out to be a build up of wax in one of her ears. While she was professionally q-tipped, the rest of us took turns doing dramatic readings from a steamy title we found abandoned on one of the waiting room end tables.
In case you are too lazy and selfish to click on the link to my old blog, here is an excerpt from a piece I produced during my days as an aspiring romance novelist.
Lord Hiawatholomew ran his fingers through his tawny chest hair. “Come here often?” he murmured in his sensual Moonman accent. Slowly Nalala stood up, dusting the dirt off her unassuming “Curvy Fit” jeggings.
“I was just…clearing my head…” Nalala offered, the strangeness of the situation finally sinking in, awakening her dazed mind with the suddenly daunting banquet of weird opportunities.
“Well as long as I’ve dropped in, you should come inside and have a space cocktail,” the handsome martian suggested, raising and lowering his eyebrows at a rapid pace.
“I don’t drink,” Nalala said firmly, holding on to the strict Mormon values of her childhood.
“Me neither,” said Lord Hiawatholomew, winking sexily.
It gets nasty.
On July 23rd I took an editing test to ensure I qualified for an interview. It included a spelling portion. I didn’t realize how bad I am at spelling, since I rely so heavily on spell check. Oh wait, so does every last human author in the developed world. So why did I have to humiliate myself by demonstrating I don’t know how to spell aquaintance? Acquaintance? A C AND A Q?! I’d like to acquaint myself with the jerk who wrote the dictionary. I will convince him he ruined my life and then guilt-trip him into taking off his shirt and feeding me cupcakes.