How to Become a Publicist

HOW TO BECOME A PUBLICIST/ Jessica Francis Kane IN THE MIDWESTERN TOWN where I grew up, my father is repainting my room blue and white, my favorite colors, just in case I come home. I try not to think about this. Instead I concentrate on getting a job as an editorial assistant, not knowing of any other work for a young graduate to do in publishing in New York. In my first interview, Tm asked to name a few ofmy favorite authors. This is difficult, I say, blushing—Uke naming my favorite book. The editor , a woman in her forties with a bob that comes to two perfect blond points in the hoUows of her cheeks, does not smile. When she started in pubUshing, editorial assistants were essentiaUy secretaries, and she has no sympathy for me, it is obvious. I concentrate, look at the floor and frown gently, trying hard to appear inteUigent and serious. Then I name Austen, Dickens, George EUot and Hardy, in that order. My concentration was Victorian Uterature. I haven't read a book shorter than 400 pages in four years. The editor raises her eyebrows, two perfect arches a shade darker than her hair. I add that I love to read. My father phones to teU me the room is coming along. He's decided to put up molding and replace the windows. He's doing it himself at night, after work. I teU him the interviews are going well; it shouldn't be much longer now before Tm offered a job. He says he'll find Mom. I can hear him walking away from the phone, then the faint chimes of their Uving room clock. When he comes back, he says that Mom is sleeping. She sleeps a lot these days, he says. In the next interview, I try different authors. Woolf, Stegner, Hemingway , Joyce Carol Oates? Steinbeck, Faulkner, DeLUIo, Alice Munro? I consider adding poets. Tm beginning to wonder if getting a job as an editorial assistant is a matter of matching the right list with the right editor, Uke a key to a lock. Tm worried that my lists lack artistic integrity, but I've read and enjoyed at least one book by each of these writers. This is the best I can do. After some ofthe interviews Tm asked to write a reader's report. The manuscript on which Tm reporting has already beenjudged by the editor , which gives the exercise the feel of a test and makes me nervous. Tm running out of time and money. My roommates-to-be are on an extended postgraduation European tour; Tm Uving with an aunt and uncle in New Jersey. Tm supposed to have a job by the time they get The Missouri Review · 53 back. The summer is hot; the city smeUs of urine. To lift my spirits, my aunt and uncle take me out for BrazUian food. I enjoy the fried bananas, but when the waiter appears with a sword piercing twelve roasted chicken Uvers, I lose my appetite completely. Eventually I have an interview in my needing-to-be-dry-cleaned interview suit in which I explain that I read a lot of books by a lot of authors. That, strangely, I don't always know who my favorite ones are at any given time. That, instead (and here my voice catches), I feel compeUed to read anything anyone recommends. In short, Tm a voracious reader rather than a picky one. I smile desperately. The editor asks if I've considered pubUcity. I haven't, but her tone is encouraging, so I smUe again and say I certainly would. She bows her head and scoots back her chair. She walks me down a long hallway. I can hear energetic, happy voices even before we turn the corner into the pubUcity department . The exuberance of the place is overwhekning, so different from the quiet editorial offices I've been visiting. In fact, the place is a carnival compared to those morose libraries. I've just spent four years reading, I think. I should do something different. Then it hits me: this is where I belong! The editor leaves, and I have...