Selling myself is the most painful thing that I can possibly do, but I sell myself the only way I know how––which, despite the economy, is not on a street corner, you perverted assholes. It’s through writing fantastic paragraphs, with intricate sentences and very particular words. But it’s about me, the most horrible topic there is to write about in a formal fashion. If I could write a cover letter like a blog, things might be different. Or I’d still be unemployed. Who knows?
Physically, it’s worse than getting beaten with a sock full of oranges. Psychologically, it’s worse than The Boyfriend™ telling me, “The homeless girl begging at the freeway off ramp today was totally hot––I’d do her.” My guts twist and churn and I want to cry as I figure out ways to jam “detail oriented” and “team player” into sentences that somehow describe me. I cull the job description for verbs and adjectives that I can build upon and conjoin with specific and interesting things to say about myself. All this in, like, five sentences. It’s like brain surgery, except they’ll never pay me or respect me as much.
But it’s done. I’m proud of the vile piece of marketing that I’ve produced yet have no faith in. If it was about anything else, I wouldn’t cringe.
I ask The Boyfriend™, “Will you look at my cover letter for type-os?”
“Of course,” he answers, because he’s so amazingly wonderful.
Thirty seconds later: “Wow.”
You know that $10K my mom spent on braces for me? It’s worth it, because I’m beaming. My cheeks are positively aching from the smile. I’m a pro at cover letters. Warner Bros. will hire me for sure. The Boyfriend™ sees what a brilliant writer I am, thinks I’m so talented to be able to evoke meaning through subtle yet complex nuances, even in tedious cover letters. At this moment, if I had a cage full of delicate, cooing doves, I would release them into the world to share their beauty and my joy with all of humanity––not to mention some deeply brilliant and abstract comparison to Bladerunner is forming in the recesses of my mind.
“Please tell me you didn’t send this.”
Rot in hell, you treasonous son of a bitch. If I had those doves, I’d release them and let my dog Annie chase them around The Boyfriend’s™ condo while they shit all over his couch.
“No…I didn’t…”
“Good. Give me a sec. I need rewrite time.”
Re…write…? Rewrite my words? I type 110 words a minute, yet with this paragraph of pain I pecked each letter of each word out over the course of three agonizing hours. Every vowel was another knot forming in my shoulder. There were too many consonants that I almost became bulimic, wanting to throw up after each one appeared on the screen.
“You’re applying for a job, not a Ph.D.”
I pouted. My writing got into a Ph.D. program.
“Let alone an entry level job.”
Oh God, I am so not entry level. Anyone that’s spent two years bottle feeding 18-year-olds the tools to communicate effectively on paper can’t possibly be entry level. More importantly, this was an entry-level job that I was applying for? Did all entry-level jobs sound this good because, frankly, it came off as pretty posh. But did they mask indentured servitude as posh these days? It’s been so long since I’ve had a real job, in the real world. Now I wondered if I was shooting too low, if I’d end up trying to pay off student loans on a salary comparable to my master’s degree funding. And shouldn’t a master’s count for something? But these are all matters I’d like to discuss in detail in a blog about deconstructing the state of education in this country; or even write a critical analysis on it, possibly drawing on Richard Dreyfuss’ brilliant insights.
“Why is the word “choreography” in here? When were you a dance instructor?”
“THAT IS A GOOD WORD.”
“No, it’s not.”
“And “innate”? What the hell does that mean?”
“Don’t you dare take that out. It’s a fantastic word.”
“If I have to look it up, then the idiot reading your resume isn’t going to understand what you’re saying.”
Wait, you mean the rest of the world doesn’t use “choreography” as an alternate and more colorful word variation on “coordination” and “orchestrating”? And “innate” isn’t part of the common vernacular? I use “innate” every day.
“Well, at least let me take “innate” out. But just know that 90% of the people who read it are going to think you’re a dance instructor.”
Oh. No. Realization dawns.
No wonder I was still unemployed. I’d been sending out slightly altered versions of this cover letter for weeks. I sounded like an academic snob. Who wants to work with someone like that? No one outside the Academy––oh shit, look at that. Who in the real world knows what the fuck the “Academy” is? Exactly just how pretentious have I been sounding? Apparently, I have been sending out cover letters where I present a theory of how to integrate my analytical abilities within a creative environment through a poststructuralist framework, particularly in parallel to Deleuzean metaphysics.
I have serious problems. I need to get off this theory train and into the real, functioning world. I need to stop debating form in my cover letters like I’m having a debate with T.S. Eliot. The Waste Land, motherfucker? Let me tell you something about a wasteland: it’s about to be my life if I don’t normal the fuck out.
Well, there’s one way to fix this, and that is by deconstructing this cover letter in an appropriate fashion:
To whom it may concern:Wait. Is “emulate” too academic?
I am applying for the position of Creative Administrator for the Creative Affairs Department at Warner Bros. Animation, Inc., as listed on the Times-Warner website on April 29, 2009. My résumé has been uploaded to the Times-Warner employment site for your consideration.
I am both creative and organized, making me an ideal candidate for this job opening. These aspects, when combined with my innate choreographic abilities, form someone who is very capable of navigating the production, the coordination and the assembly of artwork. I am also a dedicated Brazilian waxer, and I put out on the third date.
I look forward to meeting with you to discuss the future possibilities of this position, and even positions that emulate scenes from the film “Secretary”.
Sincerely,
Christie L. Cleveland
