CAREERS: JOB SEARCH

ALL IN

Everyone goes through soul-searching after college graduation. Some get a steady job nearby. Others go to grad school. Some put all their chips on the table and go for the life they’ve always wanted.

By Marissa Stephenson

New York City.

I thought if I could make it here — get an apartment, find a solid job, live a semi-glamorous fast-paced life sprinkled with fascinating “you’ll never believe what happened today” stories — I could make it anywhere.

In spring I graduated from the University of Kansas in Lawrence, Kan. I’d lived within 20 miles of Lawrence my entire life, mostly in Tonganoxie, a town of 3,000 people and two stoplights. After graduating in May, I knew I wanted more than just a change. I wanted packed suitcases and different time zones. I wanted a challenge that meant less security and assurance about the future than I’d ever lived with before. I’d had four successful years of college supported by my friends and family, and I needed to know I could make it alone.

So I cashed in my parking tickets (most of them) and sold my car, furniture and all but two suitcases of clothes. I made lists — lists of what to bring, where to search for jobs, and what do when I first arrived in Queens, one of New York City’s five boroughs. All I knew of Queens before I moved from Kansas was that it was where 50 Cent grew up, it was close to Brooklyn, where Tony Danza was from, and the name sounded tough and scared my mother.

My high-school best friend had a spare room in his Queens three-bedroom railroad apartment, and I was lucky enough to convince him he needed me for the rent. I didn’t fully understand the ambiguous “railroad” description, however, until the night I came in, dragging everything I owned by bus, subway, and finally, taxi cab, from the La Guardia airport. A railroad apartment, for those lucky enough not to live in one, is like a long tunnel. You have to walk through each bedroom to get to the next, and if you opened all the bedroom doors, you could look through and see every room of the apartment. I joined Luke, my best friend, and his roommate Mike in the railroad, and as the newbie, I took over the first bedroom, which meant at least two late-night walk-throughs from my bartender roommates.

During my first week in the city, my foremost thought was “get a job, and get it quick.” I wanted an editorial assistant position with an outdoor or entertainment magazine where I could write, edit and decide the content that would go into each issue. I’d had a summer internship at a Lenexa business magazine and management experience at KU’s newspaper and magazine. I had clips, I had a portfolio, I had a brown Dillards pants-set suit. I was convinced it would be a matter of weeks before I had printed business cards to drop into prize bowls at classy Downtown delicatessens.

The first few days, I sat by the computer and scrolled. I went to headhunting job sites, journalism job message boards, and e-mailed vague contacts of professors and friends. I would call my mother and she’d give me a name from the housekeeper’s step-sister’s neighbor’s boyfriend who works in publishing in New York, and I would then e-mail that person and ask if they’d like to go to lunch or out for coffee.

Most of the magazine positions I found required at least two to three years working at a consumer magazine, so I tried to write snappy, witty cover letters that glossed over my lack of experience and made an asset out of my “fresh perspective” on the industry. Why hire a jaded, over-worked cog with two to three years experience? Why recycle a competitor’s talent? Take me, I’ll do whatever you want. That was my pitch.

I did get interviews. These were usually four-hour processes. First, I dedicated at least an hour to pick the appropriate attire and look presentable. Was this a three-button jacket and skirt interview, or more of a casual sweater meet-and-greet? Should I wear a necklace and bracelet for savvy accessorizing, or would that seem that I’m trying too hard? How would this employer view open-toed heels in October? More time than I care to admit went into the outfit I wore to an interview, and more than likely, the interviewer would only have noticed if I’d just thrown on jeans.

I spent the next hour and half locating the interview site. From my apartment door to Times Square — the middle of Midtown Manhattan — is a 30-minute commute on the subway. Most of my interviews were in or around Midtown, but my not-so-keen sense of direction required me to add at least an hour to the commute, and even then, I’d sometimes call ahead to say I just needed a few more minutes, subways were running late, heavy tourist traffic on the street, fibs, fibs, fibs. But all with good intentions.

Once at the building, the actual interview process lasted approximately half an hour. I walked in, cleared security and had my picture taken for a sticker I’d classily adhere to my left suit lapel. (My picture-sticker was inevitably only half of my face, because I could never locate the camera lens before the security officer said, “Look here! Ah, well, that’s good enough.”) Once I arrived at reception, I’d wait five to 10 minutes for my interviewer to walk out and for me to realize I was either under/overdressed for the interview. We’d walk back to his or her office, and he or she would start to ask me why I came to New York, what I’d done at KU, and what I was doing now. I can’t stress enough how important it is to have ready answers for these bankable questions, but even if you do, it takes about 15 minutes to really hit an articulate communication stride while talking to someone who has the power to make or break your future, at least for me. Unfortunately, by that point, I’d clock only five, maybe 10, minutes of clear, intelligent answers before my interviewer would smile and ask if I could leave my resume and best clips.

I’d spend the final hour in the process treating myself to brunch, lunch or a piece of chocolate cake, as the situation called for it. I was usually so nervous or relieved coming out of the interviews that I would forget to check the café menu outside for price listings, and too embarrassed to leave after I was seated, so I’d mournfully order the $20 pancake stack and charge it to my just-approved credit card.

But I shouldn’t be dramatic. Job-searching, no matter what city you’re in, isn’t all effort-high crescendos ending in expensive plates of high-calorie food. It’s just harder than you expect at first, and always more competitive that you think. When I moved to New York in October, I didn’t think Thanksgiving would come before I was employed. I arrived with a certain expectation — that I’d find a job fast, and that the work would be exactly what I wanted. In the past two months, compromise is the best job lesson New York’s taught me. It’s like a caffeine-lover’s instant coffee. A mug of instant isn’t my ideal coffee choice, but it’ll tide me over until I can find a Starbucks. (Incidentally, if you do have instant coffee filters and your coffeemaker is broken, I’ve found you can heat those in a pot of boiling water and still get decent results.) In the same way, if I can’t get my dream job working for National Geographic Adventure or Entertainment Weekly, I could freelance for smaller local magazines or work as a fact-checker or proofreader until I find more permanent employment.

Since I’ve moved, I’ve talked to a glut of editors, writers and magazine HR personnel, and I’ve made solid connections and contacts. I know there is a job out there for me. Professors, friends, people in the industry will tell you it’s all about who you know. And they’re right. But that doesn’t have to mean snarky, schmoozy networking, or even begging and pleading for a job in your field. It means papering companies and HR departments with your resume. It means letting everyone with an influence or capability to get your hired know who you are and what you can do. It means being willing to receive letters beginning, “We appreciate your interest, but …” and then shrug it off and apply somewhere else. It will take longer than you plan. It might take months longer than you plan. But if you’re certain in the job you want, and willing to work and wait for it, months won’t matter.

And in the meantime, you’ll grow up. You’ll figure out how to do your taxes, or how to find someone who can. You’ll start to think five years down the line, instead of wondering what you’ll be doing next month. You’ll discover a new city, new people, and what it’s like to wake up and know your day isn’t motivated by teachers or classes, just you and what you expect from yourself.

As for me, two months in New York and I have the apartment, an instant-coffee job, and a few “you’ll never believe” stories. I’m willing to wait for the rest.