The Interview

I'm sitting at my old desk in my old bedroom at my parents' house. It's a school day, so I won't be disturbed here. The same cannot be said for my apartment, which is why I'm not doing the interview there. I've got my laptop all set up, the documents they sent me open in Word so I can review them during the interview if I need to. I've got a glass of water and my iPhone microphone-headphones. The notes I've made myself say things like, "Don't giggle," "Don't interrupt," and "Enunciate." I've turned off call waiting so I won't be interrupted. I've made every preparation I can think of. I'm even wearing shoes.

And now I wait.

At 9:05, my phone rings. It says, "UNKNOWN." With my heart in my throat, I put the headphones in my ears and answer the call.

His name is David Hanson, and he's on speaker phone because someone named Phil is joining the interview. I'm not sure who Phil is, he's sitting too far away from the phone and it's hard to hear him so he doesn't say much.  I take a minute to have a silent flail about the fact that I'm talking on the phone right now to someone in England, and then I'm calm again. Weirdly calm. I know that's not me, it's the blessing made manifest.

Hanson asks me about the degree I have from SUU. I tell him, being sure to talk up my film and playwriting classes. This is, after all, a Master's in Writing for Screen and Stage. He asks about my job, and seems genuinely fascinated by what I do. We talk about that for a minute, then he and Phil take me through the general workings of the degree. I already know everything they're telling me, it was all in the documents they sent over, but I listen attentively and take notes anyway.

16 June 2014. That'll be the day.

The more I hear about the degree, the more I want to do it. I tell Hanson this. I need to convey to them just how much I want it. He asks if I someday want to settle in London, and if I've ever been there before. I tell them the story of my first few days in London, how different I felt from the rest of my classmates because I already knew London was my home.

They tell me I sound like a good candidate. A good candidate! That's better than I'd hoped for. We say our goodbyes and end the call. I flail some more.

I feel different, yet familiar. It's different because it doesn't belong here, in this place. It's familiar because it feels like home. Emma notices. I'm not sure what to do with it.

And now I wait some more.

By The Power...

I passed by a white stretch limo on my way home just now. I think it's a good omen.

I've never cried like that before... I'm not sure how I know, but it was somehow different. Fat tears rolling down my face, the kind of crying I've only ever seen in cartoons - Simba comes to mind, just after his father's death. Fat tears like those ones. But happier.

The blessing said that I should be happy and understanding, no matter the outcome of the interview. That scared me. It's not the first time I've heard wording like that, "What's supposed to happen will happen." I don't want what's supposed to happen, I want what I want to happen.

But then he said that if I prayed specifically for the outcome I want, I'll get it. He actually said that. So that's what I've been doing, in my mind and out loud.

He said Grandma Mollie was on my side. She would be, wouldn't she? She was a writer too. I always forget because I was only nine when she died. But I do have one specific memory of her sitting in a folding chair by the trampoline, yellow legal pad on her lap.

I'm not afraid anymore. I feel almost weirdly calm, actually. But I still think I'll fall asleep upside-down on my bed so I can watch TV until I fall asleep. It keeps me from thinking too much, makes it a lot easier to fall asleep.

The Time Is Upon Us

My interview with Regent’s College London is tomorrow morning.

I’m supposed to be folding my laundry but it’s all I can think about. And my body is doing that stupid thing where my digestive system doesn’t actually shut down in a fight or flight situation. It goes into hyperdrive instead. It wants everything inside it to be out, one way or another.

I’m supposed to be folding my laundry but it’s all I can think about. I wish I knew what to do to prepare... I can look over the documents they sent me. (again.) That will be good. I guess I can write down any questions I have, interviewers generally ask if I have any, and I can never think of any on the spot.

I’m so nervous. I’m freezing and my stomach hurts and everything on my insides wants to be on my outsides.

I need to remember not to giggle. Or fidget. Or talk too much. I always talk too much. I always try to answer the question before they’ve asked it. Maybe that’s my problem, why I can never find a job. I need to be more professional.

I wish I was doing the interview in person. The fact that it’s via telephone is nerve-wracking. I want to see who I’m talking to. I want to know who they are, what they look like.

Oh my stomach hurts. I don’t want to be sick, it’s such a waste of time and energy. No wonder I was so thin last winter.

I’m not sure why I’m writing this. Maybe so if I actually do get in, I’ll have something to talk about, something to blog about, a reason to be inspired.

I need to find another job. I’ve been looking. I would love to work in the mall, or someplace where I can do something, unlike what I do now. Too much sitting around.

I haven’t told very many people about my application. I’ve told even less about the actual interview. I’m so afraid I’ll jinx it somehow. I’m afraid I’ll let them down. If I tell everyone and then I don’t get in, it’s just that many more people I have to tell, “I didn’t make it.” I don’t want to have to tell them that.

I’ve been meaning to write a poem. Something about stars. I don’t know what I would write about though.

Why is it so cold in my room? Well, at least it’s not snowing yet.

I feel like everything I’ve ever wanted is riding on this interview tomorrow. I want nothing, nothing more than to move to London, to have a reason to. And I’m terrified about what will happen to me if I don’t. What will become of me if I don’t make it? I wish I could talk myself out of putting my every last hope on this.

I’ll do some yoga tonight, and tomorrow morning I’ll have dad give me a blessing. And I’ll pray. And I’ll read through the documents, get as much information as I can. That’s what I can do.