The Interview


I’ve always been terrible at job interviews. I go in, shift around in my seat, try to figure out what to do with my hands while I stumble and stammer over my lack of qualifications. Usually, at some point the interviewers frown at my resume, probably judging my use of green crayon. They exchange a quick glance, check the time, then sit back. 

Well, we’ve got some time to kill until the next one...

So this week I had a different kind of interview. PBS was coming to my house to talk books. Now, if there is one thing I feel comfortable discussing, it’s 1980’s NFL football writing.

I did some pacing, then paced some more. Just as my wife kicked me out of the house the host arrived. We hiked down to a nice outdoor spot my son and I had spruced up for the event. My wife even made me haul mums and a pumpkin down for staging.


Yeah, I got this. My son, wise beyond his seven years, gave me a pep talk, until I told him I would just try and be myself. He said he didn’t think that was a good idea.  

Okay then. 

We got mike’d up and from there, I honestly don’t know what I was saying. I mean, it wasn’t bad—I don’t think. But prepping for this thing I had all these witty anecdotes and one liners that were lost just as soon as the camera stared me down.

It’s not even that I’m all that shy. It’s more like, really, who am I? Am I  the goof who horses around with my son. The bumbling husband? The well-to-do writer guy I pretend to play in real life? Why would anyone care what I have to say?

Well, in the end, I guess I’m all of those things. I’m a guy who pounded away on a keyboard every single day for five or six years (and still do) until I managed to get the words and sentences to play nice and convey the emotions I felt while writing them.  

And now, I suppose it's time to talk about that. 

I hope I did okay. I think so. I’ll let you know when it airs. But for now?

Back to writing.


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