In early December a job opportunity came my way to work on a music technology magazine that I had a mild interest in. There were points against the job: its location, the smallness of the company involved and how to extricate myself from my current situation. But I applied because I’ve been telling myself that I should take more chances and was surprised when I made it to the final four to be interviewed.
However, the interviews weren’t going to be held until late January and I had over a month to stew and think and stew and get worked up about the possibilities and opportunities that might be thrown up by this job if I were lucky enough to land it. The snow delayed the interview by another week and over this period of about five weeks, I’d pretty much convinced myself that I’d got the job without even taking the interview.
I think it was the sheer amount of time between getting the nod and actually attending the interview that sent me a little ga-ga, but for a while I was completely deluded. I was the man for this position. This was the job for me. I actually thought myself into the company. What kind of dumb-fuck was I?
But I kept remembering my experience of recording music using the same technologies that were lauded in this magazine, my electronic talents to fit pickups to guitars and my body of recorded work that I would present to them in a handy little 4-CD sampler (with USB data stick containing PDFs of my written work, videos and more music). I was bugnuts, completely loopy-loo-la-la. I was going to get this job. This job was mine. The years of writing experience I’d amassed in my fifteen years working in the media would hold me in good stead. I was going to nail it.
The Missus offered to drive me the 200 miles to the interview and we stayed overnight at a local hotel. It was a nice opportunity for us to get a way from the kids for a nght, I guess, but I was dogged by a stinking cold and did my best to hold it all in.
I felt confident. There were no pre-interview nerves. The Missus was amazed by my confidence – she’d never seen me like this before. So I went into the meeting, did my little performance and left. I thought I did a great job. To me I nailed it. Everything I said, I wanted to say. I was my usual frank, honest self. Not too frank. I don’t think I said anything to blow it. The interview lasted an hour and I was very pleased.
Had I got the job? With that kind of performance, I thought I’d make it to the second interview that they mentioned during the meeting. However, the following day I received email confirmation that I had failed. There was to be no second interview (obviously I was that crap) and the person they offered the job to had accepted.
This was the brush off:
“Believe me, getting through to interview stage was a feat unto itself. I don’t doubt that you could turn in excellent copy, but the candidate we decided on had a broader range of experience with the music creation side of things and a background that combined journalistic and educationalist experience.”
I wasn’t upset that I didn’t get the job. It was probably unfair of me to drag the family 200 miles across the country if I had to relocate and to be honest, I didn’t want to live in that area anyway. Visiting the place was sobering and didn’t feel a good fit for me. Or maybe I am just kidding myself? I don’t know what to believe anymore.
But what I did feel was complete embarrassment that I’d managed to lie to myself and convince myself that I was good enough to get the job. I must remember my place. I am the also-ran, and there’s always going to be the better man out there, the one with more experience, more to offer than me.
I do try, I really do, but sometimes I think I’ve wasted my life on the media. Without feeling too maudling for myself, I always feel I never get the breaks. Just one break every so often would be nice. Please.
I can’t even bear to look at my music gear at the moment. I feel dirty…

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