Bon Bons to Yoga Pants

Chapter 27-You're Different

"Do you really want this internship, Lexie?"

My advisor, Miss Bliss, stared at me from over the rim of her horn-rimmed glasses. I hadn't known that people actually wore those kinds of things outside of Hollywood.

"Yes, Miss Bliss."

She shuffled a few papers in front of her, as if she could find the answer to my plea for help inside them somewhere.

"Then you're going to need to beef up your resume."

"I've been taking those free classes online on how to use Microsoft Word and Excel so I can put them on my resume—"

"That may help," she interrupted me with a pompous air. "But you need more. This is an extremely competitive internship. Winning it could guarantee you a slot right into the publishing business. That is what you want, isn't it?"

"Yes, Miss Bliss."

Miss Bliss wore a grayish blonde bouffant I thought I'd once seen Doris Day wear in the old romances that Mom and Kenzie loved. Complete with the jewelry dripping from her neck and the hot pink lipstick stains on her teeth, Miss Bliss lived the definition of eternal spinster.

"I've sent students to this internship before, and have never heard from them again, which is just what we want. It helps them disappear into the publishing industry in New York and pursue their dreams. But first you need to demonstrate that you have an exceptional talent and eye for words yourself."

My forehead ruffled. "How do I do that?"

"By winning a writing competition. Or two. Two would be great. Or one big one."

Writing wasn't new to me; I wanted to be an editor, after all. But writing for other people to read it? That didn't interest me. I wanted to be the person behind the scenes. The one that read the story, made it perfect, and enjoyed the secret feeling of knowing that another person's success had been aided by my expertise.

"I don't write for competitions."

She leveled a narrow eye on me. "Then you don't win competitive internships with publishing companies."

"I want to edit, Miss Bliss. Not write for other people. I'm not good in the spotlight. I don't like attention on me."

"Fine. But you can't be a good editor if you don't know good writing. No publishing company is going to hire an editor that hasn't proven her mettle somehow."

I opened my mouth to counter, but had no way to do so. She was right; proving that I knew the industry would help. Padding my resume with a few competitions, classes, and writing or editing conferences could help. Even get me a ticket out of my town and away from my mom.

"I see what you're saying," I admitted reluctantly. Miss Bliss licked her thumb and pulled a piece of paper from the pile in front of her.

"I took the liberty of printing off a few competitions that I think would be good for you to enter. Winning anything would be nice, but something bigger would be better. Enter as many as you can. We have four months until the application is due. Let's make the best of it."

She smiled with her smeared teeth in a self-congratulatory way, no doubt convinced she was the best advisor on the planet. I had to give her some credit; she was certainly more helpful—if not forceful—than I had expected.

"Thank you, Miss Bliss," I said, folding the paper up without looking at the list. "I'll get to work right away."

___________

A long sigh escaped me later that night. I sat at my desk in my basement lair, the list of writing competitions unfurled in front of me and resting on my keyboard. Most of them were guaranteed to have thousands of entries. A few were local enough to only merit around one hundred. But still . . .