Way back when, when actually thought I could get a job I applied for, I’d see a posting and think: do I really want to work there? Will I like it? Can I do it?
Before even applying I honestly thought I’d be seriously considered for each and every employment opportunity. And I was as selective and scrutinizing as womanly possible: commute, pay, environment, ethics, education, skills, size, opportunity, benefits, dress, hours.
When I didn’t get called or emailed or texted or facebooked or networked for all those perfect match jobs, I realized perhaps, just maybe, I was living in a dreamworld.
So I applied. I hit submit if there was even a remote possibility I would be considered for a position. I applied for everything. Except egg donor (too old). And nannie. No way.
And the thing is? It worked. Not right away, but the very few interviews and jobs I received were from inquiries such a stretch I was Gumby. A psychiatrist looking for an office assistant: wrote game cards. A country club hiring a photographer: brochure. Retailer hiring sales assistant: post cards. Hair salon seeks assistant: website. No kidding.
May not work for financial analysts or phlebotomists but it worked for this out-of-work freelance writer. I did what I do best: I wrote. More than one emailed back and said “you’re not right for this job, but loved your letter. I may have something else for you down the road.”
And low and behold, they did.