Better Late Than Never

Ok, a brief disclaimer: This was written exactly two months ago, when I was still fresh and new at the AP (you know, the time before you feel like you're allowed to check your personal e-mail?) Anyway, I felt the need to share. Enjoy.

April 27, 2007
I went to a going away party for one of the business editors tonight. A going away party for a person I hadn't talked to, except for when we were introduced.

"This is Samantha, she comes to us from a fashion publication," my trainer said to him on my first day at the AP, with the inflection of a gate monitor at the Magic Kingdom.

His eyes rolled off to the side with what I thought was judgment.

Fashion. Why did she have to tell people? Of anything, anywhere, is there anything that could make these people take me less seriously than that?

Of course, after she said it to every one of those 40 people in my division, I wanted to crawl in a cave and die, or at least wave a white flag. I can't handle this. It's too much, too big, too intense. The confidence I had was gone now, hidden behind a nervous smile as I asked:

"I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

But the days have gone by, and through every 8 hours more questions arise, and more instructions roll through my head about how I am supposed to act. I am laughing more though. And smiling more. Feeling like myself again.

These people, my co-workers, are ridiculously nice. Coming over to my desk, one hand gently on my back, the other guiding the mouse where it is supposed to go. Instant messages blink on my computer screen from editors "just making sure I'm ok."

"Just a note to say you are doing great. It will get better and easier eventually, I promise. Take a deep breath. Hope you are having a good day."

"Samantha, how are you? I want to assign you this mover (a story about a significant stock move) -- have you done this before? Wanna take a crack at it?"

The most dramatic time in my short lived career at the AP happened when the editor I was assigned to called me over for some personal instruction. That day had been a tough one - I was on my own for the first time, with computer programs I barely knew and numbers of which I did not know the relevance.
He called me over like you would call a dog to jump in the car to go to the vet. His body stiff, I knew I was in for something. And whatever it was, it didn't seem good. Not good at all.

I lined up behind him like a child waiting to be punished. He put his fingertips together and then lifted his hands to his face. Deep breaths in and out; I watched as he contemplated his next move. I let my own eyes close gently as I let the breath out of my lungs; the calm before the inevitable storm.

His silence made me even more afraid of what he would think of this first big centerpiece story. But as I was leaning in to hear if he had any edits for me, he threw his head back and slammed his hands on the desk.
"That's what I'm talking about!" he shouts. Uh-oh. What did I do?
He says is again. I am terrified. Not only am I going to get yelled at but it's going to be loud.

"Samantha, this is great. Really great. Jesus, when you write your first book, can I have a free copy?"

Note to self: Confidence helps ease the fears of being killed by my boss.