I wore earrings for the first time in months. I put on my Shakespeare pin, in case I needed to prove my dedication to writing. I scheduled therapy directly before. I edited my resume into a farrago of unpleasant coffee jobs and small debating awards, determined to use passion and youth to my advantage. I parked in a side street, lest I steal a more deserving car’s space.
A tempest of nerves rattled my skull. I always trembled, at least a little. In orchestra we called it ‘shaky bow’: the moment your thumb slipped, your lip quivered, and the conductor’s reprimanding eye found yours.
I’d sold my violin years ago, but the day I walked into Busybird I had the worst shaky bow of my life. I marched into the office on semi-steady feet, overstimulated, ready to face the worst.
I was immediately attacked by a golden labrador.
Oscar’s willingness to give love to a stranger threw me. The vibrant orange and pale blue, the faded prayer flags and unmistakable whiff of coffee, it all set me at ease. I’d forgotten, somehow, that writers understood anxiety more than anyone else. As Oscar nuzzled my hand, I realised this was not a test. It was ‘hello’.
I used what little knowledge I had, admitted when I was lost (what the hell was Ingramspark?), and left the same way I came. I’m still haunted by the typo I missed in the copyediting exercise, but I was never berated for the misstep. I saw, for the first time, a life in publishing which was not predicated on torturous exertion.
When my mum asked me how ‘Busybee’ went, I grinned with all my teeth and told her it was fine.
I am grateful for open mic nights, opportunities to typeset, know-how which would’ve otherwise eluded me. Les remains appalled at my incomplete knowledge of music history, Kev continues to teach me the value of design, and the other interns have made me feel less alone in the industry.
At her Melbourne signing for Yellowface, Rebecca Kuang said, ‘We all have to link elbows and make room for each other.’ The publishing industry specifically pushes us to compete, none of us are immune to ambition, but the idealist in me has convinced the cynic we can make space for revelry in writing.
Of course, I still get shaky bow. It means I care deeply about my craft.
It is not a weakness to pat the fiendish dog.
Scout Manuel
Wednesday Intern