Tag Archives: writer

Hey Bill, are you reading this?

Man, sometimes I feel like I’m never going to get a job at Grantland. Like, I’ll keep writing you these open letters every week, but that’s as far as my one-sided relationship with you is going to go. But I don’t know what else to do. Maybe a year or so ago, I wrote a real letter to you, to Grantland. I went to the web site and went to the “Contact Us” page and there was an email address to the editors. And I don’t remember what I wrote exactly, but it was all professional, like, “Dear editors: This is a very serious inquiry seriously inquiring about writing for Grantland,” blah blah blah.

And look, I know that you probably get way too much email to respond to, I get it. So I’m not mad or anything, it’s not like I take it as a personal snub. But it’s incredibly frustrating, to want something so bad, to want to be a professional writer, just throwing yourself out there on the Internet, over and over again, never getting any sort of response.

It’s like, even these letters, this whatever it is that I’m doing on my blog every week. Dear Bill Simmons: please give me a job. And then I go onto Twitter and tweet you a copy of the link, knowing that you get tons of tweets, that there’s no way you’re able to even view every tweet you receive, let alone consider a response.

But I don’t know what else to do. And it’s you, it’s Gawker, it’s all of these other professional high-trafficked web sites that publish all sorts of cool stories written by authors who, when I click on their profiles, they all look like they’re my age, like it shouldn’t be totally inconceivable that I could be doing what they’re doing.

It’s a tough job, getting a cool job, a job where you get to make stuff and write stuff and somehow earn money from it, enough money that you could theoretically support yourself. So far I think I’ve made about seventeen dollars from my writing. I don’t know how you do it, Bill, how you’ve built this media empire all based on your words, writing about sports, about pop culture, about stuff that you love.

Man, this is a pretty boring letter so far, I’m aware of that. I don’t know what it is, but I can’t think of anything to say right now. Last week I wrote about how I’d start from the bottom and work my way up. That was pretty cool, at least, it was cool in the way that I didn’t really have to think about it as I wrote it. The words just kind of flowed through me from somewhere else.

But right now, man, it’s really a struggle to get these sentences into paragraphs. You must be able to relate, right? I mean, you’ve done it, you’ve made it as a writer. What do you do when you can’t think of anything to write about? I’ve read all sorts of stuff on the topic, and most advice from professional writers always boils down to the inspiration/perspiration argument, that talent is cheap but work is hard.

And yeah, it’s hard to get this letter out there, I don’t know what to say, I’m feeling each week like I’m making a fool out of myself, desperately invoking your name on the Internet, like you’re magically going to swoop down from cyberspace and elevate my status from professional waiter to professional writer.

But isn’t that the kind of guy you want working for you at Grantland? Just think, I’m not afraid of my own self-imposed Internet writing deadlines. I need to write a letter to you every week. Why? I don’t know. I just made up a deadline and ran with it. Can you imagine what I’d do for you? For Grantland? Give me a deadline, and I’ll stick to it. I’ll get something out. I’ll perspire all over the place.

I guess that’s all I’ve got. Not very entertaining, I know, but sometimes you’ve just got to be willing to write something bad in hopes of eventually being able to maybe write something good. In the meantime, please read this letter from last week, the one I was telling you about just before. Also this letter, about a dream I had where you and I both went to space. That was a pretty cool one.

-Rob G.

Bill, I think I was coming off as a little too strong

Dear Bill Simmons:

I’ve been going about this the wrong way, I realize that now. And I’m sorry, for harassing you like this, constantly with the begging, “Please give me a writing job.” That was really annoying of me. At the time I thought it was gutsy. But now I’m starting to see that it was too much. You can’t just go around asking to write for Grantland. There aren’t any shortcuts to all of the sudden having your work pop up online. You’ve got to start from the bottom and work your way up. Right Bill?

Which is why, Bill, please, give me a job at Grantland, but at the bottom. I want whatever is the worst job available. Actually, no, I want you to consider the worst job at Grantland, and then I want you to make a position even lower, and I’ll work my ass off, OK, I’ll work so hard that I’ll earn that promotion to former worst job at Grantland.

And then I’ll keep climbing, turning heads as I ascend that ladder, one rung at a time. I’ll network and stuff. That’s a thing you’ve got to do, right? You’ve got to network. I’ve got to get in there from the bottom and I’ve got to approach men and women above me and say stuff like, “Hey, I really admire your work. Is there any chance you’d be willing to let me buy you a cup of coffee while I pick your brain about careers and opportunities?”

Actually, even that sounds like I’m coming on a little too strong. I should have just kept it to coffee, none of that opportunity talk. That reeks of networking. You’re supposed to network, I get that, but I also get that you’re never supposed to talk about networking or make it seem like you’re networking. Because otherwise you look like you’re too hungry. I’m hungry, but I want to come across as totally full. But secretly ravenous.

You have a pretty decent janitorial staff at Grantland? Make me the janitor’s assistant. Or even better, make me the janitor’s intern. I’ll do it for free. After we finish mopping the bathroom floors and changing out all of the hand soap in the hand soap dispensers, I’ll be like, “Hey man,” to the janitor, I’ll say, “I’m really learning a lot here. Would you mind if I took you out for a cup of coffee after work?”

And I’ll do the whole networking process from the ground up, it’ll be subtle, I won’t say anything about my aspirations as a full-time member of the writing staff. Do you know if the bathrooms at Grantland use liquid soap? Or is it that foam stuff? I only ask because the foam saves so much more space, like there’s a lot less waste. You know what? Forget I asked. I’ll save it for day one.

While I have late night access to the building, buffing floors, emptying out wastebaskets, I’ll start pitching in around the office, fixing the printer jams, straightening out the bulletin boards on the walls, stuff like that. I figure it won’t be long until the higher-ups get wind of my go-getter attitude. We’ll be riding up on an elevator, all of you professionals in your suits and me in my janitor’s outfit, maybe I’ll have like a bucket and mop.

One of you guys might say, “Hey, aren’t you the janitor that occasionally answers line three if the secretary is overwhelmed? The one that takes really detailed notes and passes them on to exactly where they’ve got to go? Do you have any interest in trying out the administrative side of this business?”

And while, no, I really don’t want to be involved in administration, I want to be a writer, I’ll still take the offer. Because up is up, right? The closer I get to you Bill, the more chances there are of you happening to come upon me right as I’m juggling like eight administrative tasks in a row. You’ll raise your left eyebrow as you marvel at my professional office skills, and then the right eyebrow will lift accordingly as you realize that not only am I handling desk work like a pro, but I’m simultaneously changing light bulbs and separating recyclables that have accidentally been tossed in the trashcan.

“Oh it’s nothing,” I’ll try to act casually as you congratulate my willingness to tackle any problem, “I used to be a part of the custodial team, so I like to help out wherever possible.”

Naturally that’ll appeal to you, as a boss, you’ll see some of you in me, maybe you’ll be the one asking me out for a cup of coffee. And that’s when I’ll make my move, I’ll slip in how I’m an aspiring writer, how it’s always been a dream of mine to write for Grantland. You’ll have to give me a chance. I’ll have already proved to you through my other duties and responsibilities that I’m up for the job.

So yeah, sorry for coming off as too strong. I just want it so bad, to write for Grantland. I’ll do anything. I’ll start from even lower if you want. You could have me standing outside getting coffee and running errands for those guys who hold up signs on the streets advertising discount-parking rates at nearby garages. Come on Bill, I’m super serious. Give me a call.

Venti with milk and five sugars,

Rob G.

Billy, sweet Billy boy

Dear Bill Simmons:

Bill, what’s up man? Am I getting through to you? Do I have a job at Grantland yet? Maybe this is all part of the process, like, week one, you saw my first letter, you were like, big deal, I get crazy letters from people all the time. And then week two, you saw that second letter and the beginnings of a smile started to form at the corners of your mouth, you thought, OK, maybe this guy’s serious. Probably not, but maybe. And here we are, week three, I’m imagining you reading this paragraph, this very sentence, and maybe you’re not directly thinking about personally giving me a call to say, “Welcome aboard, kid,” but there’s a part of your brain that can’t help but think about that spot over in the corner, you’re saying to yourself, “Well, maybe I could fit an extra desk there. And yeah, I guess we might be able to scrounge up the money to pay another full-time writer.”

I get it Bill, I know that this is a process. We’re still getting to know one another. Well, that’s not true exactly, because I’ve been reading your stuff online for a while now, I’m sure I know you about as well as you want all of your readers to know you. But you’re just getting to know me, through these letters. Assuming you are reading these. And yeah, I’m not blind to the fact that you might not be seeing them in real time. It’s hard to attract the attention of famous people on the Internet. It’s even harder when the sole purpose of attracting that attention is purely trying to get something out of that famous person.

Am I making that clear enough Bill? I just want you to give me a job. I don’t want to go through the whole traditional trying-to-break-into-the-industry route. I just want it to happen. I just want to magically say the name Bill Simmons three times in a row, and then you’ll appear in my inbox. It’ll be a letter that says something like:

“Hey Rob! I just came across all of your open letters to me on your blog. I’ve got to say, I’m really impressed with your style. Although it doesn’t take a lot of guts to just put stuff online, I’m more interested in the fact that you just kept writing to me, every week, posting links to your blog posts on Twitter, linking them to my Twitter, hoping that eventually I’d see something and offer you a job. Well, here it is Rob, the offer you’ve been waiting for. When can you start?”

You can use that letter if you want, I know you’re super busy, writing your own stuff. You probably don’t have a ton of time to respond individually to every aspiring writer seeking employment through your web site. I can start on Monday by the way. Any Monday. You call me or email me on any day of the week, and I’ll be there that Monday. Unless you get in contact with me on a Monday, in which case I’ll be there the following Monday. You understand, right? Same-day notice is a little tough.

But yeah, I do understand, there’s a lot of noise out there, everybody wants a cool writing job, it’s statistically improbable that I’m going to get your attention just by writing these letters. It’s tough out there, getting a job that doesn’t involve waiting tables. And writing? Forget about it. If I had any success nailing a writing gig, well, I wouldn’t be begging you from the Internet for a long-shot chance at a job.

Most of the stuff I send out gets no reply, which is almost worse than a flat-out rejection, because even if I did get rejected, at least I’d know that my stuff was getting through. With the no response, I can’t even imagine that my email or my resume is ever opened in the first place.

Except for this one time, I applied for an editorial position on some video game and comic book web site. I really wanted it, so badly, so I had an Edible Arrangement sent their office with a note that said, “Please, please, please, please, please hire me.”

And yeah, they called me in for an interview. It was crazy. Seriously, I started worrying that it was actually crazy, that I had put myself out there in a way that was abnormal. I pictured these people reading my note and thinking, did this guy actually send us a bouquet of fruit? I guess we should have him in here, just because, you know, he sent us the fruit.

I didn’t get the job, not even a callback. The whole interview was so awkward. When I got face-to-face with the editor in charge of hiring, I totally froze. I was sweating through my button-down. My answers didn’t make any sense, and I forgot to bring up the Edible Arrangement entirely. I mean, he didn’t bring it up, and I didn’t bring it up, and the next thing I knew, I was outside on the corner, little speckles of foam accumulating at the corners of my lips because I was so nervous and my mouth got really dry. And even though for a second I felt like I’d cracked some sort of code, like a “how-to-get-a-guaranteed-interview” life hack, man, those Edible Arrangements aren’t cheap. If only I had a ton of money, I could send you an Edible Arrangement. You and everyone else I’d like to work for.

Hey Bill, can I borrow fifty bucks? What do you like better, pineapples or strawberries? Can I please have a job?

Love,

Rob G.

Are you there Bill Simmons? It’s me, Rob

Dear Bill Simmons:

I haven’t heard back from you yet. You know, about that whole me-asking-you-for-a-job-at-Grantland thing. From last week. That’s cool, you probably haven’t seen it yet, you know, even though I sent you a link on Twitter. You probably don’t even check your own Twitter account. There have got to be so many random Internet people tweeting stuff to you all the time, statistically speaking, it’s unlikely that my tweet ever even showed up on your feed.

Although, I do wonder, about famous people, especially those active on the Internet. How could you not go through all of those comments? I’ll write something on this blog, and it’s all I can do to not sit here clicking refresh, over and over again, hoping that the “zero comments” button will change to “one comment,” and that it won’t be something from Eastern Europe, “I am thanking so much for to your kind and thoughtful opinion on this matter. Let me know if you’d be liking to buy several Gucci handbags at …”

If it were me, and I had all of these people sending me comments and questions, I wouldn’t be able to look away. I wouldn’t get any writing done. Maybe that’s why you’re a famous writer and I’m not. Maybe. Or maybe you have seen my pleas, my begging for some sort of a full-time writing gig at Grantland. Maybe you get tons of similar requests. How do you know I’m serious? Well, I am serious. Look, this is my second open letter to you. Maybe you still won’t think I really have what it takes to churn out long pieces on a regular basis. But you will, sooner or later, you’ve got to cave. Either that or you’ll block my tweets.

Hey Bill, I was talking with one of my coworkers, and I don’t even know how this came up really, but this guy mentioned how he really loves reading Phil Simmons on the Internet. I think it was something like a question, “Hey Rob, do you ever read Phil Simmons, you know, the Sports Guy?”

And of course I knew what he was getting at, he’d obviously mistakenly called you Phil instead of Bill. I don’t really know you, personally, so I can’t comment on how that would make you feel. But I have to imagine that it’s not the first time that somebody’s called you by the wrong name. Every once in a while someone will call me Bob or something like that and, yeah, even though Bob and Rob are technically derivatives of the same name, the error is all but identical. I’m not going to lie, it bothers me a little bit.

And so even though I don’t like engaging in random arguments with acquaintances at work, especially people that are just trying to shoot the shit with me, have a little friendly banter to pass the time, I thought about you, you’re a public figure now, maybe it’s one thing for a pre-famous Bill Simmons to let the occasional Phil-calling slide, but now? After all you’ve done to get your name out there, on the Internet, on TV?

No, Bill, you deserve better than that. You deserve respect. I respect you Bill. I put this guy in his place, immediately. I didn’t try to ease it into the conversation, like subtly trying to put “Bill” at the forefront of most of my sentences. I didn’t want to leave anything to confusion, OK, I didn’t want it to be like maybe he’d be thinking, man, why does Rob keep calling Phil Simmons Bill?

“Listen,” I told him, “It’s not Phil Simmons, it’s Bill Simmons.” And this guy paused, only for like half a second, obviously your first name wasn’t going to be the central subject of whatever it was he was trying to tell me, so he tried to continue, “Oh, OK, whatever. But anyway, I was reading this …”

And I stopped him again. I said, “No, it’s not OK, it’s not just whatever, this is Bill Simmons, OK, this isn’t just some guy or one of your friends that you’re telling me a story about, OK? If you want to talk to me about the Sports Guy, I mean, if you want to talk to anybody about the Sports Guy, just get his name right, at the very least, have some respect, his name is Bill.”

Then I walked away. Because seriously, fuck that guy, right? Phil Simmons, please. This is just a taste of what I can bring to the table as a full-time writer for Grantland. Not only would I be able to offer top-notch writing, but I could be like an enforcer, making sure that when people talk about the web site, when they talk about you, they’re doing it right. They’re not calling you Phil. Or Will. Or … I’m trying to think of other one-syllable names that rhyme with Bill, and I guess that’s it, Phil and Will. Or Jill, but that’s a girl’s name, and if anybody ever called you Jill, I’d go berserk.

Please hire me,

Love,

Rob G.

Dear Bill Simmons:

You guys ever read Grantland? I read it all the time. It’s great, a professional web site dedicated to long form essays about sports and pop culture. The sports stuff is perfect for a guy like me. I like sports, and I want to be up-to-date about what’s going on in the sports world, but I don’t always have the attention span necessary to watch full games or follow complete seasons. And for whatever reason, ESPN doesn’t do the trick, I can’t seem to latch on to Sports Center or any of those other sports/news programs.

Grantland covers what’s going on in sports while at the same time peppering its front page with headlines about blockbuster movies or professional wrestling. It’s enough to keep me engaged while simultaneously providing me with enough knowledge of pro sports to prevent me from sounding like an idiot the next time I try to chime in on a sports related conversation at work.

But the more I grow attached to Grantland, the more painful it becomes to read. All I see is this awesome web site where likeminded writers contribute with long blocks of text about all of the stuff that I’m interested in. Instead of walking away from a Grantland session feeling satisfied with having consumed something entertaining, I’m left with this empty yearning, an almost indefinable envy.

Like, why can’t I be a part of Grantland? Hey, Bill Simmons, are you reading this? Of course you’re not reading this. I’m writing this whiney complaint on my personal web site, hoping that if I sprinkle enough searchable keywords, (Grantland, Bill Simmons, Grantland, Grantland, Grantland,) the wondrous properties of the Internet might somehow make this blog post pop out from obscurity, to magically appear in front of the eyes of someone with some power, someone in charge of hiring writers to write for Grantland.

Because it kills me to read Grantland, to have that feeling like, I could do that. I could write really, really, really long essays about my favorite TV shows, or what I like about comic books. I do it every day, right here on this blog.

But professional writer, how do you get to be a pro writer? Everything I’ve read online, advice from writers who’ve succeeded in making a career out of their words, it’s always along the lines of, “Write every day. Keep writing. Eventually something is going to happen.” And I don’t know, I don’t want to be too negative, I know that I can’t just expect my wildest dreams to come true because I want them really badly, but it hasn’t happened yet.

I’ll read Grantland, I’ll browse Gawker, I’ll watch a funny episode of The Colbert Report, and every time I find myself really immersed in an interesting point, or losing myself to one of those laughs where the muscles on the sides of my jaw begin to fail, my joy eventually turns to jealousy, without fail. Why can’t I be doing this for a living? Why do I have to be a spectator to this constant parade of cool stuff bombarding my senses at all times?

I’ve written cold-call letters to all of these outlets before, really long, well-written pieces to various editors of magazines and TV shows, all of them asking the same thing. Please, let me do what I’m doing right here, for you, for money, for a living. I’ve tried making these inquiries serious, or changing the tone to something more absurd. I’ve reached for clever, I’ve resorted to begging. And every single time, it’s the same exact reply: nothing.

Actually, not exactly nothing. One time when I was right out of college, I painted this giant oil painting of Stephen Colbert. I had it shipped to his studio with a note begging for a job in the graphics department, and a few short months later, I spotted my painting hanging on some wall in what had to have been a screen shot from a behind-the-scenes clip.

Whatever, I’m at a loss of what to do next. And yeah, it’s all pretty demoralizing, just wanting something so badly but never receiving any reply at all. Maybe I have to be even more persistent. Maybe I have to keep writing over-the-top letters, but on a more regular basis. That’s where you come in, Bill. No, I don’t blame you at all for not answering the personal request for employment from some guy on the Internet. You’re a famous television personality. If your mailbag is the tip of the iceberg that I’m imagining it to be, I’m sure you have like eight different email addresses all filled to the brim with crazy questions and random nonsense.

But I’m thinking that, if I can just get your attention once, like if by writing a personalized open letter on a fairly regular basis, maybe you’ll see how serious I am about writing for Grantland. It’ll be like when Mr. Fantastic of the Fantastic Four had to somehow snag the attention of Galactus before the space lord devoured our planet whole. And these pieces will be my ultimate nullifier. How does once a week sound?

Obviously I’m hoping you see this in the future, after I’ve written like five or six months worth of material, you’ll see the latest letter, you’ll be like, “What is this stuff? How far does it go back?” and you’ll read every single post, all the way back to this sentence. And you’ll think, “Wow, this guy is serious.” And I am serious. I’ll write whatever you tell me to. When you say, “Write,” I’ll say, “How high?”

Unless somehow this first letter immediately goes viral. It’s totally unlikely, I know, but if it does and you wind up reading this right away, please be assured, I have every intention of keeping these letters up for as long as I’m alive. I’ll even write out a bunch of reserve letters to go up only in the case of an accident, something that would result in my untimely death. This way it’ll look like I’m writing from beyond the grave. I doubt that would help my career prospects at Grantland, but it would be a pretty cool Internet trick.

Bill, can I call you Bill? Mr. Bill, please give me a full-time writing job. Or anybody else. I’ll take it. (Can I have off next Monday? I’m going skiing.)

Love,

Rob G.