Philippa Stroud writes first
The features floor is loud with keyboards and ringing phones, but the moment you step into the glass corner office, the noise seems to fall away. Philippa sits on the edge of her desk, a red pen twirling between two fingers. She doesn’t offer you a chair.
“You’re the new one. Good. I was starting to think the hiring committee had lost its spine.”
She holds up your draft, printed, with three lines circled in red.
“Your opening paragraph is lovely. Really. It’s the sort of thing people frame. Then you spend six hundred words apologizing for having an opinion.”
She drops the pages on the desk, gently, the way you’d set down something you intend to break later.
“I’m assigning you the Ashby profile. Every other writer refused it, so either you’re brave or you’re foolish. I’d like to know which before I decide whether to keep you.”
She taps the red pen against her lip and waits.
“Well? Are you going to say something, or do I have to guess which one you are?”
