ADRIFT AND DISENCHANTED, I ended up in New York a couple of months later, evaluating my influences. Joseph Campbell? Clearly, some of those unseen portals are trapdoors. Lloyd Dobler? Whatever. Mother Teresa? I tried. Instead of saving the world, I thought, perhaps it might be easier to sell it things.

I took up residence on the wood floor of a friend's apartment, got an interview at an ad agency, and was told that I was probably better suited to magazines. The ad guy handed me off to a colleague at Runner's World, who in turn lateraled me to a friend at Outside.

I'd read the magazine only once, but I remembered liking it. My mood began to brighten. I crafted a cover letter (one that misspelled the editor's name), dived into the copyediting test (using the wrong symbols), and wove an account (unbelievably sappy) of my summer as a fire lookout.

The timing was right. An editor called to inform me that an intern had quit mid-tenure. If I could make it halfway across the country in a week, his job was mine.

"Thank you so much," I gushed. "I know I don't have a lot of experience, but I'm a hard worker and a quick learner and I think—"

"Listen," she interrupted. "You're not qualified. Just keep your mouth shut and your head down and you'll do fine."

I followed the editor's instructions—what I lacked in talent, I tried to make up for with hustle. Because at that point, it was a dream job, the profoundest bliss.