I stood before the weathered window, gazing at the bustling streets of New York in the summer of 1980, my heart tangled in a web of confusion. Having just bid farewell to university, my future felt shrouded in thick fog, its true form obscured, leaving me with nothing but a sense of bewilderment and helplessness.

　　"Evelyn, are you daydreaming again?" My friend Alicia's clear voice suddenly broke through from behind me, like a refreshing breeze that temporarily dispelled the gloom in my heart.

　　I slowly turned my head, managing a faint smile, and replied softly, "Alicia, I was thinking about how to navigate my future. You know I have a burning passion for literature and a deep desire to become a female writer, but this dream feels so far away, almost unreachable."

　　Alicia stepped closer, her gentle hand resting on my shoulder, offering warmth and comfort. "Evelyn, don’t look so worried. You are exceptionally talented, and I firmly believe you can achieve your wishes. Oh, by the way! I heard a charming little publishing house is hiring. Why don’t you give it a try? This could be your perfect opportunity to step closer to your dreams."

　　A glimmer of hope flickered in my eyes, like stars twinkling in the dark night, but that light quickly faded, replaced by self-doubt. "Really? That would be wonderful. But I have no experience; would they really accept someone like me?"

　　"How will you know the outcome if you don’t try? Come on, let’s prepare your resume together." Without waiting for my response, Alicia took my hand and led me inside.

　　With Alicia’s careful assistance, a concise yet polished resume was freshly prepared. Time seemed to slip away like sand through my fingers, and soon it was the day of the interview. Anxious, I stepped into the publishing house, my footsteps feeling heavy. The building was somewhat old, and the hallway was filled with the unique scent of paper and ink, which seeped into my nostrils, making my heart race like a drum echoing in my chest.

　　"Hello, I’m Evelyn here for the interview," I said, trying to straighten my back, my voice trembling slightly as I spoke to the elegantly dressed woman at the front desk.

　　"Please wait a moment; Mr. Thompson will be with you shortly," she replied, a polite smile gracing her lips, a small light that eased my tense nerves.

　　Moments later, a man with thick glasses approached steadily; he was Mr. Thompson. His gaze behind the lenses was deep and sharp, as if he could see into one's soul. "Hello, Evelyn. Please follow me."

　　We entered a small, well-organized office. Mr. Thompson sat down behind a slightly oversized desk, his piercing gaze fixed on me as he asked, "Evelyn, let’s start with why you have such a strong desire to work in publishing."

　　I lifted my chin slightly, took a deep breath, and tried to calm myself, carefully choosing my words. "Sir, literature is an indispensable part of my life. During my university years, I immersed myself in the sea of books, eagerly absorbing literary nourishment while honing my writing skills, producing many pieces. I sincerely believe that publishing is a bridge, a sacred connection that presents beautiful works to countless readers. I long to be part of this, whether it's discovering hidden gems with an editor's keen eye or cultivating my own writing dreams in this fragrant literary atmosphere."

　　Mr. Thompson nodded slightly, almost imperceptibly, and then pressed further, "What notable achievements do you have in writing?"

　　I nervously twisted my fingers but kept my voice steady. "I have published several short stories and poems in the university's literary journal, which reflect my inner world. Additionally, I actively participated in various writing competitions and was fortunate to receive a few awards. While they may not be earth-shattering honors, each experience has been like a star lighting my path in literature."

　　"What unique insights do you have regarding current literary trends?" His questions came in quick succession, leaving me little room to breathe.

　　After a moment of thought, I replied, "To me, today’s literature resembles a vibrant tapestry, showcasing an unprecedented diversity. Readers are no longer satisfied with a single literary style; they are like treasure hunters, eager to explore different styles and themes within the world of words. Yet, classic literary elements remain like a towering lighthouse, steadfast and exuding an irresistible charm. The precise insights into the depths of human nature and the delicate, intricate expressions of emotions are treasures of classic literature. Therefore, I believe the publishing industry must both capture the pulse of contemporary trends and not overlook works rich in depth and meaning, akin to fine wine that only grows more fragrant with age."

　　Mr. Thompson clasped his hands under his chin, lost in brief contemplation. After a moment, he posed a more challenging question: "If your literary ideals clash sharply with commercial interests during the editing process, how would you choose?"

　　I furrowed my brow slightly, determination evident in my gaze as I responded earnestly, "I would strive to find a balance between the two. First, I would choose to communicate openly with my team members, discussing whether we could adjust and optimize the work moderately while staying true to its literary essence and core values to meet market demands. However, if after much effort, the conflict remains irreconcilable, I would not hesitate to uphold the bottom line and principles of literature. I firmly believe that a truly outstanding work is like the brightest star in the night sky; even if temporarily obscured by clouds, it will ultimately break through obstacles to find its dedicated audience. This may require a long wait and extraordinary patience and perseverance, but the value and power of literature are worth defending."

　　As the interview progressed through tense exchanges, Mr. Thompson finally looked at me and said in a steady tone, "Evelyn, we will inform you of the interview results within a week."

　　With heavy steps, I exited the publishing house, looking up at the sky and exhaling deeply, trying to relax my taut nerves. Alicia had been anxiously waiting outside; upon seeing me, she hurried over and asked eagerly, "How did it go? How was the interview?"

　　I shook my head helplessly, letting out a soft sigh. "I have no idea what the outcome will be; I can only silently pray during this agonizing wait."