It was funny, the way Cindy's memory worked. She could recall almost every page that she had read since middle school, whether they were the lines of a comic book or the dense text in a biology textbook. Recalling didn't come with comprehension — one of the reasons why Cindy's memory hadn't been as much of an asset in math as her mother might have hoped, though it was good enough to skate her by where memorizing formulas was concerned.
Sometimes Cindy wished that it'd been the other way around, that she had the ability to immediately problem solve, to empathize, rather than regurgitate content. But, insofar as she had some kind of asset to her name, she'd adjusted many of her habits to make the most of it. The conversation with Lois immediately got committed to paper — not verbatim, lest Lois decide she rather back out of the whole situation, but bullet points here and there. A diagram of sorts. It ensured that Cindy wouldn't forget the next time around.
Though, given the mentions of Metropolis and The Daily Planet alone (and the name Lois, for crying out loud), Cindy didn't think it'd be easy for this story to slip her mind.
"You know, I would have pegged you for older. But yes, seventeen sounds like it'd be a disqualifier for most," Cindy admitted with a wiggle of her pen. "Which is unfortunate, because otherwise the fact that you've moved around a lot and lived in different areas makes you a great asset where reporting is concerned. Being an outsider, not as much of a hurdle as you might think, as long as you don't mention it in every other sentence. For now, my day job's still at the Guardian. Though that might change if we ever develop a paid subscription model, because at that point the contract's kinda — well, that's a tangent for another day."
Cindy placed her pen down, resting her chin against the back of her hand. "I'd love to see your stories, of course. But more than that, I'm curious to know what your passion points are. Say you've got creative direction of this soon-not-hypothetical paper of ours. What are the first stories you'd pitch to the editor?"
no subject
Sometimes Cindy wished that it'd been the other way around, that she had the ability to immediately problem solve, to empathize, rather than regurgitate content. But, insofar as she had some kind of asset to her name, she'd adjusted many of her habits to make the most of it. The conversation with Lois immediately got committed to paper — not verbatim, lest Lois decide she rather back out of the whole situation, but bullet points here and there. A diagram of sorts. It ensured that Cindy wouldn't forget the next time around.
Though, given the mentions of Metropolis and The Daily Planet alone (and the name Lois, for crying out loud), Cindy didn't think it'd be easy for this story to slip her mind.
"You know, I would have pegged you for older. But yes, seventeen sounds like it'd be a disqualifier for most," Cindy admitted with a wiggle of her pen. "Which is unfortunate, because otherwise the fact that you've moved around a lot and lived in different areas makes you a great asset where reporting is concerned. Being an outsider, not as much of a hurdle as you might think, as long as you don't mention it in every other sentence. For now, my day job's still at the Guardian. Though that might change if we ever develop a paid subscription model, because at that point the contract's kinda — well, that's a tangent for another day."
Cindy placed her pen down, resting her chin against the back of her hand. "I'd love to see your stories, of course. But more than that, I'm curious to know what your passion points are. Say you've got creative direction of this soon-not-hypothetical paper of ours. What are the first stories you'd pitch to the editor?"