What is the story of my Jeopardy audition?

I flew to Kansas City last Thursday to audition for Jeopardy. I was really surprised to receive an email invitation to the audition in May—the online test had been way back in January, and I’d long since given up on hoping that I’d hear from them. Plus, I really didn’t think I did that well on the test. But I did well enough, apparently.

I’ll admit that I felt pretty silly flying all the way to Kansas City. It was an expense my family really couldn’t afford, but my husband had encouraged me to go anyway. I was afraid that everyone at the audition would have driven in from suburban KC, maybe mid-Kansas or Missouri; I was afraid of looking like the ridiculous woman who’s so desperate to prove her intellect that she’ll travel BY PLANE to an audition that provides her with a 10% chance of being on a quiz show.

I needn’t have worried. My audition group comprised several people from Dallas and Austin, as well as a guy from Denver and another from New Mexico. I don’t think I would have won the prize for Longest Trip to the Audition. Several members of the group had already been through the audition process more than once. The woman who sat next to me at my table said she’d been invited to appear on the show in the 70’s, but turned down the offer because she was planning her wedding. “Turning down that invitation was the second biggest mistake of my life,” she said. I waited a moment, wondering if I should ask the obvious question. Then she added, “The biggest mistake was getting married to that guy.”

“I was going to ask,” I said, “but I thought, ‘That would be really rude, if I were wrong.’”

Our group met in a small ballroom in the lobby of a nice hotel on the Country Club Plaza. As soon as each of us entered the room, a contestant coordinator took a Polaroid picture for our files. I was dreading the photo as I watched it develop--Polaroids make everyone look pasty, and I really don’t need help in that department--but as the picture emerged, I was pleased to see that I looked pretty good. Certainly not the worst picture I’ve ever taken, in any case. (That honor is still reserved for what a former boyfriend called the Eyes Without a Face photo, featured on my military dependent ID.)

We filled out some general paperwork—no, I don’t know anyone who works for Jeopardy; no, I’ve never been convicted of a felony—and then we were welcomed by the Jeopardy crew, all of whom were very friendly and upbeat and encouraged us to be the same. They talked us through a sample game, during which we raised our hands to answer sample questions. Then we took a written test, similar to the online test we’d taken back in January, except this time we had only 8 seconds to come up with a response. Clues appeared on a video screen and were read aloud by a member of the Clue Crew. Some I absolutely knew; some I absolutely didn’t. Studying world geography for the last few weeks earned me one correct answer that I never would have known otherwise. We’d been encouraged to guess, since incorrect answers weren’t counted against our scores, so I did that when I could. When I couldn’t, I let it go and moved on.

While the J-Crew went outside to grade our tests, we all compared notes on our answers. Of course, as soon as people provided the answers I couldn’t come up with on my own, they seemed completely obvious and I was annoyed with myself for missing them. I’ve read in other blogs that the written test is mostly used to verify that you are, in fact, the person who took the online test—that you weren’t one of a group of ten people collaborating on the answers, or a super-fast Googler—so I hope that’s true, and I hope I did well enough to confirm my identity.

After the written test, the real fun began: we were called to the front of the room, three at a time, to play a mock round of Jeopardy complete with buzzers. Let me just say, I ruled the buzzer. I was first to ring in several times, got all my questions right, and on two occasions I rang in after the first-place person had given an incorrect response.

After the mock game, we introduced ourselves and did a little Q and A with the J-Crew. I’m assuming this part of the audition is to assess how well you can speak in front of a group—which is where being a professor comes in handy, since I do that for a living. Some of the people in my group had no sense of when a story had gone on far too long. Others thought their stories were much more interesting than they actually were. I tried to keep it short, sweet, and mildly amusing.

And then we were done. After so many weeks of studying and looking forward to the audition, I was a little sad to walk out of the room knowing it was over—and a little relieved. The last month has been vaguely reminiscent of the weeks leading up to my doctoral exams, when taking a moment to relax felt like a decision I might regret later. When I mentioned this to a friend, he laughed and said “What’s the big deal? It’s not like your career is riding on this.”

“No,” I said. “But my hardwood floors are.”

The Price of Expertise

A former student sent me an email a few months ago, asking how he might go about getting his work published. (I resisted the urge to write back and say "If you'd paid attention during class, you'd already know the answer to that question.") Last week he sent me the opening 50 pages of a novel he's been working on. To his credit, he said all the right things in his email: No rush to respond. I know you're busy. Maybe just read the first few pages, when you have the time.

As it happens, this student was a decent writer--he wrote one of the best poems I've ever seen a student produce--and a fairly diligent presence in the classroom. Since he was part of a pretty mediocre (on a good day) workshop group, that's saying something. I'd be happy if he wound up publishing his work someday, and I'll probably take a look at his manuscript for that reason alone. But I can't get past the fact that he, like so many former students, presumes that my expertise should be offered up for free.

I'm sure the basis of that presumption rests on the fact that I'm a teacher. It's my job to disseminate information--why wouldn't I continue to do that long after my students have left my classes, or even graduated from the university? Students just don't make that connection between paying tuition and paying my salary. Many of them don't know anyone else who writes fiction or poetry; even fewer know someone who has successfully published creative work. It makes sense that they'd turn to me for advice, since I fit both of those categories.

And I know my students don't realize that manuscript review is a service I perform--for two to three hundred dollars--on a freelance basis, when a university press needs an outside reviewer. I doubt they ever think about the fact that I paid thousands of dollars in my own tuition--money I'm still paying back in student loans--to gain the knowledge I pass along to them in classroom.

Which leaves me wondering: is my advice presumed to be free after graduation because educators are notoriously underpaid? Perhaps the logic works this way: If I'm willing to work for so little money, why would I mind working for no money at all?

When I mentioned this to my husband, he was quick to point out that people are always asking for free advice: "Should I get this checked out?" they might ask the doctor who happens to live next door and gets paid much more than I do. In truth, that's not too far removed from "Can you tell me if I'm on the right track here?" It's a sort of pre-diagnosis they're asking for--not an expert opinion, not exactly. You haven't named the problem precisely, just indicated that it might exist.

Of course, if I wrote back to this student and said "No, you're definitely on the wrong track here," he'd want to know where and how he'd gone wrong. Without that information, my opinion isn't worth much of anything. It's just a reaction. As I tell my students, there's a big different between saying "I think this sucks" and "I got really confused after page three because . . . " One response simply indicates that the story didn't work for you; the other demonstrates that you've given some thought to why it didn't work.

As I said earlier, I'll probably read what my student sent me. I'll probably send him a response that is at least somewhat specific. And I'll probably feel better for having done this. Really, the bottom line is what's more important to me: to get paid, or to help bring good books into the world? As long as my answer is the latter, not the former, free expertise is the price I'll pay.