Photo by Kimberly Butler I arrived at a lavish hotel in Hobart 45 minutes early to be greeted in the foyer by the concierge, a young man who looked uncannily like the film incarnations of the Weasley twins, sans ginger. "Are you here for the interview" Fred asked. "Ah, yes" I replied surprised. I should have expected that there would have been more people than just me there. The concierge motioned to a large, luxurious sofa where I sat sweating bullets. Panicking that the writer whom I most admired would think me to be a prat, or worse, a hack. The lump in my throat rose and fell every time someone entered the lobby. Was it him? No. It was a middle aged couple wearing middle aged couples clothes, linen shirts and boat shoes. A 30 something year old man approached me and asked if I was there for the interview to which I enthusiastically replied "yessir". He then went on to ask for my resume... wuh? My resume? It turned out that he was conducting in