As a freshman I thought it a good idea to heel the LIT. It turned out to be a horrible experience. The bosses of it had received a short (read LOOOONG) story submission, in handwriting, from a senior who had already published a book.
I guess they felt compelled to publish this story. Trouble was nobody had or even could read it. They needed it typed. Finally, they ordered me, there was no one around lower than I, to type it as a heeling chore.
And, yes, I did type it, the noise from my Hermes portable keeping my two roomies up all night for three nights running. It was a crap story. And I hated typing it. And I hated the editors of the LIT. But I hoofed it to their offices, turned in the foul thing, and ran as fast as I could the two blocks to my room in Lawrence, where I shared the western wall with Phelps Gate, where the Campus Police made abode. I quit the heel, and had no more truck with the LIT. Did not answer nor return their calls!
I became Chairman of that revered old rag my junior year because then-chairman Ed Powell liked me and my haikus.
I might have had a more successful and fun career at Yale had I stuck to swimming!