I hired an assistant, and there were three typos on his resume, and he was ten minutes late for the interview. I hired him on the spot.

HR asked me what I liked about him. I said I looked at his email drafts folder. There were forty-seven unsent emails inside.
The first was a long letter to his ex-girlfriend, unsent. The second was an apology to the delivery guy, saying he filled out the address wrong.
The third was to his dad, only three lines, deleted, written, deleted again, and finally saved as a draft, not sent.
The forty-seventh was to his homeroom teacher, saying that three years after graduation, he still remembers the teacher saying he was not sociable, and he wanted to go back and treat the teacher to a meal.
I said I counted, and among the forty-seven drafts, none were debt-collecting.
None were about shirking responsibility. None were about passing the blame to others.
He wrote all the apologies, just never sent them out.
HR said, what right do I have to judge someone based on a bunch of unsent emails?
I said he could leave his apologies forever in the drafts folder, but he wrote them.
Writing them means he knows who he owes an apology to.
Someone who knows who he owes is not going to owe me.
HR was silent.
On his third day at work, I printed out his drafts folder and placed it on his desk.
I didn’t mention the interview, only said one thing: that letter to his dad, he can send it now.
He stared at the paper for a long time, then opened his computer and tilted the screen slightly toward me.
He didn’t send it to his dad but pasted those three years of drafts into a formal email, still not clicking send.
In the comment section, he wrote: “When I get home, I’ll buy cigarettes and alcohol. Keep the tea leaves for yourself.”
He is still my assistant now, and there are a few more drafts in his folder.
The latest one was sent to someone named “Teacher Zhou,” with the subject: “I’m not sociable, but I hired someone even less sociable than me.”