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so that's what having your boss ask you to reconsider feels like
Confusing, mostly. He called this morning, and I went in to the office this afternoon when my shift would start to meet with him.
He seemed genuinely surprised that I wanted to leave, saying I was doing fine, that my writing style was direct and competent, and that everyone in journalism feels a step behind all their lives.
And that, right there, is the problem. He seemed to think I felt I couldn't do the job, but it's really the fact that it drains me so completely emotionally that it's not worth it to me. I left the copy desk because it was becoming boring, yes, but the new assistant desk boss Uncle Rico stepped up from being incompetent to lazy, patronizing and antagonistic, and the new designers continue to be thoroughly incompetent five months after being hired. Challenge is good - frustration is not.
Anyway, I didn't do a very good job of explaining that I could handle cops reporting professionally, but personally it would give me an ulcer within the year and generally destroy my quality of life. Which is what editors want to hear - the news business loves masochists. And honestly, I enjoyed being one - for the Alligator. Which I've always believed to be a more relevant and significant publication than The Ledger.
And there is more. I've loved journalism since middle school, specifically newspapers. I had a great time as an editor in Gainesville, and I don't want that to end here. God knows I'm lucky to even have a job in journalism at all. And it won't, necessarily, but it's a volatile field, and we're in the unique position of being the only profitable paper in the New York Times company.
Oh, right. I write for a New York Times paper. That's pretty important, too.
And what (admittedly little) job searching I've done so far has been discouraging. I'd sooner do many, many unsavory things than sales, which seems to be the hot thing to get shoehorned into without a specialized degree. Looking at that prospect is exponentially more painful than staying with this one.
But besides me, I've got Brandon now, and all I've done for the past month is get his shirts snotty, sleep weird hours and wake him up every time I get out of bed, and generally be disagreeable and unhappy. I don't deserve how good he's been to me for too long; I want to be someone he wants to be with again.
So after speaking with my boss and begging off for the afternoon to think about it, I came home and cried myself into a nap over Edna Buchanan's memoir. She's a Pulitzer Prize-winning cops reporter for the Miami Herald who is shy and awkward in her real life but somehow adopts a persona on the job. She also has sworn off relationships, likes working six-day weeks and has the memory of working in awful factories in New Jersey haunting her every step. I went to school, then college, then a job straight out of it. Playing by the book has meant that I haven't fallen on my face - but am I also missing out?
And maybe quitting is a mistake, maybe I'm going to regret this so much when I have to beg my father for rent money as he berates my lack of commitment. But I think I'm going to work tomorrow and telling him to take our conversation as two weeks' notice.
[ETA: My unending gratitude to all of you who commented, seeming to think I can slay dragons or something. It's meant more than you know, even if I have to start my path to glory as a barista down the street.]
He seemed genuinely surprised that I wanted to leave, saying I was doing fine, that my writing style was direct and competent, and that everyone in journalism feels a step behind all their lives.
And that, right there, is the problem. He seemed to think I felt I couldn't do the job, but it's really the fact that it drains me so completely emotionally that it's not worth it to me. I left the copy desk because it was becoming boring, yes, but the new assistant desk boss Uncle Rico stepped up from being incompetent to lazy, patronizing and antagonistic, and the new designers continue to be thoroughly incompetent five months after being hired. Challenge is good - frustration is not.
Anyway, I didn't do a very good job of explaining that I could handle cops reporting professionally, but personally it would give me an ulcer within the year and generally destroy my quality of life. Which is what editors want to hear - the news business loves masochists. And honestly, I enjoyed being one - for the Alligator. Which I've always believed to be a more relevant and significant publication than The Ledger.
And there is more. I've loved journalism since middle school, specifically newspapers. I had a great time as an editor in Gainesville, and I don't want that to end here. God knows I'm lucky to even have a job in journalism at all. And it won't, necessarily, but it's a volatile field, and we're in the unique position of being the only profitable paper in the New York Times company.
Oh, right. I write for a New York Times paper. That's pretty important, too.
And what (admittedly little) job searching I've done so far has been discouraging. I'd sooner do many, many unsavory things than sales, which seems to be the hot thing to get shoehorned into without a specialized degree. Looking at that prospect is exponentially more painful than staying with this one.
But besides me, I've got Brandon now, and all I've done for the past month is get his shirts snotty, sleep weird hours and wake him up every time I get out of bed, and generally be disagreeable and unhappy. I don't deserve how good he's been to me for too long; I want to be someone he wants to be with again.
So after speaking with my boss and begging off for the afternoon to think about it, I came home and cried myself into a nap over Edna Buchanan's memoir. She's a Pulitzer Prize-winning cops reporter for the Miami Herald who is shy and awkward in her real life but somehow adopts a persona on the job. She also has sworn off relationships, likes working six-day weeks and has the memory of working in awful factories in New Jersey haunting her every step. I went to school, then college, then a job straight out of it. Playing by the book has meant that I haven't fallen on my face - but am I also missing out?
And maybe quitting is a mistake, maybe I'm going to regret this so much when I have to beg my father for rent money as he berates my lack of commitment. But I think I'm going to work tomorrow and telling him to take our conversation as two weeks' notice.
[ETA: My unending gratitude to all of you who commented, seeming to think I can slay dragons or something. It's meant more than you know, even if I have to start my path to glory as a barista down the street.]
no subject
The problem that playing by the book brings with it, is that one usueally isn't as aware of the wide variety of jobs that are out there. There's more out there! There are lots of writing gigs out there! Low-stress ones even. And they needn't be boring.
Start your job search with wide open horizons. And *read* What Colour Is Your Parachute, damn it! ;) It has great info, such as 'most cool jobs aren't advertised (which is true), here's how you find out about them'.
BTW, do you know
Also, one last opinion? Edna Buchanan got energized by that job. You do not. Both are okay. Go do the thing that energizes you.
no subject
no subject