In a way, it’s cathartic to be free from the shackles of an income. There’s a chance—slim, yes, but a chance nonetheless—that being laid off from Crushed Soul will turn out to be a good thing.
I didn’t become an editor and writer for the glitz, glamour, or gobs of cash. Who would? You’re much more likely to encounter unforgiving deadlines, obnoxious bosses, long hours, and crappy workspaces. Publishing is less of a career and more of a calling.
It’s kind of like being a sports fan: You don’t choose the team that you’re going to spend a lifetime following—it chooses you. In a humane world, I would have been chosen by, say, the New York Yankees. Instead, I was chosen by the Chicago Cubs.
But you know what? Who cares if publishing is the Chicago Cubs of professions? I dig it. I still get a thrill out of the publishing process: starting with only ideas, working them through each step of creation, and winding up with a tangible product in print or on a computer monitor. My job has never felt like a job—it’s been a labor of twisted love.
Until recently, that is. The importance of a paycheck can't be denied, but I became a slave to mine. In my final year or so at Crushed Soul, I was taken away from the creative endeavors that give me such a charge, and my job had a mechanical bent. Nevertheless, since my most basic needs were being met—putting food on the table—I felt no sense of urgency to look elsewhere. I swear I could have gone on that way indefinitely. Another decade might have passed before I looked up numbly from a pile of spreadsheets and said, “Wow, that was quick. What did I do anyway?”
Now, though, my paycheck has been stripped from me. It’s scary but also sort of empowering. I can reinvent myself or, at the very least, rediscover the things I really love. What the hell? I have nothing to lose, right?
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