Diary of a Displaced Journalist - Rebecca Meiser

"Helpful" Friends

I ran into a well-meaning friend of a friend the other day. The friend saw me getting into the car and literally ran across the parking lot, screaming my name, and waving her arms about like windmills. I summized, using my vast investigative skills,  that she wanted to say hello.

I was correct.

Damn. One of the first things I've learned during this job-searching process is exactly how little I want to talk about my situation and exactly how much everyone else does.

"How are you?" everyone inevitably asks. "Fine," I inevitably smile back.

Apparently this is the wrong answer. Because afterwards, the same person will more often than not, lean in, grip my wrist, and say in a stage whisper: "No, really how ARE you?"

"Fine."

And I'm not lying. The Scene fall-out left me with 3 and a half months severance. So for three and a half months, I could lay in bed, watch tons of bad television, and eat chocolate chip ice cream and still make the same amount of money as I would if I were at the office, writing, and pulling another all-nighter on a story I didn't particularly care about. But I don't really feel like getting into that. And really, why is it my responsibility to reassure someone else about my own mental health, especially when I'd already told them I was fine?

So, lately, i've been having lots of fake "doctor" visits that, if anyone actually keeping track, would make them REALLY worried for my health. oh the irony. 

The beginning

Approximately two months ago, the entire staff of my Cleveland weekly newspaper was informed that we had a mandatory meeting at 9 am the next day. This was worrisome for a variety of reasons. One, being that in my entire five years at the paper-- we'd never ever had a mandatory meeting before. Given the fact that our paper was now a skimpy 60 pages, I didn't really think management was calling us in to tell us about our collective new raises.

Also worrisome was the scheduled time of the meeting: We we were writers. We rolled into the office at 11 most days.  A nine o' clock arrival time seemed incredibly cruel to us. If we were going to get bad news -- a fate which seemed  more and more likely -- why in the world did we have to wake early for it?   

Reluctantly, tiredly, blindly, we stumbled into our office to hear the great news. In the conference room a group of strangers, in gray button down suits and paisley ties, stood crowded together near the front wall. And that's when we first learned that the end was indeed upon us. The only time anyone in our office wore a suit was because they'd just come from a funeral. And it was clear now that these men, whose somber outfits perfectly matched their faces, were here to proceed over ours.

Indeed, it was here that we learned how the first lines of our obituary would read. Scene, which for years had been owned by Village Voice Media, had been bought out by a Scranton publishing group. Worse, the owners of the Scranton papers planned on shutting down the Free Times paper and fold both staffs into one. The new publisher and editor were revealed to be... the current publisher and editor of the Free Times.

And that's when the entire Scene writing staff started looking for new jobs.

Rather than conduct a pity party (I've attended quite a few of them, and believe me, they're not much fun. The company is a drag and the hosts never serve good food), I decided to start a blog to describe my job hunting journey: including all the tips, observations, and experiences I've picked up along the way. I'm hoping it will be a very short ride.