So, five months ago when I suddenly found myself without a job, I never in a million years would have called myself "lucky." No, the words I would have used then were more along the lines of: "cursed," "ill fated" "unfair" ... and other happy things like that.
But perceptions have a way of shifting. In July, my good friend Lisa moved across the country to take a job as a reporter at one of Scene's sister publications in Denver. It was a hard move for her socially; she didn't have any family or friends in Colorado. But professionally, it made a ton of sense. The paper was in a bigger market, with a bigger readership.
Lise fared well in Denver, writing stories about refugees and corrupt real estate developers (her favorite topic) when, one day last month, her editor poked her head into her office, and asked if they could talk. "Sure," Lise said (she's super easy going like that).
When Lise made her way into her boss's office, she noticed one of the paper's executives sitting in the room, too. And that's when her heart started to race. "Lisa," the editor told her in a super-nice, overly sweet tone. "We're very sorry .... but the paper's struggling, ...no money... bad economy ... etc., etc. etc." The same exact words we'd heard oh, five months, before.
And then this: "We're going to have to let you go. Effective today."
Jesus Christ. (Yes, I realize, being a professional Jew now, I should perhaps get a better expression, but that one's just so handy and encompasses so many thoughts!).
So now Lise is finding herself in the same boat I was in four months ago. And it's not one of those fun, flirty yachts either. No, it's more like an ugly row boat with leaks and holes. And the market, if possible, is even worse now. So Lise, like me, is looking at different paths: One day, she decides what she really wants to do is become a private investigator, the next day a college professor. And then the next, she realizes the only thing she really wants to do is write. So like me, too, she started a blog: http://lisarab.wordpress.com/ (You should read it. It's super funny) and is finding what it's like to be a freelance writer in this economy.
Then two weeks ago, my friend Liz, a reporter for the Cleveland Jewish News, was also asked by her editor to "stop by his office." (I guess that's the new cool euphemism these days). And though one would think that the Cleveland Jewish News -- being a niche publication that services a specific demographic -- would be immune to the problems facing the general public, it turns out no one's safe. After bringing the CJN up to speed electronically and upgrading its web presence, Liz, too, was let go (thus dropping the median age of all remaining reporters to, oh, 75 or so. What does it say about the paper that their "society and social reporter" is a 90 year old woman?!!!)
Unfortunately (or fortunately) I know exactly what both my friends are now going through. The never-ending mood swings that harken back to our teen years. How literally one hour you can be on top of the world, thinking everything will come together soon in a way that you'd never really expected. Then the next, you can be weeping on your bed, cursing the day you decided that writing would be a good, safe career option.
So my friends and I are joining a burgeoning group that's becoming less and less exclusive by the day: the Ex-Journalists. Just last week in fact,we were joined by Don Terry, a Pulitzer Prize winning reporter for The Chicago Tribune. It's a group we never asked to join -- and which my friends I know, are wanting out of really, really soon.
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