Case in point, this morning I lost a contributor. It happens, the magazine editor’s lot in life, so to speak. She objected to the way we broke a word in two, literally, despite dictionary and AP style support. Said it was a concept, that I was being ‘limiting’ and a whole of other foolishness that I wish I could bleach from my eyes. There’s nothing to be done; she won’t bend, I won’t bend, and now I’m in a bind with a hole in my upcoming November issue.
Of course, my boss looks at me like, it happens. Which is what he’s supposed to say because he knows I’ll pull something together and make it work, it is my job after all. But I gotta say: I’m getting tired of it. I’m tired today period, but this is different. I’m feeling a kind of drag, and it’s been building for a long while, ebbing and flowing like thick water in my gut. The feeling passes, but it always returns, a more subtle kind of hunger. You know, the kind you don’t notice until you’re ravenous and sustenance is metaphorically miles away.
The woman who is no longer a part of our editorial roster did give me a compliment before she said goodbye professionally. She said, “I wish you the best, too. I have read some of your work and think you have talent much beyond the constraints of your current job.”
I agree. That I have talent, and that I am constrained. Most days I find the hustle and challenge of my day gig stimulating. Others I feel as though my spirit’s being slowly pecked to death by a thousand invisible ducks.
The woman’s comment is just the most recent in a long line of the similar sharings that seem to point to one inevitable fact. I need to get out. I need to storytell full time. And I need to do it sooner rather than letter before I turn into a bitter hag.
It’s a laugh or cry moment, writers. Holler if you hear me. LOL