Hello in there
(TL;DR I have a Patreon now, if you feel like supporting my writing!)
In December 2013, I was an editorial assistant at a national news and commentary website. I’d been hired the previous January to help with administrative tasks, but it was a one-year contract. During my time there, I edited two verticals that drew millions of readers a month, managed a partnership with another website, reported and wrote pieces for every section of the website. I was making $30,000 which felt like a kingly sum at the time.
As my year came to a close, I started to worry about what was next. I brought up my fears with the other women in the office, who were encouraging without fail. They assured me my contract would be renewed, that I had become too valuable an asset to let go. I sent an email to my boss, asking if we could meet to discuss my future at the company. Even though he’d hired me out of 300 other applicants, he showed little interest in the work I was doing day-to-day outside of how it helped or hindered his own work. I can count the number of one-on-one conversations we had during my time there on one hand.
I didn’t get a response to my email about my contract for a month. I’d watch as every day, like clockwork, the male editors and writers gathered at the front of the office and left to go to lunch together. On two or three occasions, half-hearted invites were extended, but I was terrified of saying something stupid, and ate trail mix stashed in my desk drawer for lunch most of the time.
My boss replied to my email, and we set up a meeting to talk about my future at the company. I wore my best dress from Ann Taylor LOFT and got words of encouragement from my friends in the office. I sat down across from my boss’ desk, and he let out a discontented sigh, as if I’d just spilled my coffee on him on the train. Uh-oh. Then he steepled his fingers, laughed and shook his head. Oh, maybe this was just his way of psyching me out! Maybe this was all a big misunderstanding.
“I feel like I’m your boyfriend,” he told me without a trace of irony, “telling you, ‘it’s not you, it’s me.’” What he was trying to say was that I’d done a splendid job over the past year, but that positions like mine require some “churn,” and, well, this time it was me. I didn’t realize until after I left his office that I’d dug ten red claw marks into my arms while listening to him. My friends were shocked and even outraged on my behalf. I loved them for it. But the people who mattered had already made up their minds.
I’m not 24 anymore (praise be). I have eight years of political journalism experience, including covering the 2016 election for the New York Times opinion section. I tell myself that I can read back on my coverage of that election and, with one or two frustrating exceptions, be proud of the work I did there. After my Times contract ended, (again with these contracts!) I joined Gizmodo Media Group as a political writer for a website called Fusion, which morphed into Splinter. I got sued by a member of the alt-right, got rape and death threats via emails from her supporters. My partner confiscated my phone at night to prevent further panic attacks. In the end, a federal judge dismissed the case and called the plaintiff a “troll.”
Around this time, we decided to move back to the Midwest to be closer to our families. We got married in Wisconsin, and spent the next month trying to decide when the right time to make the move from Washington would be. Then GMG announced a round of buyouts. I took a buyout, and we moved to Chicago. Since then, we’ve been doing the weird work of figuring out our lives here. I want to continue pursuing journalism, but can’t help the feeling that I’ve blown up my career, when 95% of media job listings are based in 2-3 cities that are not where I live.
After eight years in the maw of digital media, I knew my body needed a break from jobs that required me to be glued to a screen from the I took my phone off the nightstand in the morning, to the moment I put it back at night. I applied to a job that advertised itself as a writing job but turned out to be selling insurance. I applied to copywriting jobs, content jobs, logistics jobs. None of them panned out.
In the fall of 2018, I started teaching part-time at an elementary school’s aftercare program, where I still work today. I get a lot of fulfillment out of working with children, but at times it’s hard to look at them and not see my own failure to secure my own ability to someday have children.
When the school year ended, I took a job as a barista in my neighborhood. One day, the AC broke but my manager told us the cafe had to stay open. I was assigned to work in the kitchen that day, working with two 600-degree TurboChef ovens and no air conditioning. I went to the walk-in and dry heaved. The tips were pretty good, though.
I left the coffee shop job when the school year started up again, but my part-time income isn’t cutting it anymore. I try to freelance and find myself paralyzed and even disgusted at the thought of putting another goddamn word to the page again.
So I keep applying to other jobs. Copywriter jobs at companies with names like Elements Global and FedGeek, Ocean Associates and CozyMeal. I keep working at my teacher job. I might go back to the coffee shop next week, if I don’t hear back about any of my other applications. I’ll keep emailing pitches that I don’t want to write to overworked editors. I’ll keep trying and failing, and trying more, and failing more.
This isn’t meant to be a pity party, though you’d be more than fair to interpret it that way. I’m writing this to show myself, and to show you, that I do want to write. (Look at me, writing all these words!) I still want to be a writer, even though this industry has used me and many of my friends as grist for the content mill and spat us out hopeless and unemployed. I want to be a writer. I want to make money being a writer. I want to support myself and my partner and, someday, a family, while also being a writer.
I feel selfish sending this email because I know many people are struggling much worse than I am. But at this point, I’m desperate to try any option that could help bring some stability to my life, and give me the freedom to write more than I do now. I’ve tried to be there for others in the past, and it’s the hardest thing in the world for me to accept help from others. But I can’t lie to myself, my friends and my family about how desperate I am anymore.
So, in a show of my absolute lack of shame, I’ve started a personal Patreon if you feel inclined to support my work. If every one of my (wonderful! amazing! heaven-sent!) subscribers gave $1 a month, I’d be able to cover my rent each month. If everyone gave $2, I could focus more on freelancing and not worrying as much about finding whatever job will give me a paycheck as soon as possible. If everyone who subscribes to this newsletter gave $5 a month (wishful thinking, I know!) I could fully devote my time to writing. It’s a dream that’s been too scary for me to say out loud for the past 20 months, but I’m telling you now, so there it is.
xoxo,
Emma