I’ve been copy chief here for about four years and am spinning my wheels; I hate this job and have no future here—I’m overworked (I’m the entire copy dept. for a major monthly magazine). I make terrific catches everyone else misses and get no credit for it—but if I miss one damn comma (as I did this morning), I catch holy hell for it. I hate getting up in the morning to come to work; my first words when the alarm clock goes off are “oh, damn.” Life’s too short for this. I’d like to move back to Phila. to look after my Mom, who’s in her 80s.
But.
Just having a job these days makes me feel like a top-hatted plutocrat in a 1930s movie. I’m in my 40s and there are no jobs out there, let alone for the middle-aged. I need the medical benefits and the paycheck. My books don’t make me enough to live on; I want to get the hell out of publishing, but into what, with 20-some years of it on my resume? What kind of idiot would give up a safe job in this economy with no safety net?
That’s the worst thing about this lousy job market—one feels guilty for complaining about one’s job . . .
Oooh, I’m still a professional, I wouldn’t leave with no notice! Besides, there are some people I like here. I just hate the job.
If I left NY, it would just be for Phila., which is a short train ride away—I’d still need to get to Lincoln Center to research my books. (Unless I could get the BFI to give me a grant to move to London and write a book on British silent films!)
But, dammit, I am looking for other jobs—both in and out of publishing—and there is nothing out there. V. demoralizing. Since 9/11, I’ve been thinking how pissed-off I’d be to get blown up for this job.
There was once a wise man, who when asked by his king for some words of wisdom, claimed he could tell him three short words that would make someone happy when sad, or sad when happy.
THIS
WILL
PASS!
(Or something to that effect, anyway.)
The point is, stick in there, don’t give them reason to give you hassle, but secretly look for new jobs in your spare time. I’m sure things will change for the better soon.
P.S. More words of wisdom include “Don’t support the UK football team Arsenal”.
I find it nearly impossible to believe there are no openings for prim and proper ladies with their own lorgnettes who are capable of whithering glances and crushing declarations of “Well, really!” Whatever is this world coming to?
I’m sure Eve could come up with something done outwardly politely and in a ladylike (if, in the end, ruthless) fashion. If she’s not up to that, perhaps some professional advice could be exchanged. I can’t think of anyone better - or at least anyone so in touch with Eve’s style.
