Talk is Cheap

My last post was April 30 at 11.01 am. Approximately 29 minutes later, I once again became a statistic. I was terminated. Laid off. Let go. Kicked to the curb. Pick your euphemism of choice.

It is a weird feeling being laid off. Frankly, almost two weeks later it still kind of feels like a dream or an extended vacation. Interestingly enough, I don't miss the work. I have on occasion missed the autonomy of leaving the spouse and the spawn and venturing out solo into the world. I have most definitely missed the knowledge of a steady income and provided health insurance. I have even missed the uninterrupted time in front of the computer (as I type this the spawn is requesting water and ice—a mother's duty is never done). But I have not missed the work.

I know some people feel lost without the identity of what they do for employment. Regardless of whether or not some corporate entity is sending me a paycheck every two weeks I know I am a writer. That continues and is not subject to change. Presumably I will find future employment, at some time, somewhere again as a writer. I suppose I should be open to changing my career path, but I am a bit of an old fogey in that way and set in my ways. And after 19 years of education, I feel I have reserved the right to say enough.

I ended my previous post with a quote from Anna Quindlen so it seems fitting that I should do it again, although the essay I am quoting from brings me much sadness. Gentle readers, if you have not gathered, Broad minded is not fond of change and the May 11/18 issue of Newsweek not only marks the publication's last issue before a significant redesign, it is notable for being the last time Quindlen will contribute to The Last Word. She writes:

Because all the submissions for the Livingston Awards have to come from reporters under the age of 35, looking at the dates of birth on the entry forms for the finalists was like a stroll through my own past . . . They [the stories] were so thoroughly reported, so well written. The next time anyone insists the business won't survive I may bash him with one of these binders, which are heavy with hope for the future . . . Flipping through their pages . . . I felt certain of the future of the news business in some form or another. But between the lines I read another message, delivered without rancor or contempt, the same one I once heard from my own son: It's our turn. Step aside. And now I will.

I will miss Quindlen's thoughtfulness and insight every other week. It has been a joy to read her for the last nine years. I appreciate that she thinks media will continue. I agree. And I applaud her lack of vanity that allows her to see that after almost 40 years as a working writer, it is time for her to give someone else the opportunity she has had to speak to Newsweek's readers.

However, it is still my turn and while I am slightly older than the new generation Quindlen speaks of, I hope that someone like her, somewhere out there, some day soon, will look at me and see the future.