OK, I was wrong. It's not that easy. Knowing that a month from now I more than likely will no longer have a job is weighing on me, more than a little bit.
It's particularly difficult being in the office, where almost everyone is going through the same range of emotions as me. Almost everyone. See, there are a few fortunate folks who can rest assured that the company will not let them go this time around, the ones who have been given subtle (not verbal) notice not to worry, that their places are secure for now. I am not one of those people.
You know the toughest part? Hearing laughter rise from one of the nearby cubicles, where the bosses hold whispered conversations with the fortunate few. It irks me, but it's not their fault. It's just self pity trying to swallow me, and I won't let that happen. For one thing, I'm too busy working to really let it get to me.
What's important is this: Mama Bird, the Little Bird and the soon-to-arrive new Baby Bird. I know that. I also know that, in a way, the end of my career at this newspaper will present an opportunity I've never had, which is to spend at least half a year still getting paid (severance!) while doing my own writing. If I'm ever going to fulfill this dream of becoming a fiction writer, now seems to be the time. It's a gift, as is my family.
What's bothering me is this: It's not my choice. After all the sacrifice, all the years of giving of myself to this irksome, thankless profession, the appreciation I receive if I'm laid off is essentially ... nothing. Oh, I've seen and done things I never would have done without the job, and for that I am thankful. I'll write about some of those things later. But nothing will replace the time spent away from home. Nothing about this is a rightful payoff for the the holidays worked, the illnesses worked through, the indignities suffered. Still, if (when) it happens, the best I can do is greet it smiling, with dignity and grace. I'll do that for myself and for my family.
Then I'll turn my attention to the important things.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Saturday, April 19, 2008
In My End Is My Beginning
(Mary, Queen of Scots embroidered that headline onto her cloth of state during her imprisonment in England. She was beheaded at Fotheringay Castle on Feb. 9, 1587. So, all you nervous newspaper copy editors out there ... it could always, always be worse. And now ... the blog.)
This is the end, beautiful friend. This is the end. My only friend, the end.
The Doors. There must be a lot of sportswriters out there who like the Doors. You go to sportsjournalists.com and check the message boards; lots of frightened, confused, bitter future former sportswriters are quoting Jim Morrison's ode to death. Or REM (It's the end of the world as we ... blah ... blah ... feel fine, etc.).
The end, eh? Yes, newspapers as we know them are coming to an end. But you know what? I feel fine.
Certainly, I'm anxious. We all are. It's not only the newspaper I've worked at for 16 years, which is facing massive layoffs soon if not enough employees accept buyouts. It's industry wide. Apparently (and here's where my extensive background in business comes into play), newspapers everywhere aren't making enough money to survive.
We are scared. Most of us won't be able to afford our mortgages or even pay the cable bill if we lose our jobs. Did I say if? More like when. Those who survive this round of RIF (autocratic shorthand for Reduction In Force; it's not coincidence that I almost accidently typed RIP instead) can more than likely look forward to another round in the not-too-distant future.
You want scary? How about the prospect of losing a job about a month before a second baby is due to be born? That's almost too frightening to think about. Yet, ignoring the possibility, the way the newspaper industry seems to have ignored its incremental demise over the past decade, is only an exercise in avoidance. It ain't healthy for anyone, except for ulcers.
So, how to handle this? How to process the anxiety as we anachronistic newspaper people prepare to receive a small, 21st-century taste of what the Great Depression must have been like for so many millions of our grandparents almost 80 years ago?
First, feel the anxiety. Soak in it like a tub of tepid bathwater. Don't reject it. Go ahead. Be afraid.
Now, think. What does the anxiety make you want to do? Cry? Scream? Pound your fists on the keyboard? Crawl between the covers and sleep through Halloween? Blame someone? Blame everyone? Blame yourself? Fine. Of course you want to do those things, or worse. But will you? No.
You won't do those things, because you will choose your response. You will allow yourself to feel whatever you're feeling, but you won't do so without thinking about it and thinking about the most productive way to channel the energy those emotions generate. You won't melt into a puddle of self-pity or angst, because that's not productive.
What I did was start this blog.
You want to know why "the end" was Morrison's only friend? Because without it, there would be no beginning.
This is the end, beautiful friend. This is the end. My only friend, the end.
The Doors. There must be a lot of sportswriters out there who like the Doors. You go to sportsjournalists.com and check the message boards; lots of frightened, confused, bitter future former sportswriters are quoting Jim Morrison's ode to death. Or REM (It's the end of the world as we ... blah ... blah ... feel fine, etc.).
The end, eh? Yes, newspapers as we know them are coming to an end. But you know what? I feel fine.
Certainly, I'm anxious. We all are. It's not only the newspaper I've worked at for 16 years, which is facing massive layoffs soon if not enough employees accept buyouts. It's industry wide. Apparently (and here's where my extensive background in business comes into play), newspapers everywhere aren't making enough money to survive.
We are scared. Most of us won't be able to afford our mortgages or even pay the cable bill if we lose our jobs. Did I say if? More like when. Those who survive this round of RIF (autocratic shorthand for Reduction In Force; it's not coincidence that I almost accidently typed RIP instead) can more than likely look forward to another round in the not-too-distant future.
You want scary? How about the prospect of losing a job about a month before a second baby is due to be born? That's almost too frightening to think about. Yet, ignoring the possibility, the way the newspaper industry seems to have ignored its incremental demise over the past decade, is only an exercise in avoidance. It ain't healthy for anyone, except for ulcers.
So, how to handle this? How to process the anxiety as we anachronistic newspaper people prepare to receive a small, 21st-century taste of what the Great Depression must have been like for so many millions of our grandparents almost 80 years ago?
First, feel the anxiety. Soak in it like a tub of tepid bathwater. Don't reject it. Go ahead. Be afraid.
Now, think. What does the anxiety make you want to do? Cry? Scream? Pound your fists on the keyboard? Crawl between the covers and sleep through Halloween? Blame someone? Blame everyone? Blame yourself? Fine. Of course you want to do those things, or worse. But will you? No.
You won't do those things, because you will choose your response. You will allow yourself to feel whatever you're feeling, but you won't do so without thinking about it and thinking about the most productive way to channel the energy those emotions generate. You won't melt into a puddle of self-pity or angst, because that's not productive.
What I did was start this blog.
You want to know why "the end" was Morrison's only friend? Because without it, there would be no beginning.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
