It sounds ridiculous, but I try not to write too much about myself here. That is to say, I don’t like to get into anything about my personal life that is not perfectly obvious from a distance. But I feel it is time for one of those exceptions right now, mostly because I think it will explain a lot about why I’ve been so quiet these past few months, and will hopefully explain to my friends out there where I’ve been all these months.
Last June, my family and I came back from Moscow. It was a weird time, I remember sitting on that plane -- or more properly, running around in circles on that KLM Boeing-747 as Mila did laps for several hours -- full of all kinds of nervousness and anticipation. I didn’t have anything I was going back to, but something about being abroad and living in the big city made me appreciate our quiet country lives. Things would work out. But something came up. In the middle of adjusting to the culture shock, and moving to a new house, I got a job offer. In general, it is not a great idea to make major life decisions guided solely by fear.
But when I was offered a night editing job at the Eagle, my old haunt, I was terrified of refusing a regular paycheck when the economy was beginning to circle the drain. So I took the job, and I remember driving down to Pittsfield my first day, and then there is nothing but this whooshing sound. And here I am, months later, unsure about where the time went. Lots happened, of course -- Mila started daycare, we went to Poland -- but honestly, those details feel like detached dreams. My schedule at work was only nights, and most weekends. There was no set schedule, so the weeks all blurred into one mush of work. Because the job hours happened precisely and solely when we did not have access to childcare, my wife had to take care of Mila, significantly impacting her work as well. Our family life suffered because we were together rarely. I spent my time in Russia looking forward to being able to cook again, but now I had a job in which I couldn’t cook anymore. And the work itself was difficult. Years and years of budget cuts at American newspapers have whittled it down to a few incredibly busy jobs it is almost impossible to do well. Basically, you show up for work, grind away on a computer, look up and realize its time to go home and fall asleep. The closest analogy, I’m afraid to admit, was that summer in college I spent 12-hour shifts putting labels on shampoo bottles at a plastic molding factory.
So for the past few weeks, I’ve been in agony thinking about the future. It came about because this spring we have a lot of things on our schedule, and my work, in which I was parceled out a random batch of days two weeks ahead of time, made it frustrating to plan. I realized I was on a path that was wrong for my career, wrong for my wife’s career, wrong for my daughter’s childhood, and I stuck with it because I liked my co-workers, I liked the idea of having a career in newspaper journalism, and I liked the paycheck (though note: I did not like the amount of money it brought me. Newspapers work is appallingly badly paid). I went back and forth over and over again. I made up my mind and still agonized over whether it was the right thing to do. I ate badly, I lost sleep, I snapped at friends and strangers. And in the background, the steady, miserable backdrop of economic apocalypse. As the ship goes down, to step off it makes you feel perfectly insane. I’ve been pretty responsible though – no ill-advised mortgage, just ill-advised student loans. And there is the general malaise and agita of the future of newspapers (this year’s Internet meme must surely be “The Death of Newspapers” … but that’s another post!).
But what tipped me over the edge was the most mundane thing: a really, really bad boss that made none of it worthwhile. Maybe I’ll get into all that later; I haven’t decided yet. And then you had winter. Readjusting to a New England winter, especially a particularly nasty one like this, has been hard. In Moscow, you get central heating, crews of central Asian immigrants that keep the snow cleared. Here, where you are responsible for everything yourself, it feels like each little thing takes a greater toll on you. Every time you have to shovel the walkway, or pay a jaw-dropping bill for a heating oil delivery, seems to make things a little worse. But I try to remember all those things about how I felt on that plane slouching toward JFK International Airport. And after this months-long detour, I can look forward once again to the fear, uncertainty, and… spring!
Last June, my family and I came back from Moscow. It was a weird time, I remember sitting on that plane -- or more properly, running around in circles on that KLM Boeing-747 as Mila did laps for several hours -- full of all kinds of nervousness and anticipation. I didn’t have anything I was going back to, but something about being abroad and living in the big city made me appreciate our quiet country lives. Things would work out. But something came up. In the middle of adjusting to the culture shock, and moving to a new house, I got a job offer. In general, it is not a great idea to make major life decisions guided solely by fear.
But when I was offered a night editing job at the Eagle, my old haunt, I was terrified of refusing a regular paycheck when the economy was beginning to circle the drain. So I took the job, and I remember driving down to Pittsfield my first day, and then there is nothing but this whooshing sound. And here I am, months later, unsure about where the time went. Lots happened, of course -- Mila started daycare, we went to Poland -- but honestly, those details feel like detached dreams. My schedule at work was only nights, and most weekends. There was no set schedule, so the weeks all blurred into one mush of work. Because the job hours happened precisely and solely when we did not have access to childcare, my wife had to take care of Mila, significantly impacting her work as well. Our family life suffered because we were together rarely. I spent my time in Russia looking forward to being able to cook again, but now I had a job in which I couldn’t cook anymore. And the work itself was difficult. Years and years of budget cuts at American newspapers have whittled it down to a few incredibly busy jobs it is almost impossible to do well. Basically, you show up for work, grind away on a computer, look up and realize its time to go home and fall asleep. The closest analogy, I’m afraid to admit, was that summer in college I spent 12-hour shifts putting labels on shampoo bottles at a plastic molding factory.
So for the past few weeks, I’ve been in agony thinking about the future. It came about because this spring we have a lot of things on our schedule, and my work, in which I was parceled out a random batch of days two weeks ahead of time, made it frustrating to plan. I realized I was on a path that was wrong for my career, wrong for my wife’s career, wrong for my daughter’s childhood, and I stuck with it because I liked my co-workers, I liked the idea of having a career in newspaper journalism, and I liked the paycheck (though note: I did not like the amount of money it brought me. Newspapers work is appallingly badly paid). I went back and forth over and over again. I made up my mind and still agonized over whether it was the right thing to do. I ate badly, I lost sleep, I snapped at friends and strangers. And in the background, the steady, miserable backdrop of economic apocalypse. As the ship goes down, to step off it makes you feel perfectly insane. I’ve been pretty responsible though – no ill-advised mortgage, just ill-advised student loans. And there is the general malaise and agita of the future of newspapers (this year’s Internet meme must surely be “The Death of Newspapers” … but that’s another post!).
But what tipped me over the edge was the most mundane thing: a really, really bad boss that made none of it worthwhile. Maybe I’ll get into all that later; I haven’t decided yet. And then you had winter. Readjusting to a New England winter, especially a particularly nasty one like this, has been hard. In Moscow, you get central heating, crews of central Asian immigrants that keep the snow cleared. Here, where you are responsible for everything yourself, it feels like each little thing takes a greater toll on you. Every time you have to shovel the walkway, or pay a jaw-dropping bill for a heating oil delivery, seems to make things a little worse. But I try to remember all those things about how I felt on that plane slouching toward JFK International Airport. And after this months-long detour, I can look forward once again to the fear, uncertainty, and… spring!
