When Change Sucks

I’m green, I know it. I am working hard to find a place for myself in the writing world. It’s not easy, but I try.

Unfortunately, school and family and friends and other life responsibilities are all also tugging on my time. I am learning how to balance everything while I learn the business, and I’m not always good at it.

So, once I found a local rag to write for– one that was close to home and friendly– I started to feel a little more at ease. The pay isn’t great but the stories are fun local features. They allow me to get out into the community, learn about about the wonderful lives– and deeds– of my neighbors and then to share their stories with the community at large. It isn’t a demanding job, but the monthly deadlines fit in well with my wonky, over-booked school schedule.

This past month, after working like a maniac to submit four stories and take summer school finals in the same week, I was shocked to see only one of my stories made the paper. And, worse, the one that did had my editor’s name in the byline, not mine.

It was a mistake; an unintended mistake. Those happen. I get it. It’s not that big of a deal. The other three articles will run either next month or in November. No big whoop.

But, today, a classmate and former editor (of my school paper, The University Times) sent an email saying, essentially, “I hear my paper bought your paper. Welcome back into the fold!”

Umm. Uh. Wait. What?

No! I love my little paper just the way it is, even if some copy editor somewhere accidentally changed the name on my last published piece.

I’ve worked for his, the email sender’s, paper before– briefly. (Thus the welcome.) His paper has a totally different feel to it, a totally different tone and aim. The owner is aloof, cheap and doesn’t treat his staff well. The editors are frazzled and unhappy, and they pass that along to their writers. No one that I have spoken to from that paper has talked about working with them for the long-term. In fact, all but my former school paper editor– who never says a bad word about any one or any thing– have talked about how they can’t wait to make their escape.

The paper I write for– the one I am hoping isn’t sold, or even on the block for that matter– is sweet natured and community oriented. I have never endured editorial nonsense, even when I deserved it. I have never had to beg for my stipend. I have enjoyed every minute of my writing for them, even if I do get a little anxious over deadlines.

I met with the editor/ owner/ publisher of my current paper a couple of weeks ago. He didn’t hint that the place was up for sale, in fact he offered me a post-graduation job. He talked about how local papers are doing so much better than regional and national papers. He gave me permission to loosen up and have more fun with my work, versus the sanitized professor-ready stuff I’m used to turning in for class.

I am crossing my fingers as tightly as I can (O.K., mentally– I can’t cross my fingers and type at the same time). If my sweet l’il local has been sold, I’m afraid that isn’t change I can believe in. I’m afraid I’ll be out hunting for more regular rag-paper work.

Why? Because if I’ve learned nothing else in my now eight months as a stay-at-home student and freelance writer it’s that I don’t want to work for assholes; I’ve already surpassed my asshole-boss quota for this lifetime.