Memoir Monday is a weekly series that features snippets of my pregnancy memoir in progress. To see entries from previous weeks, click on the tag "Memoir Monday" at the bottom of this post. -- Katie
Though journalism is written in my DNA, I fell into the
field haphazardly.
I got fired from my first professional job out of college. I
was an “editor” at a pharmaceutical journal, which sounded downright glamorous
to a 23-year-old. My office was in a tall, important building near the Ritzy
communities of Northern Indianapolis. I interviewed well and was fairly certain
my bosses had made a mistake hiring me for such a high title. Editor. I even
got to write a little editor’s note at the beginning of each bi-monthly
edition.
At the risk of sabotaging future resumes, I will admit that
I did very little editing. It was a sales job, plain and simple. The free
journals were supplemented by advertising. The official sales team could sell
more advertising space based on the type of pharmaceutical articles being
written. I should explain here that I didn’t make commission off my sales. I
simply set up the sales team to make commission and took home my paycheck that
added up to somewhere in the mid-20K’s.
I suppose this is the stark reality of media in general, but
I was disheartened at how my days as "editor" were spent cold calling scientists
and trying to convince them to write (for free) for us. When it finally came
time for me to do some “editing,” I was awash in terminology and concepts I did
not understand. I fixed an occasional comma, shortened gigantic paragraphs and
crossed my fingers that these people knew what they were talking about.
My bosses were really no help. Two guys from across the pond
who headed up the American versions of the British originals. They operated the
office like a bunch of fraternity boys, with high expectations and little
guidance for their team of young professionals. We were given a very modest
food allowance for business trips and expected to fly out on Sunday afternoons.
There was no official vacation policy, but I was told I would likely get four
or five days after I’d worked there for six months. This was an entry-level job
for most of my colleagues and though we consistently complained to each other,
we all lacked the experience and confidence to do anything about it.
There was an office rumor that we were going to be given an
upcoming federal holiday off work.
“Okay, well that’s in like three days. Has anyone asked
them?” I wondered.
Everyone shook their heads violently. No one wanted to ask
and taint the possible perk with an expectation of it.
“Last year Liam just called us Sunday night and told us not
to come in Monday morning.”
I left work that Friday night and headed out of town to
visit Brian for the weekend. As I drove I started to get really angry at the
fact that I didn’t know if I needed to drive back to my apartment on Sunday or
Monday. I realized that there were miners working in deathly caverns and
children working their fingers to the bone at a sewing machine in Asia
somewhere. There were plenty of other workers with bigger problems. But damn. I
was annoyed.
