From the Back Lines

So, I have this great effing job.

It's wild, actually. I'm making almost twice the amount of money I was before I finished school. Which, of course, was the whole point. I can wear what I want; I have my own sweet office; I have practically unlimited freedom to come and go--and all I have to do is put out a few medical articles that basically write themselves.

The problem? Well, of course there's a problem. No one who has life so great can ever be content. The problem is that I'm simply never going to give a flying fig about this place. Never. I could work here for twenty years and still feel completely apathetic.

See, my last job--for the little, mom-and-pop-owned newspaper--was a labor of love. I loved the people; I loved the town; I loved the community. I lived for the goofy, Hiaasen-esque stories and characters that would drift in and out of my life. There was constant movement, interaction, joking, work, and... love, actually. There were no doors to close; every bit of news, from the personal to the political, was passionately spread out over the proof table like so much birthday cake, blue chips and garlic salsa.

But I couldn't support myself. I did quadruple duty as a sales rep/copyeditor/layout artist/writer, and there was just no way to make it work.

And now, I'm here. I'm blogging this from my office. There are nine articles waiting to be cranked out--on anything from facelifts to carpal tunnel syndrome--and I'm blogging.

It's an election year. My girlfriend may have to move to Copenhagen. There's a thunderstorm brewing outside. Still, my door is closed.