Hi all, I'm Monica, recently cut loose from the Chicago Reader (where I spent nearly 14 years), and now rambling as a free agent. Now, here's an icky issue we laid-off writers contend with: when it first happened, although it came as no shock, I was so frakking angry. Not at the Reader editors, no, they had to make the best of a shitty situation. The only employment-hell-related thing I can think of that's worse than being laid off from a job you loved is having to be the one who lays off longtime collaborators and friends, because the incompetent hacks who bought your company aren't willing to do the decent thing and come do their dirty work in person where we can throw shoes at them.
I am bummed about my industry dying because, in part, there are an infinite number of monkeys on the Internet willing to do an infinite amount of typing for free. (Or stealing other people's typing - no, I won't forget, Huffpo). So what do I do now? Contribute to the problem? Be a scab?
Problem is, I'm a writer. It's what I do. When I'm not blocked, I'm typing and I can't shut up.
14 hours ago
I laughed like hell about throwing shoes but it's a pretty sad picture you describe. The being a scab part made me flash on my own scabdom.
ReplyDeleteI was 15 and working on the tomato harvesting machines for $50 a night (they run 24hrs) was tall money in '74. We were in a long line of cars on a narrow dirt road and a kid around our age was standing there with a UFW sign saying "don't cross that line, man". That there was no place to pull out of the line of cars made it easy for us to keep moving along but I knew it was wrong. The big guilty irony came a few weeks later when my band played at a bean feed. We had some new equipment bought with our scab money. The guest of honor was Cesar Chavez.
Good luck to you. And don't shut up!