June 19...I Love Writers Digest
I love Writers Digest. It makes me realize that a writer is what I want to be. It confirms that a writer is who I am. I have all the same issues and problems and desires and comfort (or lack thereof) of so many of the writers in that magazine. Besides being a mother, being a writer is the one thing I've done that I really identify with, that I understand, that I'm excited about.
Here's a run-through of the jobs I've had in my life thus far, none of which suited me.
First paying job: summer camp counselor. Liked the responsibility but didn't like the bratty campers. I made $20/week. I still resent the spoiled little twins (age 12) in my tent that refused to eat any food at our table if the black girl in our tent so much as touched a serving utensil. I heard a few years later that the twins' Daddy bought them a BMW--or matching BMWs--when they turned 16. The girls had similar names and claimed their own father couldn't tell them apart. Nice.
Summer after freshman year in college: sales clerk, retail women's clothing, minimum wage. My first experience working with the public.
Summer after sophomore year in college: waitress, county club, Naples, Florida. Under minimum wage, plus tips. So this was how the other half lives. Those golfing ladies were lousy tippers. Was it my fault the only fruit in the fruit salad was watermelon?
Junior year: office worker, Physical Plant, Smith College. Minimum wage. My job was to estimate the amount of time it takes for union workers to complete various repairs jobs around campus. For example, a student would report a burnt-out light bulb in the hallway of her dorm. It took me a while to understand that a job that would take a normal person .1 hour to complete takes a union employee .5 hours to do. And no scheduling of jobs between 10:00 and 10:45. Coffee break. My boss's day consisted mainly of telling me how many cords of wood he'd chopped the day before.
Summer after junior year: sales clerk, upscale women's clothing boutique, minimum wage, Edgartown, Massachusetts. Here I developed an appreciation for fine women's clothing, a trait that plagues my husband to this day. My boss (and the owner) was a charming and fascinating Chinese lady who had three brilliant sons and a brilliant husband who taught at MIT and was reputed to have invented the circuit breaker. The boss used to walk respectfully behind her husband when they went anywhere but I got the impression she was the one everyone really respected. I remember her telling me that her youngest son had fallen in love with a woman 10 years older than he. He'd said, "Dad, wait till you meet her. She's one in a million." After he brought her home, the dad told the son he was wrong. She was one in ten million. I love that.
On Martha's Vineyard I also had a job cleaning a ginormous house once a week for a family with an American wife and a German husband, whose kids spoke English to one parent and German to the other. I thought I hit pay dirt because they paid me $10/hour. Ha!
Senior year: I kept working at the Physical Plant, but it was time to find a "real job". Grad school wasn't on my radar yet. I didn't know what I wanted to do. I only knew that I most emphatically did not want to be a doctor. It never occured to me that I could be a writer.
So get this. I read in Glamour Magazine that paralegal was an up and coming profession for women. This was 1981. God help me, I was taking career advice from Glamour Magazine. Or it might have been Mademoiselle. Either way, I'm cringing even as I write about it now.
So that's what I did. And my roommate, a very smart girl we called Tavs, did the same. We sent out scores of resumes, and received scores of rejection letters, which we taped on the wall of our apartment. Our rejection wall. I wish I still had a copy of that first resume. My job history lacked professional weight, you might say. I had "organizational skills." I had "interpersonal skills." I had "time management skills." What this boiled down to was I had no skills. A major in Modern European Studies and a Minor in Art History I had. But skills? Not so much.
I moved to Boston and worked as a sales clerk (same Chinese lady, in her Boston store) until I landed that coveted paralegal job, where I earned a whopping $11,500/year. Enough to keep me in my cockroach infested but otherwise charming apartment on Joy Street, Beacon Hill.
Then law school. A law clerk at Rax Restaurants. I did more work than the General Counsel, whose job consisted of mainly of kibbitzing, as far as I could tell. Then law clerk at a Columbus firm during the school year for $13/hour. Then law clerk at a firm in Pittsburgh, making $750/week an astronomical sum that my non-lawyer friends found astounding. I first started practicing law at the same firm, making $55,000 the first year.
Five years and two kids later, I started a law practice, which my husband runs now, as I embark on my new career path as a writer. Net income from my writing career thus far: $150. Satisfaction: beyond words.
But back to Writers Digest. Thanks for keeping me motivated. Thanks for understanding me. And well, just thanks!
Here's a run-through of the jobs I've had in my life thus far, none of which suited me.
First paying job: summer camp counselor. Liked the responsibility but didn't like the bratty campers. I made $20/week. I still resent the spoiled little twins (age 12) in my tent that refused to eat any food at our table if the black girl in our tent so much as touched a serving utensil. I heard a few years later that the twins' Daddy bought them a BMW--or matching BMWs--when they turned 16. The girls had similar names and claimed their own father couldn't tell them apart. Nice.
Summer after freshman year in college: sales clerk, retail women's clothing, minimum wage. My first experience working with the public.
Summer after sophomore year in college: waitress, county club, Naples, Florida. Under minimum wage, plus tips. So this was how the other half lives. Those golfing ladies were lousy tippers. Was it my fault the only fruit in the fruit salad was watermelon?
Junior year: office worker, Physical Plant, Smith College. Minimum wage. My job was to estimate the amount of time it takes for union workers to complete various repairs jobs around campus. For example, a student would report a burnt-out light bulb in the hallway of her dorm. It took me a while to understand that a job that would take a normal person .1 hour to complete takes a union employee .5 hours to do. And no scheduling of jobs between 10:00 and 10:45. Coffee break. My boss's day consisted mainly of telling me how many cords of wood he'd chopped the day before.
Summer after junior year: sales clerk, upscale women's clothing boutique, minimum wage, Edgartown, Massachusetts. Here I developed an appreciation for fine women's clothing, a trait that plagues my husband to this day. My boss (and the owner) was a charming and fascinating Chinese lady who had three brilliant sons and a brilliant husband who taught at MIT and was reputed to have invented the circuit breaker. The boss used to walk respectfully behind her husband when they went anywhere but I got the impression she was the one everyone really respected. I remember her telling me that her youngest son had fallen in love with a woman 10 years older than he. He'd said, "Dad, wait till you meet her. She's one in a million." After he brought her home, the dad told the son he was wrong. She was one in ten million. I love that.
On Martha's Vineyard I also had a job cleaning a ginormous house once a week for a family with an American wife and a German husband, whose kids spoke English to one parent and German to the other. I thought I hit pay dirt because they paid me $10/hour. Ha!
Senior year: I kept working at the Physical Plant, but it was time to find a "real job". Grad school wasn't on my radar yet. I didn't know what I wanted to do. I only knew that I most emphatically did not want to be a doctor. It never occured to me that I could be a writer.
So get this. I read in Glamour Magazine that paralegal was an up and coming profession for women. This was 1981. God help me, I was taking career advice from Glamour Magazine. Or it might have been Mademoiselle. Either way, I'm cringing even as I write about it now.
So that's what I did. And my roommate, a very smart girl we called Tavs, did the same. We sent out scores of resumes, and received scores of rejection letters, which we taped on the wall of our apartment. Our rejection wall. I wish I still had a copy of that first resume. My job history lacked professional weight, you might say. I had "organizational skills." I had "interpersonal skills." I had "time management skills." What this boiled down to was I had no skills. A major in Modern European Studies and a Minor in Art History I had. But skills? Not so much.
I moved to Boston and worked as a sales clerk (same Chinese lady, in her Boston store) until I landed that coveted paralegal job, where I earned a whopping $11,500/year. Enough to keep me in my cockroach infested but otherwise charming apartment on Joy Street, Beacon Hill.
Then law school. A law clerk at Rax Restaurants. I did more work than the General Counsel, whose job consisted of mainly of kibbitzing, as far as I could tell. Then law clerk at a Columbus firm during the school year for $13/hour. Then law clerk at a firm in Pittsburgh, making $750/week an astronomical sum that my non-lawyer friends found astounding. I first started practicing law at the same firm, making $55,000 the first year.
Five years and two kids later, I started a law practice, which my husband runs now, as I embark on my new career path as a writer. Net income from my writing career thus far: $150. Satisfaction: beyond words.
But back to Writers Digest. Thanks for keeping me motivated. Thanks for understanding me. And well, just thanks!
posted by calabresewoman | 5:59 PM
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