The big-bosomed, pink-slippered, black-eyed lady stared me down in her small three-story home. The offer of a salary and a journalistic writing career hung in the stale air. (See A Directional Career Curve.)
I took the dare and the job.
Just out of grad school, after dozens of rejections, I grabbed the chance to actually work at my skill of … well, writing?
With a Master’s in English I could pen pages about Swift’s satire and write a 100-page thesis on the Literature of Expatriate Black Authors, but could I actually DO anything with that degree?
Pauline’s black-eyed stare asked me that question.
Within 15 minutes I signed the contract and, unknowingly, I signed my life away for a year.
Did I feel imprisoned in her third-story small bedroom cum office Monday through Friday from 9 to 5?
Did I bemoan my decision by Day Two of my employment?
Without a doubt. Continue reading