Fifteen years ago today I took a staff magazine writing job for a university publication, ending 17 years of full-time freelancing. I had been happy and productive as my own boss, cranking out hundreds of articles for scores of national magazines. I even wrote a couple of books. But the creative well was running a little dry, the pocketbook was feeling a bit slim — and the job presented itself as an attractive option.
I told myself that I could always leave if I was miserable. But I wasn't miserable, and the staff writing job led to an alumni magazine editor job and eventually to my current work writing for a nonprofit development organization.
I have stepped further away from my journalistic roots than I ever thought I would. But I long ago realized that every writer answers to someone, be that a magazine editor, an advertiser or a communications director. And my writing is doing far more good now — helping survivors of human trafficking, for example — than it was when it was used to sell makeup or diapers.
Which is not to say I have no quibbles. Almost none of my work is bylined. I put words in other people's mouths. I am an employee. More and more, I long for time to do my own writing. And, every October 12th, I think about the choice I made. Was it the right one? I'll never know.