in the books and the calendar declaring an all-new Monday, I have exactly six minutes until the video conference with my editor. A perfect excuse to be running through the kitchen. One swipe grabs up the cereal bowl on the counter and another rams the jug of milk into the fridge. Everything clatters into the sink. I spin around, straighten all three bar stools in an Olympic-worthy display of agility and aim. Panting, I skid in my socks to my tiny work desk to cram loose papers and two granola bar wrappers out of sight.
Not that my entire apartment is going to show up on the conference call, but it seems that whenever I sit down, something weird and unexplainable is visible in the background. Last month it was a bag of pinecones by the bed from a nature walk that little Sammy and I went on together after school. The month before that, my cat had hopped onto the counter to lap up a bowl of cereal milk. I’d watched in horror on the screen, not being able to do a thing about it, and my boss’s distracted gaze kept sliding that way.
Today, Calypso is dozing on my bed like the angel I asked her to be, and since this studio apartment has one main room with scant places to conceal messes, I do a few finishing touches, then slide into the desk chair with three minutes left to catch my breath. Using the glow from the screen, I make sure my freshly-layered hair isn’t a disaster. The aroma of the eucalyptus candle burning on the shelf brings a sense of home and calm. On the desk rests a list of new article ideas. Some fresh directions for the magazine column. I have a strong sense that it’s going to be another no, so if that’s the case, I also have a plan B scripted. It’s not the most desirable plan, but sometimes it’s just time.
Through the window, morning clouds part for the sun. I reach over and lower the shade. The August warmth dims. Within moments, the screen blinks to life as the video chat loads. I straighten in my chair and paste on a smile just in case the camera is already picking up a signal. The screen changes and another face appears. My editor. His balding head catches the lights of his office and his glasses gleam with the blue glow of his own computer screen.
“Good afternoon, Sadie.”
“Good to see you, Mr. Taylor. How are things going?”
“Pretty well, pretty well.” He says it dryly—all business-like—and it makes me more nervous. Leaning back in his swivel chair, he tents his fingers and rests them on the rounded front of his business suit. “So, tell me what you’d like to talk about.”
My heart’s in my throat. “Well, I wanted to discuss the direction of the column, and instead of wasting your time with a bunch of emails back and forth, thought I might run some new article ideas by you and we can see what you think.”
He nods, not looking the least bit interested.
“I’ve reshaped them from the last time we talked so was wondering if something might work now.” I pull my list of ideas closer. “We’ve talked previously about the readership, and I know I’ve suggested some topics in the past that aren’t quite as in line with the vision you have for the column, but perhaps there’s a way we can proceed with a few adjustments. Maybe I can gear the column toward a slightly older audience. Or take an approach that focuses on a different demographic. Is it possible that the magazine has readers who—”
“Look, Sadie.” He peels off his glasses which is a bad sign. It means he’s willing to say whatever he’s about to say without being able to see. “We appreciate you. You’re a talented writer with a fresh, vibrant voice. You’re always on time with your column, and you work well with the rest of the team here. But we won’t be able to change the direction of the column. As you know, this is a national magazine, and to reach the needed trajectory, we have to maintain over a hundred thousand paid subscriptions every quarter. That’s a tall order, but one of the pieces that helps us achieve that are your excellent articles. It’s a crucial part of what we offer our readers and it would not only be a shame to change that, but detrimental to the future of what we’re trying to maintain.”
Throat dry, it’s impossible to even squeak out a response.
“If it’s a raise you’re looking for, I can present a proposal to the finance department and let you know what they say. We’ve been bouncing around some ideas for next season’s columns, and in addition to topics on the millennial dating scene, we’d also like to explore the different aspects of planning a wedding. Choosing a wedding venue. Selecting bridesmaids. Those kinds of things. Our vision is to open the door for you to kick-start some on-site interviews with wedding vendors nationwide.”
Calypso could be doing the backstroke in a bowl of cereal right now, and I wouldn’t even notice.
“We’d like to capitalize on topics like ‘she said yes to the dress’ and other themes which are really trending right now.”
I nod numbly. None of this conversation is going as I hoped. Closing my eyes, I block out the sight of my disappointed boss and recall what it’s like to try and dig deep and find myself. To navigate years of heartache while God does His work in helping me find my voice and even fervor again. I want to write about the purpose and passion that’s growing inside me deeper and deeper each day, not about a dream that never came true.
It’s time, Sadie.
“I understand, Mr. Taylor. I am so grateful for the experiences I’ve had here working on this column, but I now recognize that I won’t be the right writer for this post moving forward. It would be a disservice to everyone if I continued trying.” Now that the words are out, breathing comes easier. “I believe it’s time for me to turn in my resignation. I can complete a column for the start of next quarter, but I won’t be able to offer any written works for the December issue or beyond.” My heart is hammering so loudly I’m grateful he’s not in the room to notice.
He blinks and then unfolds his hands. This is a savvy editor who’s been in the industry for enough decades that one woman turning in her notice isn’t going to rock his boat. He proves that when he explains that I’ll be receiving a severance letter from HR within the next two weeks and that he appreciates the three years of service I gave to the magazine.
“Th—thank you, Mr. Taylor.”
And with that, he gives a stiff wave. His screen goes blank.
Shooting out another breath I sink down in the chair. I just quit my job. Calypso hops up on the desk and rubs her tail against my arm, completely oblivious to the fact that one of us has to pay for her cat food. I lean against her sleek, black body and close my eyes. Inside blooms relief and I soak it in. Yes, it’s discouraging to have bumped into a brick wall with the column, and I had many years there, but I respect their needs. As for me, I’ve just let go of something that wasn’t right. It’s finally come. Time to evoke the next stage of this plan. Hope is far from lost. “Chin up, Sadie.”
I still have my freelance editing services, and as of right now, my schedule is lined up for the next three months. Two clients have already paid their deposit and one has already sent me their manuscript. It’s waiting in my inbox. There is lots of work to do and plenty of ways to stay afloat. Not to mention, there are other magazines that I could try and write for. Each of the articles on my list are solid, worthy ideas that could be well-received by the right audience. I could submit them to a variety of publications or some online blogs. The possibilities are abundant if I take this direction seriously.
For now, I can brush off the dust from this conversation, relish in the productive years I’ve had with the magazine, and get started on the next project. I mean, a pint of ice cream wouldn’t hurt right now, but there isn’t any on hand. Later on, I’ll make a run to the grocery store and pick up something simple for dinner and something chocolatey to commemorate the occasion. For now, I take a quick stretch break and move my computer to a more comfortable spot. It officially hits me. This is my full-time job now. Sadie McGillis, Freelance Editor and writer. Such an intimidating thought, but it means that I’ll get to customize the projects I take on. And yes, there’s more than a bittersweet twinge to think of no longer being a magazine columnist. It’s an ache I can’t quite face right now.
There are plenty more magazines out there. There’s still more writing inside of me. Not only articles, but maybe even stories as well. I used to love writing short snippets of fiction as a kid. My mom and I would splay them out on my bedroom floor, and with her help, we’d search for mistakes, draw out additional ideas, and she helped me see that writing was a gift I needed to pursue. I’ll give her a call and talk this all over soon. For right now, I need to let this morning sink in.
Would I ever have the courage to really prioritize something like writing fiction? I’d like to think so. The way things have been panning out lately, I wouldn’t be surprised if an idea didn’t spark. One worth jotting down onto the page. It’s fun to dream in new ways again. And as for today, I’ll focus on the projects already at hand and celebrate having the strain of the video call behind me.
Repositioned, I pour a glass of iced tea and get started on the first manuscript of the month. It’s a cozy western that I’ve been looking forward to. Now it’s the perfect day to dive in. If I make good time, I can have this back to the author in just a few weeks and continue on to the next client. Everything’s going to be fine. Just to prove it to myself, I open the calculator app and crunch the numbers on what next month’s income will look like. Once the total fills the screen, I nibble the tip of my thumb. It will be a narrow margin, but I’ll clear rent and basic expenses.
A twinge hits with another realization. I haven’t gotten an official membership yet for the climbing gym. The punch card for Rock Central will only last until my tenth visit, then it will cost sixty dollars a month if I choose to continue. Is it a splurge I’m able to make? In all honesty . . . should I even consider it to be a splurge? Is prioritizing physical and emotional health a splurge? I’d like to think these experiences are a commitment worth maintaining, so long as it’s reasonable. There must be ways to make it work. Maybe if I ride the bus, instead of drive, the gas money saved would cover the membership cost. That’s not a bad idea. It would be a thirty-minute bus ride instead of a fifteen-minute drive, but may be worth it. I can also stop writing at the coffee shop where I indulge in my favorite drinks. Or on days when a change of scenery is in order, I could just buy plain house coffee. There are ways to make this happen. And my determination is fierce.
As for now, I’ll get to work with this first manuscript. I’ll be able to knock out a few chapters today and more tomorrow, then I’ll see about doing some networking to possibly bring in additional freelance work for autumn. There’s always a way forward . . . one just has to find it.
Circling my brain is Mr. Taylor’s voice on the potential of an article about saying yes to the dress. I don’t blame him. Dozens of friends and family members have posted over the years of how they, or their daughters, said ‘yes to the dress.’ Quite the trending topic.
But what do I want to stand for?
It’s not that I’m opposed to marriage. Quite the contrary. I’d love to get to say yes to the dress. But for the women like me who haven’t had that opportunity, what kind of optimism can I offer?
Over the years, I’ve dealt with highs and lows. Joy and melancholy. In the midst of it, I’ve even faced the dark shadows of depression. I’ve been in a really good place the last few years, but I don’t want to get comfortable. There are women around me who are struggling. Women who feel forgotten or even alone. So I guess that’s what the trip to the store was meant to symbolize today. A way for me to embrace possibility. A reminder to step further and further from the shadows of grief.
Sliding from the desk chair, I shift to the bed and sit. And there rests the box of climbing shoes that I dropped and fumbled right in front of Seth and his new girlfriend. I pull one shoe out and then the other. Just like Britt said, I don’t want that encounter to spoil the joy of this moment. Of all that this new experience means to me. It’s not just about a hobby or even a sport.
It’s about having something to get excited about in life.
Something that makes the sky seem a little bluer—and the future a little brighter.
That’s the message I need for myself. And it’s the message I want to share with women someday through writing, whether an article, blog post, or even something longer. We live in a world that pushes us into the corner, while announcing wedding, engagement, and baby news every single day on social media feeds. What about the women who haven’t reached those milestones? This world dangles what we can’t obtain right in front of our eyes, all the while reprimanding us if we have even a hint of envy. We’re given advice on how to deal with our heartache, but never an acknowledgement that we’re in an uphill battle in a complicated world. Why do single women have to feel like we’re in a waiting room, faking it until we make it?
I’m not staying in the waiting room anymore.
I peel the Velcro back. These shoes are mine, not rentals. A symbol that I own them. We go together now. After putting on the second shoe, I hold my legs out straight to admire the view. “She said yes to the shoe,” I whisper.
Perhaps not as trendy of a topic, but maybe, just maybe, that will be the start to the very next thing I write.