Part Two
After I completed my master’s degree in journalism at Northwestern University, I received a dream job writing for The Chicago Reader, an indie newspaper. I loved long form writing (remember magazines?), but I was not making much money. This was the 1980s. Everyone told me I simply needed to give up, get a job that paid more and move on in my life. So I did. “It’s all about making money,” a friend told me. “Happiness will follow.” It didn’t.
I went into PR (the dark side, as we journalists called it) and was miserable for nearly twenty years. I made good money. I had great benefits. All the perks you’re supposed to have, all the “things” and the right image you’re supposed to have to be happy. And yet I wasn’t. All I wanted to do was write.
That’s when I called my my mom (pictured below)