She Works Alone.

(photo: circa 2009 – testing beauty products for a magazine shoot)

I came across a blog post about success recently, which made me think about failure.

The diagram included in the post was especially good at deciphering the unconventional paths we must sometimes take to reach our goals.

From that blog post, I was led to this article, which lists 26 successful people that failed at first. And it got me thinking about the times I failed as a writer.

Then that got me thinking about the times I perceived my failure as a writer, based on other people’s assumptions, which aren’t always the most accurate reflection of anything, particularly your work, and particularly in writing.

Here is a personal story about that, because it’s something I really wish I knew in my 20s. I would have cried less.

***

2008 -

I was young (27) and freshly married for five months when I got the job.

Riding high on top of the world, I landed the role of my dreams: an editor for a women’s fitness magazine.

After years spent as a fitness entrepreneur and struggling writer, I felt I had hit gold. And, for a time, I did, I had struck gold in every way. Or at least if felt like it.

About three months into the job, I get an email from our magazine’s Big Boss-

“S, come to my office in five, need to talk.”

Immediately, my heart jumps into my throat. I am nervous and suspicious, but figure, fuck it, at least I’ve been here this long and can put it on my resume.

I reply with:

“Be right there.
-sandy”

When I get to my Big Boss’ office, I’m not the only one there.

Sitting in one of two chairs in front of his desk is my Senior Editor (SE). No big deal. Up until now, I like her. But that will be short-lived.

Unfortunately for everyone working at the magazine, SE and Big Boss are secretly dating and, although that’s another story full of details that aren’t mine to share, I can tell you that this piece of information is something I wish I had known before that meeting. Why? Because sex between co-workers fucks everyone.

But I digress.

That day, in his bright, big office, right in front of SE (/his secret girlfriend), Big Boss tells me that I’m a “rising star” at the magazine (his words, not mine). He wants me off all web content and strictly writing for print, taking on more responsibility.

I was thrilled! Relieved! Still employed!

I couldn’t believe this was happening to me: someone had noticed my work. I can do this writing thing after all, I think to myself, And maybe, just maybe, I am even a little bit good at it.

Too young and in love with my life to see past my own happiness, I wish I had noticed the darting eyes of SE that day, as she listened to her boyfriend/Big Boss give orders to mentor me and see that I continued to rise in the organization.

Ouch.

Mentoring in the publishing industry isn’t really a “thing” people do freely, and these circumstances were especially laced with the stench of office politics. I do not know this at the time, since it’s still early in my career.

I left Big Boss’s office on Cloud Nine after that meeting, only to be brought down to ground zero within a few months.

Slowly, things around the office grow tense between SE and me, but I have no idea why. I keep this to myself, not sharing it with anyone, but this starts to wear on my self-confidence over several weeks. I have no clue the damage she will do in the months ahead.

Maybe I was too young and naive to see it. Maybe I’m just too trusting in general. But most likely, I just wanted a mentor so badly, that I was blind to the reality:  I wasn’t gaining a mentor in SE, but an enemy, whether I liked it or not.

I’m sensitive by nature, so I was blown away when I saw that being a “good writer” and “hard worker” would be received so poorly by my superior. It nearly broke me. But I took SE’s criticism anyway, hoping to prove to her that I was good enough, until I started noticing that she was shutting down story idea after story idea, with no reason to stand on.

Then, one day, she stopped saying hello in the halls when we passed each other.

I would run ideas by my supportive colleagues often, to make sure they were smart, relevant and padded enough to pitch at meetings. But still, SE hated them all and gave me less and less work to do, exactly the opposite of what our Big Boss had promised in that now infamous meeting all those months ago, back when I was still a rising star.

In time, I began to realize that SE took this same passive-aggressive wear-down approach with all editors who showed any kind of potential or who ‘spoke up’ at editorial meetings; it was a Catch-22 for all of us: say nothing and risk looking like mutes in front of our publisher (the owner of the magazine), or say too much and risk the passive-aggressive wrath of our superiors.

This is what we in the business called being “fucked”.

One day, months later, Big Boss pulls me into his office again and tells me that, in fact, I can’t write.

I’m mediocre at best, he says. He doesn’t like my confidence, I just know it, and he loathes when I speak my mind in editorial meetings, something he once praised me for. His tune for me has changed, without notice, and I don’t know the lyrics to this new song.

I am up Shit’s Creek, no paddle, as they say.

Most of my story ideas are shot down, week after week, and soon my editor in chief joins in on the witch hunt, too, making my work life harder than it has to be, accusing me of doing things I don’t do, like visiting celebrity gossip sites during work hours, which is something she actually does several times a day. She also accuses me of missing deadlines I was never given. This devastates me. With my tail between my legs, I apologize and start to recede into sadness.

My editor in chief uses me as a scapegoat, I later find out, figuring that, if she dislikes me as much as Big Boss and SE do, she might save her own ass – it was no secret that she was constantly on the brink of being fired.

The office mimicked the halls of high school, but with the added pathetic whiff of immaturity, because grown-ups were acting like bullies, all in the name of ego and insecurity.

But why? I ask myself, why is this happening to me, to my career?  For months, torturing my young and sad heart with doubts and self-criticism, I cry a lot and feel confused a lot, and it is awful.

How did my fall from editorial grace happen so fast?

I may never know the whole truth, but I can assure you it was an experience I look back on now with a smile (maybe even a slight smirk) because I learned something about humans, their insecurities, and how it all stems from how they feel about themselves. In other words, if your boss is a nightmare, it’s not your fault.

During the time I spent as an editor on the fringe, teetering between good days and bad days, all based on the mood of my superiors, I learned that other people’s opinions (OPO) only matter when they come from respectable sources. And none of the people in charge at that particular magazine, at that particular time, deserved an inch of respect, even though they got it every day, from all of us.

I quit that job (twice!) in 2010, finally leaving on May 7, with a box of my belongings, some free makeup samples, a tank top with the magazine’s logo on the front, too many lip glosses, two staplers and a lift in my spirit: I finally had the courage to move on and be myself again, unedited.

Since then, the editors who made my life miserable have all been fired. Yep, all three.

Secret celebrations were had by all of us who once suffered under their pathetic tutelage. But that’s where it ends. No further malice, because anger takes up too much creative energy and those three once drained me enough.

My skin has grown twice as thick since those days and it shows – I’ve been successfully freelancing ever since.

Like learning not to touch a hot stove after you’ve touched a hot stove, I won’t be repeating the mistakes I made back then, but I will continue to share what I’ve learned as a writer. Getting burned happens to us all at one time or another…and it’s nice to know you’re not the only one with a few scars.

-sandy.