The one where I quit my job
Last March, I decided to quit my job. I’m a big believer in quitting institutions—I’ve quit sports teams, musical instruments, every famous Russian novel, two high schools, two colleges. The only things I haven’t quit, honestly, are writing and asking too many questions.
It’s counterintuitively consistent to be a quitter and a reporter. Both, when done properly, are fed by pigheaded independence and an allergy to bullshit. Obsessions, ethics, and curiosity take precedence over institutional rules and authority. And over money.
Here’s my biggest character flaw (unrelated to taste, anyway): if something hobbles my wide-ranging curiosity without provoking its own fixations, I slowly go insane. Feeling constricted in a creative or intellectual pursuit is much harder for me than the monotony of running a cash machine or the daily indignities of restaurant work. The framework for satisfaction is there; being able to imagine a happy existence but not being able to reach it is a particular kind of misery. It’s a distracting, relentless, physical sensation, like an itch or a headache.
The same signs always pop up when I’m getting close to a quit. I fidget destructively and spend days picking away at the same tasks without getting anywhere. I become distractible to the point of absurdity, like a toddler or a cartoon dog. My morning commute becomes a daily struggle to not turn around. Meanwhile, the urge to quit builds in my impulsive, impractical heart.
There are downsides to freelance, aka semi-paid unemployment. The money sucks, my boss is mercurial, and my healthcare is in danger. I spend a lot of time being annoyed by unreturned emails and saying “sorry, I’m not comfortable signing an indemnity clause” (sidenote to freelancers — please stop signing indemnity clauses, especially without reading them).
Regardless, my non-job is great. The chain of command is just how I like it. If I want to spend a week looking into some random datapoint on a hunch, I’m the only one imposing limits. My offices are in museums and coffee shops and libraries and kitchens. I can walk my dog to the lake when it’s sunny, and if I skip lunch or weekends, or work on vacation, it’s because I care enough to do it.
Right after I quit, someone took me to lunch and asked me if I wanted advice. I said sure, and he said I should find easy money gigs, like front of book stories for niche magazines. “When I first went freelance, I only took jobs I was really excited about,” he told me. “I made $10,000 that year. My wife supported us.”
My 2017 New Years resolution is to take more advice. Much love to my boyfriend, a wonderful man with unshakeable faith that one day I’ll pay my full half of the rent, on time, every month.
Of the stories I wrote in 2016, these are my favorites:
Breakdown, The Verge: Talkspace is a popular text-based therapy app that’s gotten dozens of enthusiastic write-ups. It also treats licensed therapists as 1099 contractors, and restricts their freedom to use best practices. I looked into the dangers of mixing mental illness with the gig economy.
Addicts for Sale, BuzzFeed News: Halfway houses and rehabs in South Florida are a breeding ground for all kinds of scams, including illegal patient brokering and insurance fraud. But addicts keep going there, looking for a better life. I went to Delray Beach to try and understand the crimes that have become a routine part of life for many people there, and how the system self-perpetuates.
A Reptile Dysfunction, BuzzFeed News: Giant desert tortoises are sold as golfball-sized babies in pet stores across the U.S. Some sellers tell prospective owners the truth; others tell buyers the tortoises eat anything and stay the size of their tanks. I drove around SoCal meeting members of the marketplace, including rescuers and sanctuaries saving some of the sick and mistreated castoffs. (Some delightful (healthy) tortoise photos within.)
Gels Vs. Acrylics, Racked: Since everybody needs an occasional break from staring into the abyss, I reported out whether I should pay extra for fancy ‘gel’ fake nails or stick with normal acrylics. Come for the science, stay for the gross pictures of my natural nails after I took my extensions off.
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