On October 12, 2004, I went to work as a writer/editor for a university alumni magazine, ending a 17-year freelance-only career. I can still recall the strangeness of that day, the sound of high heels on the hard floor as a designer dropped off page proofs for me to read, the lunch I shared with two new colleagues. I even remember the outfit I wore, which included sandals because I hadn’t yet gotten around to buying “work shoes.”

Though I’ve long since grown used to the routine, some days it still seems slightly surreal to trade sweatpants and slipper socks for a skirt and flats, to travel elsewhere to do what I do at home all the time anyway.  But the routine has enlarged me, has given me plenty to think and write about, has helped me feel closer to the place I live.

Writing will never be just a job to me. But for many of my waking hours these days, that’s exactly what it is.