A Walker in the Suburbs

Nothing unites an office like a rodent on the loose, and this week, my office has had one. I first heard about it from my former cubicle mate, who spotted a telltale tail sticking out of a crack in a partition. The mouse looked like it was trying to fit into a hole it was too big for, she said, and laughed.

But laughing wasn’t all that was going on. A few minutes later, there was a scream from another part of the office. The mouse had struck again.

Soon, mouse spottings became the topic of conversation in the kitchen and the hallways. I heard from someone on the other side of the building who said a mouse had been living in his potted plant.

Either this is a very well-traveled varmint or … it’s a whole family of ’em.

I put my money on the latter.

(Above: Mrs. Tittlemouse, a most tidy, particular, sweet little mouse. Let’s hope the Winrock “mouse” is cast in her image.)

Today is what I used to call my “sad little anniversary” — but I don’t call it that anymore. For one thing it isn’t little, since it marked a profound change in my life. And for another, it isn’t sad. I mostly said this because of journalistic scruples — and I don’t feel those much anymore.

Fifteen years ago today I took a staff magazine writing job for a university publication, ending 17 years of full-time freelancing. I had been happy and productive as my own boss, cranking out hundreds of articles for scores of national magazines. I even wrote a couple of books. But the creative well was running a little dry, the pocketbook was feeling a bit slim — and the job presented itself as an attractive option.

I told myself that I could always leave if I was miserable. But I wasn’t miserable, and the staff writing job led to an alumni magazine editor job and eventually to my current work writing for a nonprofit development organization.

I have stepped further away from my journalistic roots than I ever thought I would. But I long ago realized that every writer answers to someone, be that a magazine editor, an advertiser or a communications director. And my writing is doing far more good now — helping survivors of human trafficking, for example — than it was when it was used to sell makeup or diapers.

Which is not to say I have no quibbles. Almost none of my work is bylined. I put words in other people’s mouths. I am an employee. More and more, I long for time to do my own writing. And, every October 12th, I think about the choice I made. Was it the right one? I’ll never know.