Tuesday, January 26, 2010


I didn't come to New York wanting to be Carrie Bradshaw, although I know lots of girls do. Like Carrie, I wanted to be a writer, but I saw myself as more career-driven. I was interested in collecting bylines and beats, not labels or love. I was prepared for long workdays and late nights, working weekends to meet deadlines and sacrificing my personal life in the name of my career.

But when I landed my first job, which paid me $28,000 a year to answer phones for a top-tier editor at a business magazine, I realized my folly. At first, I hoped this time would be filled with freelancing and working on my blog, but within a few months I had fallen hopelessly in love with a reporter at the magazine, and my priorities changed just as quickly.

I eventually left magazine publishing to work for an Internet start up publication, a move I told myself was good for me and my career. At the time I thought that the magazine, and my first job, was not a waste because I had come out of it with a recognizable name on my resume and a future husband to boot. I lied to myself.

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