It hurts, losing your job. It really hurts. It’s what you do, work. It’s who you are. Except suddenly you’re not. Sure, I knew it was coming. Ever since I joined the Independent, nearly 15 years ago to the day, I knew it was about to fold. We all did, deep down. But I always hoped otherwise. True, there was never any money: not for promotions, not for trips, not for anything, not really. But we kept going, day after day, and then, after I joined the Indy on Sunday, week after week. And, eventually, hour after hour, once our editors eventually embraced the web.
What we lacked in circulation, we made up for in influence. In spades. We were feisty, punchy, and quirky. But it wasn’t enough. Not even the success of the i Paper – our rubber ring, we were told – could keep us afloat. Or was the i Paper too successful? Too irresistible? Either way, I saw the news late on a Wednesday evening on Twitter: the Telegraph’s James Quinn broke the story that Johnston Press was poised to buy the i Paper.
I was just back from a day up in Darlington, interviewing someone for the New Review. It was to have been my best week back at the papers since my maternity leave: the next day I was meeting a gallery owner, Steve Lazarides, for the Independent Magazine. But just like that, it turned into my worst week, and one of my last ones. Despite the fevered speculation about what that i paper sale would mean for the future of the Independent titles, we had to wait two long days to learn our fate. I remember hot tears on the Circle line home that Thursday night; more as I walked the dark streets back home. And then floods of them in that silent newsroom when the email came, just before noon on the Friday, confirming that the Independent would live on online only, and the print titles were to cease.
The upside, if you could call it that, was we had a six-week stay of execution while the sale went through. Six weeks of being paid. Six weeks with somewhere to be published. Time at least for me to write up my two magazine features, which by a bizarre quirk of timing ended up as cover features on consecutive days; my first and last such coup. But oh, the downside. And the drawn out agony of inching towards the finish line.
It’s almost a relief to be out the other side, except I don’t really mean that. I’m lucky, I suppose. I’ve been there long enough to get some cash, which will help for a year. But my time off with the kids means I know 12 months goes quickly, and what then? “What are your plans?” everyone. Like I have any, other than to write. Hopefully for cash. Which makes me wonder why I’ve spent the last hour writing this instead of pitching stories to unknown editors.
But don’t they say you should write every day? So this is it, day one of A Year of Living Redundantly, which is an awful title, I know, but someone wrote a book about A Year of Living Danishly, and I wished it had been me, so the phrase has stuck in my head. But that’s too long for a website, so I went for suzeletter because: suzeletter! And who doesn’t have a newsletter. Why, I’ve got no idea, but that’s for another time. Maybe.
suzeletter 