Offers You Can't Refuse

Over at Ink Slinger, Paul Guyot treats us to a lengthy but fascinating look at his recent TV writing career. The part that really jumped out at me:

So this year I was again at peace with the idea I was out of the biz. Because I told my agents this spring that I would never do that again - never take a job where I'm flying myself all over, leaving my family every week, etc. If someone wants me, they can pay to fly me out there.

Well, oddly enough, the network that I wrote the pilot for was doing another pilot, and there was a deal in place - an executive producer, a studio, a writer, and a script. But the script came in and it wasn't what those in charge were hoping for. So they went looking for a new writer and the head of the network called my agents and asked if I was available...

So I got the gig based on my work for TNT last year. And in my deal I was able to get what I wanted - that if I go anywhere outside the St. Louis city limits, the studio's got to pay for it.

[end]

I've had a similar experience. A year ago this week, I started my gig as the editor of the City Paper, and the job came up just a few months after telling everybody: You know, I think I'm done with this journalism thing for a while.

My professional career had been spent at magazines, starting in May 1993, when I was hired as the fact-checker at Philadelphia Magazine. (Think Bright Lights, Big City, only minus the cocaine and models.) By Fall 2002, I was a senior editor at the same magazine -- after stints at two men's magazines -- but was feeling a little burned out, and more interested in writing books. I had just signed a contract for The Perfect Drink For Every Occasion with Quirk Books, and I had just started teaching a journalism course at La Salle University, my alma mater. So I left Philly Mag full time, agreeing to edit certain service packages and contribute occasional stories.

But over the next year and a half, the last thing I wanted to do was magazine work. Especially service packages. You know, those "how-to" and "what to buy" type pieces. Real estate roundups. "Best of" issues. I'd spent much of my career writing/editing pieces like these, and it was really getting old. (Plus, I've never seemed to live down the infamy of writing sex stories for Cosmo...)

By July 2004, Philly Mag and I parted ways amicably. It was a loss of income, but I was secretly relieved. I loved teaching, and I had just started to shop around a novel that would eventually be called The Wheelman. I was offered a full-time gig at La Salle. I announced to the Bride and everyone else within earshot: Yeah, me and journalism? We're calling it quits. Books and teachin'. That's where it's at. It'd have to be a really sweet deal to get me to return to the folds. Amen, Alleluia, and pass the Tylenol.

Just a few weeks later, the headhunter called me about the City Paper job. (My name had been thrown into the ring by a good friend of mine -- a columnist at one of our daily papers.)

I said, I'm flattered, but no thanks, I'm happy.

The headhunter persisted.

I said, really, no, I'm cool.

The headhunter persisted.

I agreed to go in for an interview. Why not, right? At the very least, it's an educational experience. Something to tell my students about.

And once I did, it was all over. I fell in love with the place -- the paper, the staff, the creative vibe. Everything that seemed so limiting about jthe business fell away, and I saw the job as something fresh and exciting. Even better, I'd be editing all kinds of stories. Not just the service ones. And once that happened... well, me and journalism patched things up. As I've said before, it's going on a year now, and things are still fresh and exciting. Even better, the paper doesn't mind if I cheat on it with this whole fiction thing. Editing nonfiction by day, writing fiction by night? It's this Polish boy's dream career.

Not quite sure if there's a moral of this story, other than: be careful what you say out loud. Because someone's usually listening.

Someone with an interesting sense of humor.