Something very odd is happening in America's Hometown.
No strange enough for you? Well, let me explain: I'm ironing tee shirts.
Why this new change? Because I got a full time job. Oh yes, I am one of the legion now, the ones who bundle up against Boston's frigid wind tunnels and wander around the concrete and stone of Boylston Street at 8:45 am with their hats, scarves, and lunch bags, amid flying cars and steaming manholes. That's me. I'm in an office again.
Now, it's not all that bad. In fact, it's an improvement. It's hard to be a freelance writer and a musician, and also get by. There are folks who make their livings as freelance writers. Some of them are wildly successful, writing articles in all sorts of interesting publications, newspapers, and websites. Some of them are only mildly successful, but living passion. And both of them are destitute, unless they aer writing about crime or sex, in which case they are mildly destitute. And both of them are working like one-armed paper hangers to get the job done. It's fun for a while. Then it gets old.
The best solution for many writers is to get a job. A J. O. B., where you write stuff for someone else. Lucky me, I found a J. O. B. writing about my passion, music, and am fortunate that this job is at the coolest place in the world to do it, Berklee.
Ah, Berklee, where everyone wears tee shirts and jeans, except the HR people, who dress like grownups. I've decided to take this J. O. B. thing seriously, so if I'm going to wear a tee shirt, I'll at least iron it. Mommy, am I a grown-up yet?