Working Writer..If you are referring to Katy Burns, the "witz" twins and even Mike Pride, I would agree. None seem to be very good writers.
What can they do? They obviously can't hire real talent and the addition of the latest editor has been a disaster. They hire kids right out of UNH and make them journalists.
I am a professional writer (not in journalism; technical and operational business writing) and I have a difficult time reading the Monitor so called "talent".
Sorry to imply jealousy; I understand your point and I agree with your assessment. Rebecca is an OK writer but she should find employment elsewhere. One article in Newsweek means nothing; expecilly one that shows the shallowness of her viewpoints. Again, I see your point now!
Baby, I Can Wash My Car
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As I face my new life, the one in which I will renew my own life insurance and pay my own car lease, I feel excitement at the prospect of forging my way. But the fear that I won't survive gnaws at me. My marriage was built on our filling in gaps for one another, and I'm terrified by shortcomings in my life skills.
I'm not sure what my husband is afraid of, because I can't imagine that learning to make lasagne or plan a birthday party is harder than learning to use a snow blower or maintain a good credit rating. But I do know that our collective fear is what's creating the tension minefield we're tiptoeing on every day in our house. We both get scared and angry when we are reminded of what we lack as individuals, especially when we are faced with each other's competence every day we have to live here.
Which brings me back to my dirty car. One recent Saturday, as my sons and I enjoyed our morning post-soccer-game ritual of drinking slushies on the ride home, my younger son complained that his cup was stuck to his cupholder. To my disgust, I found a whole summer's worth of slushy leftovers creating a sticky rainbow ring of filth.
When we got home, my almost-ex asked how I planned on spending the rest of my Saturday. "I'm going to clean my car," I announced. To my husband's credit, his double take was subtle, and he suggested that while I had the vacuum out he'd do his, too.
As we stood in the driveway, we laughed together as I marveled at how uncomplicated this mysterious process was. A little soap, a little Armor All, and my less-than-expert use of the hose brought my car to a state of semicleanliness—nothing like the miracle he'dhave accomplished, but certainly what I would consider clean enough.
I was embarrassed that I hadn't undertaken this on my own before, and said so. My husband laughed and said he felt the same way every time he had to make social plans for himself. This moment of shared lightness, acknowledging our fears and our reality, brought to bear something I haven't been allowing myself to face since I first said the D word so many weeks ago.
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