This Is My Story

After spending five years -- the last two of them more or less miserable -- writing for a really big newspaper in New York, the money was finally getting comfortable, if not cushy. Though pigeonholed as a writer, at least I could feather that little nest.

But the soul-crushing boredom of the repetitive kind of reporting I was doing, the incredible stinginess of corporate management and the number wrongs the company inflicted on its employees post Sept. 11 -- in return for us making heroic efforts to keep the company going strong -- were pushing me over the edge.

New York tends to make you nasty anyway, but it was too much. I felt like kicking grannies and taunting babies with lollipops they couldn't reach.

The final straw in a very large, prickly pile came two weeks ago, when a senior editor put the kabosh on a trip I was supposed to take doing some freelance writing in Belize. It didn't conflict with our freelance policy, and the reasons that he gave me for nixing the already-approved work for a nice glossy Conde Nast publication were laughable.

So I quit.

With $73 in my savings account.

This is the story of what comes next.