"Working For The New Yorker
I enjoyed reading Dan Baum’s tweets about why he got fired from the New Yorker after working there as a staff writer (more of a contributing freelancer). He dishes how much he got paid and why he thinks they let him go from his contract. I especially liked this part:
I must say, though, the office itself is a little creepy. I didn’t work there. I live in Colorado. But I’d visit 3-4X a year.
Everybody whispers.
It’s not exactly like being in a library; it’s more like being in a hospital room where somebody is dying.
Like someone’s dying, and everybody feels a little guilty about it.
There’s a weird tension to the place. If you raise your voice to normal level, heads pop up from cubicles.
And from around the stacks of review copies that lie everywhere like a graveyard of writers’ aspirations.
It always seemed strange. Making it to the New Yorker is an achievement. It is vastly prestigious, of course.
And the work is truly satisfying. Imagine putting out that magazine every week!
Yet nobody at the office seems very happy. The atmosphere is vastly strained.
Gah, that sounds horrible. This is not an environment I would thrive in."
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