Summer’s end is looking to be full of life changes: over the next few days, I’m metaphorically graduating from my workplace of the last four years, the Other Press newspaper.
I emerged from high school, entered college, and immediately started contributing, so the paper has been a big part of my growth. I’ve become a stronger writer and editor; hopped between the positions of contributor, staff writer, opinions editor, assistant editor, and Editor-in-Chief; travelled everywhere from Edmonton to Saskatoon to Ottawa; met some of my closest friends, including my now-roommate; and found myself positively besotted with the fella who was EIC when I first started at the paper.
I’ve compared moving on from the paper to the end of an epic romance, à la Casablanca: as excited as I am for new opportunities, my life has been so joyfully replete with making newspapers for so long. It will be strange not spending my weekends bent over a computer, furiously flipping through style guides while attached to a veritable IV of orange pekoe.
I’m polishing off another semester of classes, plodding through final essays and final exams; soon I’ll be moving on to my first nine-to-five position, via my school’s co-op program. (Keep your eyes peeled for the lemon-themed meal Stephanie and I had to celebrate!) August is full of beginnings, endings, and general life changes for me.
But amid all this start-and-stop, I want to talk about my return to an old love: inspired by Stephanie’s post on books, and my good friend’s recommendation of the Rory Gilmore reading list, I started picking up books again.
As I’ve mentioned before, when I was young I was a voracious reader. Since first finding as a child that I enjoy the escapism of a good book, I’ve spent lazy days on A Series of Unfortunate Events, the Harry Potter series, the Gemma Doyle trilogy, and too many others to list.
In more recent years though, I’ve lost touch with this pleasant pastime. I still read, but it’s easier zoning out with a TV show after a day spent writing essays and articles, editing, and occasionally doing readings for lecture.
As I leave behind hours spent on spelling, syntax, and the delicious construction of a sentence, I think I’m craving the comfort of typeface. So, since picking up Go Set a Watchman and moseying through Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, I find myself not wanting to binge watch The Good Wife.
I want to exchange book recommendations, and dedicate days to noms and narratives. I want to explore vast vocabularies, dog-earing terms for future use. As my life changes, I’m aware that the Other Press has given me so much over the years; thankfully though, almost none of it is limited to the pages of the newspaper itself.
Photo by George Yanakiev, via StockSnap