publishing = murder
From 1994-1996 I worked for a large UK publishing company, doing PC testing and writing computer reviews. I wasn't one of those "name" journos, who got credit on articles in the consumer mags - my work appeared in the business-focused mags, the ones paid for by advertising. I wasn't even hired to write reviews in the first place, but ended up doing it anyway.

By the end of my time there, the demands got heavier and heavier. On one occasion the editor of one magazine stood behind my chair while I wrote a conclusion to a piece, because the presses were waiting. I never falsified any tests, but insisted on doing the work proper like; this led to some extreme hours, and it took its toll on me. I managed to fall over in my chair in a restaurant during lunch, woozy, banging my head on the next table. Too much coffee made me a gibbering wreck, though I did manage to make some weird art mural collage, using a colour laser I was testing.

After the second 36-hour day in a week - all of it working, not on call or standby - I knew I would have trouble getting up the next day, and set three different alarms. I still slept through them all, was three hours late to work, and got moaned at for it. I handed in my notice there and then.

Since then I have not allowed any job to get under my skin like that, which has probably cost me career opportunities e.g. during one contract job I refused an offer of a permanent position, because I could see where that would lead. I eventually moved to Ireland for a permanent job. In 2006 I was diagnosed with a chronic disease that is exacerbated by stress and poor nutrition, and may have started during - or was triggered by - the events of 1994-6. That's the publishing world for you: they genuinely don't give a fuck whether you live or die, as long as you deliver the words in time.

(If anyone wants to ask what's wrong with me, well, I'll just say that it has nothing to do with MicroSoft. )
( bnt what, me worry?, Tue 27 May 2008, 0:30, Reply)