by Ingrid Schorr

Several years ago I impulsively quit my copy-editing job of four years to go freelance. Being a free agent looked like a sweet deal. I had lined up one long-term contract at a magazine whose office was a five minute bike ride from my house. In a mid '80s white-collar version of Willy Wonka's factory, the vending machines there dispensed free cans of juice and soda. There was a ping-pong table and a great view of the river. I figured copy-editing was the same anywhere you went, and the hourly rate appeared to eclipse my former salary. I envisioned a dreamy, no-commitments work life built on contracts and networking, with ample room to stay home and write.

I knew I'd be giving up perks like health insurance, vacations, and a monthly subway pass. But it took a while for the biggest loss to sink in: I had lost my work spouse. My work spouse was Mike, the magazine's assistant editorial production manager. Outside the office we called him Mook. We worked for Inc., a monthly magazine for entrepreneurs, back in the go-go '80s. Mook and I were the youngest on staff, both of us a few years out of college and trying on our new work personas. Mine fit about as well as my motley wardrobe, an uneasy, unstable collection of thrift store dresses and on-sale Ann Taylor separates. Mook's work persona was evolving too, but at least his wardrobe was more coherent. More than a lunch buddy, Mook played an important role in my work life. He brought me a muffin from his neighborhood bakery every morning (I paid him by the week), we left the building together every night (but went our separate ways), and we covered for each other in times of personal crisis. We snickered together at meetings and sent each other hundreds of e-mails a day. I was a little jealous of his boyfriend, but we didn't have a romantic relationship. CONTINUE READING > >