January 24. 2005

Dear Mr. Bush,

Wednesday I worked until 4:00 in the morning; Thursday until 3:30. Friday I took a night off and was back at work by 8:30 the next day--that night, I was up until 3:00. Last night, 1:30. And today, finally, I finished another issue of the magazine I have worked on for eleven years. This one, hands down, was the most difficult issue we've ever done and it's without hesitation that I say I'm glad to see it go. That it turned out even remotely readable would be a feat, but somehow it turned out amazing. I tell you this not to let you know how late I've been working or complain about the lack of sleep that I've had. I tell you this simply to tell you that I work.

My work is important to me; it shapes who I am in ways both tangible and intangible. It has created a life that I never would have expected and brought people into it that I never would have met. Every day it is exciting and new and every day I can not believe I am able to do this for a living.

However, every day is hard. Every day is more work than a person can possibly believe. Every day it comes home with me, lurking in the back of my mind as I go about my evening. Today is no different; tomorrow will be the same. It is work.

But as tired as I am, and as difficult emotionally and physically the last week or two has been, I can't think of anything that I'd rather do.

To work,



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