The other night, I was cleaning up dinner, my two children at my feet, when the fire alarms throughout our house began blasting. Of course, the baby started crying. Of course, my 4-year-old joined in, happily screaming in dissonant harmony. I swung around checking the oven and the stove, but the cooking was long over and nothing had been left on.
The Career That Didn’t Survive the Move (And Why It Wasn’t a Failure)
Twenty years ago, if someone had told me I’d make a living as a writer and editor — from home — I would’ve given them major side-eye. Blogging wasn’t really a thing …
