It’s a small office — compact.
There aren’t enough seats at the table, or enough room to oblige the etiquette I grew up with: chair out, napkin in lap, pass to the left, hostess at the head …
But, the table is large enough for four laptops, four brains, and a heap (heaps, rather) of magazines. That’s right: print magazines.
Besides, no space is too small for our ideas.
“First, we’ll launch on the iPad!” I shout.
My eureka shocks my roommates as much as me. I’m more natural with a spatula than electronics.
“Think: Esquire for women, but not just for women,” Michelle and Taylor pitch.
It will be the go-to for fitness + lifestyle + politics + sex + religion + all things taboo.
Somehow, our magazine will maintain its innocence. Maybe because of Cary’s doll face —
Or, maybe, because our ambition is so unbridled, and yet, pure.
We’re fearlessly ambitious, and it feels right not to have solid goals, but to know that we do have them.
Sure, we’re gathered ‘round our humble kitchen table (it’s more of a coffee table, really). And, we’re sharing ideas between handfuls of $3 Trader Joe’s faux frosted flakes. But with each idea, and with each handful, our “magazine” seems more tangible. The future seems more feasible.
Maybe it’s a sugar high, or maybe we’re starry-eyed.
But, you know, Condé Nast wasn’t built in a day.
And, I know this: the magazine industry has exceeded my expectations. And, we owe it to ourselves to exceed our own.
Perhaps our magazine will flop (ehem, fold). But, the four of us don’t mind. Michelle, Cary, Taylor, and I will take the chance.
Becky Mickel, Martha Stewart Living