This is it. It’s launch day. I know, I know: this is crazy. I’m eight months pregnant with little David Telemachus – (I picked the name; Noel had nothing to do with it.) – and I’m launching a magazine. It’s not like I’m doing this on my own. Noel’s always been better at the business side, not to mention design. He got the online edition up and running months ago; we’ve already had over ten-thousand hits. Just leave the writing and revising to me and my editorial staff.
“Are you ready to head to the Horse Brass, Love?” Noel and I are taking our staff out for drinks (just club soda for me, thank you).
It’s nothing extravagant, don’t worry. We’re not one of those businesses. There are only five of us anyway: Chad, our promotions guy; Dylan our creative director; Molly our managing editor; then Noel and me.
“Yes, Noel, just help me up … oop!” (Eight months pregnant, remember?)
To think how far we’ve come since college when I – okay, since Noel and I – dreamed up this publication. We knew we wanted to create a magazine that gave Christian twenty and thirtysomethings freedom to ask questions. No censors. No political agenda. If anything, we’re that liberal Christian magazine, but we’re trying to shy away from stereotypes, at least this early in the game.
“Do you have the thank-you cards?”
I nod, but I’ve got my hands on my waist and eyes narrowed. He calls it my oh-great-what-now look. He knows it’s coming. “We should bring a cake.”
“A cake?”
Humor me, Noel. “Can’t we buy some sort of German-chocolate four-layer thing too? There’s a bakery on the way.”
“We can order food at the bar. Are you craving chocolate or something?”
“No, it’s not that.” I felt David kick; maybe that’s part of it. “I just feel like we’re skimping a little bit. We’re opening a magazine, for crying out loud, not a cheap little coffee shop down the street. We could be the next Rolling Stone or Christianity Today. Big bucks, Noel. Big bucks.”
“Laur-en.” Noel always uses that tone of voice when I go over the edge. He sounds like my mom. “You’re forgetting that though we may one day be as big as Rolling Stone, we’re not yet. Remember signing that loan?”
“Yes.”
“And that grant we received?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Maybe we’ll buy cake after we start making a profit.”
Noel eases me into the Civic. He lets me sit in the warmth as he scrapes the thin layer of frost off the windshield. A couple stray flurries fall on his dark head – it’s still nothing compared to the Indiana winters we grew up with.
He slides into the car and I continue, “The team deserves more. Chad and Dylan had to move across the country to work in-house. A couple drinks and a thank-you card can’t express how grateful we are, Noel.”
“Dylan and Chad are getting paid, Love. They’re not moving to Portland out of the goodness of their hearts.”
“I’d like to pretend they are.”
I know I’m being stubborn, but the vision we had for Raw is that even if it’s a for-profit magazine, money is not the driving force behind it. We care more about integrity than dollars; we care more about our employees than our profit margins. At least in theory. I tend to ignore the money problem as a whole. Noel has to talk sense into me.
“Lauren, I’ll worry about all the money issues – you just keep dreaming.”
We ride in silence. He knows I’m doing as he asked – I’m dreaming. It’s day one of Raw Magazine, but what will it be like in five years, in ten? Will it sit in stands at Borders or in the waiting rooms of doctors’ offices? I begin to worry: Will it fold? Will the print industry fail?
For ten years I’ve had a vision for this magazine. Ten years of low-paying jobs at small publishing companies and freelance writing; ten years of barely making enough to pay rent. I’ve had to meet the right people, persuade moneylenders, and save pennies. I did it all for this dream. But now we’re here. Finally, we’re here!
“Noel, we did it. We’re here!”
He puts the Civic in park.
“I know.” And he helps me out of the car.