Two instances shook my faith in becoming a so-called professional writer.

One was when my oldest brother, a historian and writer himself, saw a piece I had written on the-then new AIDS epidemic and wondered how I could write so dispassionately about such a life-and-death issue.

I had told myself in those days that I had some freedom in the John Hancock “marketing communications” department (distinct from the insurance behemoth’s PR arms) because our work was focused on health and benefit policy matters—and only half plugged the company by getting quotes from its experts.

Plus, I wasn’t nearly as dispassionate as the Hancock medical staff I “interviewed” for the piece. Their job seemed to be to give new employees physicals and, more importantly, protect the massive company from false claims. They were convinced the new disease must be a statistical quirk of some kind.

Back then, I found my brother’s writing too flowery and not journalistically austere enough. (Though now I’d call it “thoughtful.”) Besides, it was a small honor to author one of these several-page freestanding “Background Extras.”

Still it was a corporate work. I was aiding and abetting those dispassionate AIDS deniers. My brother was right.

The second time my faith was shaken in my career choice was 30 years later when I came back from a sick leave. A colleague wondered why, after my ordeal, did I want to come back to writing about connections to higher ed. By that time, I had been editor for 20 years. And the only censor was me (in some ways, the toughest of all.) My colleague struck me as shortsighted. To be sure, I had always convinced myself I was balancing true writing with “communications” work to pay the bills. (See I Am Not a PR Man.) But in retrospect, my colleague had a point too.