More is no more

More is no more. That’s right; no more More. This isn’t a joke. More Magazine, that one publication that catered to me has ceased print. Done. Gone. No more.

You think I’m being cute. I’m not. I’m too old to be cute. In the past, the editors at More would have understood. And that is why I’m indignant about this devastating loss.
Since 1997, its premise was to enlighten wise women who were done with diapering and looking past PTA meetings toward a fabulous future. Articles ranged from second acts to sensational wardrobes for sophisticated, over 40, ‘women of style and substance’.

Not a Millennial in sight.

Since its inception in 1997, attractive and accomplished women of a certain age graced its covers, and More succeeded in capturing both readers and accolades.

Sadly, when the economy began slipping south in the late 2000’s, circulation and advertising followed. More’s publishers, Meredith Corporation, attempted a rescue plan in 2015 that couldn’t save the faltering magazine. They tried being more inclusive of all age groups, attempting to attract a younger readership. Pieces were no longer aimed exclusively toward a more mature audience. They let in the young’uns and it didn’t pay off. Instead of focusing on the good thing they had, the magazine is in the Raven’s words, nevermore, nevermore.

The publishers must have meant well. Bringing in a younger audience probably seemed like a good idea in desperate times. And don’t misunderstand; Millennials are lovely people, I’m sure. In fact, some of my best children are Millennials. But we don’t enjoy reading the same things,
nor should we have to.

Unfortunately, it seems as though everything is geared toward them. Advertising, television shows, movies. More, it seemed, was the one place I could turn to appease my sense of curiosity, delight my sense of humor, and trust to never, ever, begin an article with ‘Yo, dude’.

More was like a devoted friend, non judgmental and encouraging, who tackled issues I could relate to. Unlike strictly fashion or gossip rags, you could hold on to More, keep it in your carry on bag after your journey ended as opposed to leaving it on the airplane seat, refer back to an article that held meaning and value.

Drats. Now what am I supposed to read? Elle? Hardly. Self? Ouch. Cosmo? Really? I want More. In the words of Oliver Twist, ‘Please, sir….’

Here’s an idea;

I could bang on the doors of the publishers, begging for s’More.
Suggest cutting its 10 yearly issues down to say, 6, citing that quite often, less is More.
How about organizing a group effort, galvanizing readers like myself – the More the merrier-and protesting in front of their corporate offices?

I can see it now, the CEO, CFO, COO, opening their arms to greet us saying, ‘Obviously, there is More here than meets the eye.
We were wrong. We bit off More than we could chew. We see now there’s More than one way to skin a cat. So you are right, friends; More must survive.
We couldn’t agree with you More.’

What were they thinking? Or shall I say, why weren’t they thinking…about me? I take this very personally. They used to think about me. And my over fifty style. And my taste in books.
And my thinning brows, and my fantasy vacations to places whose names don’t end in ‘world’ or ‘Med’.

What happens now to my dream of some day writing a monthly column for More?

The working title was, ‘Wiser by Far’, because let’s face it, I am wiser now than years ago when I would sprint to the newsstand to buy the latest issue of my favorite magazine.

Of course, now I’d have to walk there. Briskly, more or less, but I’d get there.

But when I did, alas, I’d find no More.