Leslie 40 Something Mag Site

The doorbell rang. It was Sarah, her first "employee"—a freelance photographer who was actually fifty-five and had a better eye for light than anyone Leslie had met in Manhattan.

She sat in her makeshift office—a converted sunroom cluttered with Pantone swatches and lukewarm coffee—staring at the cover of the premier issue. It wasn't a twenty-something model in a sunset-soaked field. Instead, it was a close-up of a woman’s hands, weathered and strong, kneading sourdough bread. leslie 40 something mag

"Let’s go get them," Leslie said, grabbing her coat. "We have a lot of voices to wake up." The doorbell rang

"It’s too niche," her former boss at the corporate glossy had told her six months ago. "Forty-year-olds want to look thirty. They don't want a magazine that reminds them they're maturing." It wasn't a twenty-something model in a sunset-soaked field

"The printer just called," Sarah said, leaning against the doorframe with a grin. "First five thousand copies are boxed and ready. We’re officially in business, Les."