We all know these people. Well, those of us that went to ad school know these people. They’re the advertising stars. The ones that can get a brief for toilet paper and turn around win young guns. I hate these people.
Then we all know these people. These are the people that would rather get their nails done than work, and think Daniel Steel counts as required reading. But sometimes these people get paired up with the ad stars. And usually when this happens, great work still results. And the second type of people parade the ad around like God suddenly blessed them with the ability to create better than Mcrap Errickson. But the rest of us know that during this partnership, the ad star finally shouted, “Shut the fuck up. We’re doing the ad this way. Go back to your fucking manicure!”
And because these partnerships exist, I have this giant fear. I’ll finally get the call back. I’ll brag to all my friends about the interview. But when I finally sit face to face with the CD copywriter/art director team they’re going to look at me and think one thing. “Somebody else wrote these ads.”
Cause when I get put on the spot in interviews, my intelligence level suddenly matches my hair color. I completely forget every thing that has occurred in my life up to this point. They’ll ask what movies I like. I’ll stare at them blankly. They’ll ask whose work I admire. And even though I’ve been paying attention to advertising since I was a bored thirteen-year-old sitting in my dad’s office, I’ll respond that I prefer men who wear boxers. This is point that they’ll look at each other and think, “Daniel Steel must be her favorite author.”
A friend told me that it doesn’t matter if I bomb those questions, cause I’ve got the book to back it up. So, ok. Say despite my Jessica Simpsonesque interview, my book does miraculously provide them with the shaky confidence to hire me…on the condition that I can keep producing the same level of work. But because I have not worked on anything in the past year, on the first day I’ll look up at them all doe eyed and ask, “What’s a concept?” And then, despite the years I choked on lethal amounts of caffeine to actually get this shit together, they’ll be certain that my rich daddy hired somebody to write some headlines.
So unless my daddy becomes wealthy enough to hire someone to work for me, I need to practice between here and there. And practice does not mean I’m gonna cover the walls of my bare apartment with marker roughs. I have no partner to work with, or a Clare to tell me all my ideas are shit. So this seems to be the only alternative. I can practice writing and practice hearing you guys telling me how much I suck. Besides, I started to look at some of your bogs, with links to other blogs and other blogs and I feel a little left out. Kinda like walking into your apartment and seeing all your friends sitting around an 8 ball, and saying…”Well, fuck…”
So fuck it. I’ll have a blog. I’ll practice writing and hearing that I suck. Until maybe one day it’ll be good enough for you to say, “Shit, who’d she hire to write this stuff?”