I read recently that the true artist never rushes to complete his work. Rather he relishes in the uncertainty of the project and waits for something truly original to develop.
Fuck that. I need a montage.
Just because I want to write a book, doesn’t mean I want to actually write it. I just want to push play and have the music take over. I want the pain and brain-tugging agony of writing to be cut down to three second edits. And the glory of completion to be paraded in an explosion of guitar licks, drum solos and pyrotechnics.
I’m even ready to throw my music tastes out the window. I know damn well that impossible goals aren’t accomplished during a drum n’ bass set. I need an ass kicking montage that fucking breaks the cheese meter. Maybe some Van Halen “Right Now.” We can even go über cliché and throw a little slow-mo Chariots of Fire in the final scene. Who needs the “real world” with it’s “real work,” when you can have flashy editing and dramatic guitar licks? C’mon universe. Montage me!
We open in my office. We see me slump down in my chair, staring at a fresh brief. Cut to later. The clock has advanced. There are generic piles of paper surrounding me. I’m using a laptop, not a typewriter. But who cares about logic? This is a montage. It’s just gotta LOOK like work is being accomplished.
And of course I’ll intersperse the work scenes with shots of gratuitous jogging. Cause a montage isn’t complete without an unrelated attempt at getting buns of steel.
Luke Sullivan said in, “Hey Whipple” that .000000001% of a ad man’s time is spent accepting awards and the rest is spent buried in work. Fuck that. Cut to the Clios. Hotel banquet hall. Slow motion.
“And the lifetime achievement award goes to…”
As I reach the podium to accept my award, my book agent comes running up the stairs. The publisher has put my novel to press. From the other side enter one very oversized check carried by well-oiled beefcake men. (Why not?) The confetti drops, the balloons are released. I’ve won the lottery. The slow-mo high fiving commences. We see everyone leap from their chair and run. Run out of the banquet hall. Run to the pool. Run to the bar. We’re cheering. We’re bouncing around like weightless astronauts. We’re chugging tequila like Mexicans with a paycheck. And I’ve achieved all this in the course of an edited rock song. Then the music fades, just in time for me to say something clever. "And that," (lots of pointing) "is how an ad gets done." Everyone laughs. Anyone can be hilarious. All it takes is montage power.
Now it’s time for a drug-fueled adventure in Miami. And get your montage hands off my irresponsible two weeks of reckless abandon. I want to experience every tweeked moment of it.
Unless, at any time I should vomit. In which case, you can just edit that out.