Jun
4
Last night I was talking with Riley while he splashed around in the tub and I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up.
“Hmmm,” he said, tilting his head to one side. “Let me think about it. Okay, I know. I want to drive a rocket.”
“Well, cool!” I said. “That sounds like an awesome job.”
“And what do YOU want to be when you grow up, Mommy?” he asked, looking at me while he trailed his hand through a pile of bubbles.
I didn’t stop to think about my answer. “A writer,” I said.
:::
A while ago I was moaning about my career angst to JB and at one point he said, “But don’t you want to run a marketing department, and make all the decisions about how a company does its branding and all that stuff? Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”
I opened my mouth to say something about how it depended on the job, the company, and a million other variables, and how it wasn’t that simple, and what actually came out of my mouth was No.
No, I don’t. I don’t want to be the decisionmaker about product positioning and messaging goals and PR outreach and ad budgets. I don’t want to spearhead the endless arguments over the myriad non-quantifiable areas of marketing. I don’t want to tell a designer how to do their job. I don’t want to decide if something is “on brand” or not. I want to offer my opinions when they’re asked for, but I don’t want it to be my job to hard-sell my opinions and shoulder-shove until I get my way.
Here’s what I really want to do: create good copy. That’s what I enjoy more than anything else. I am happiest when someone tells me what they’re looking for, I write some stuff, then they tell me if I did a good job or not. I’m interested by the entire marketing mix, but spinning words is what I’m best at, and it’s the aspect of every job I’ve ever had that’s been the most rewarding to me.
(Except for that horrible dotcom stint with the crazy pot-smoking husband and wife management team where the wife micro-managed every word I typed according to the whims of the rabid bats circling around the vast wasteland inside her skull.)
I’ve spent so many years trying to figure out how to make my career more meaningful to me, and I always thought I needed to take on more responsibilities and have a job with a better title and maybe some people reporting to me and a bigger paycheck in order to feel the measure of success I thought I should be striving for, and that moment when I told JB that no, I didn’t want to be some fancypants marketing director . . . somehow brought everything into view for me. I just want to write. Whether it’s about software, diapers, parenthood, makeup, computer keyboards, fitness, or sex pillows, I just want to make the words appear. That’s what I love to do.
If I refine it further, I want to write words that help me connect with people. I like corporate copywriting gigs because let’s be honest, they tend to pay the best, but the projects that really turn me on are the ones where I get to hear back from those who read them.
Since JB and I had that conversation I started a series of blog posts at Workplace that I’ve been really proud of. They’re about task management software, which, I know, right? Thrilling. Yet these articles have made me happier in my job than I’ve been in a long time. I enjoyed writing them and people seem to find value from them and they’re talking to me about them and jesus, why have I been naval-gazing all this time, because that is what it’s all about, right there.
The tiniest moment, an unexpected one-word answer, and it’s like I’m seeing my way clear of the inertia I’ve been struggling with for years. No. Instead of succumbing to the vague dissatisfaction and constant feelings of failure, I’m free to make a new path. To focus on the things at my job I find the most rewarding, and let the other stuff—the turf wars and responsibility-without-authority—be managed by other people. And at home, to make a true and honest effort to get a silly little book of poetry published (say, any agents out there looking for quirky parenting gift book titles?), and to plug away at something I’ve wanted to do all my life.
:::
“A rider? Like a bus rider?” Riley asked, wrinkling his forehead.
“No, a writer. Like someone who writes words, and maybe even stories and books.”
“Oh. Well, I think you’d be a good bus rider, Mommy.”
“Thanks, sweetie. Do you think I’d be a good writer too?”
“Maybe like if you had a really good crayon.”
“I need to get one of those, huh?”
“Yeah! Let’s find one together. Then you be a rider and I’ll drive a rocket, okay?”
“Deal.”
PS: Edited to add this fantastic diagram:
Borrowed from a brilliant post of Bud Caddell’s.
Jun
1
The guy who passes you in the other direction sprinting towards the finish when you’ve still got like a mile before the turning-around point and later you discover he finished the race in 15 minutes flat? Screw that guy. He probably runs all the time and he’s super annoying about it, like I bet he does those ostentatious look-at-me leg stretches during meetings and when someone finally reluctantly asks him what’s up he’s all, “Duuuude, ran an ultra this weekend. Just trying to limber up before I race a live cheetah this afternoon, brah.”
Don’t get too cocky when you actually feel pretty good at the start of the race, because guess what, bitch? You’ve got THIRTY MINUTES TO GO.
Sure, some people have fancy sports-specific earbuds that are meant for running, but how many people have made ingenious use of a metal binder clip in order to keep the cord from bouncing all over the place? Yeah, that’s right. Can’t touch this.
If, at the 1.5-mile-mark, you are struck breathless with a miserable side cramp, I suggest adopting a sort of Quasimodo-like hunched-over shuffle where you basically look like the victim of a sniper with bad aim. Move along at the fastest pace you are capable of, which will be slightly detectable by the naked eye but is best captured via slow shutter speed. It helps if you peel your lips all the way back while grimacing in pain, because that way any passing insects will get trapped in your teeth and potentially provide you with a quick energy boost.
Never mind the septuagenarians who finished many minutes before you and are lazing around the finish line eating free bananas while you are openly weeping at the sign reading “2 MILES”. Perhaps once you get there you can vomit on their orthopedic shoes.
When the going gets tough, try lowering your gaze to the ground and focus on—oh look! Eighty million billion little splotches of moist phlegmy saliva, spat there by 600 runners in front of you. On second thought, look straight up.
Brrrrrrt! What? Oh, say, you know what was mmmmmaybe not such a great idea? The bran cereal you had at breakfast.
Almost there . . . almost there . . . just a few more yards . . . holy fuck, YOU DID IT. WOOOOOO! ALL RIGHT! So is there a trophy? A ribbon? A cash reward? . . . no? Just . . . your name on a hastily-printed piece of 8.5×11 paper, over there on that board? Hmm, okay, fine, well at least you got this free t-shirt, which you optimistically asked for in a size small, and . . . yeah, wow, that SO doesn’t fit.
Hey, there’s Mr. 15-minute Guy himself, over there by that tree surrounded by a group of fawning admirers. WhatEVER. As you limp by, make sure to inquire rudely as to whether or not he’s known for speedy finishes in all aspects of life, if you know what I mean and I THINK YOU DO. Only say this in your head, of course, because it’s not like you can talk right now, what with all the gasping and wheezing and so on.
When some lady hands you a flyer for an upcoming road race in June, plan to throw the thing away as soon as you find a recycling bin, because yeah RIGHT like you’re ever going to do this crazy shit again. Then, find yourself folding it up and carefully putting it in your backpack. Huh.
-
My product review site:
[