Maybe I’m just not cut out for this.

I used to write so effortlessly. 2,000 words in an afternoon would be broken up only by scratching the patch and eating a yogurt. I had ideas the way that New Jersey DJs have fistpumps: frenetically, consistently, corresponding with a four-on-the-floor rhythmic beat. I wrote with such tenacity and desperation that it caused my first sponsor to wisely remark that I’d transferred addictions.

I replied that writing had never inspired me to get into a bar fight or steal Cadillac hood ornaments. And it still hasn’t. Yet.

These days I’m lucky if I finish an unpaid piece or project, let alone edit it. The very fact that I shit out one of these posts each week makes me feel like I should be typing it on the hay-strewn floor of a manger while three gift-laden kings follow a star to my location. (Note to all kings: I’d really love an iPad.)

At first I thought this struggle must be inspiration-based, I assumed that I had temporarily lost my spark. There were plenty of streams of piss to go on my tiny pile of creative cinders: the death of my mom, a bad breakup, the loss of my job, a wholly irritating struggle with depression set to a Fever Ray soundtrack.

Then I thought I just wasn’t taking care of my inspiration-making parts, that I wasn’t reading the right books, watching the appropriate PBS documentaries, listening to the necessary podcasts, sipping espresso with the suitable catalyst-commoving crowd. I tried to ramp up my intellectual stimulation. I traveled. I fooled around. I kicked it with bands that I’d liked in high-school. Still, writing wasn’t happening at the same pace, and certainly not with the same vigor.

Recently I’ve analyzed the way I see my future unfolding in the land of make-believe between my ears. I think about writing in a different, quieter town, I imagine sunrises with a cup of coffee and some breakfast, I hear the projected clicking of the keys punctuating the morning’s march into afternoon. In conversations with friends these days, I often cite my desire to live in a forest-ensconced cottage, to disconnect from big city living and become a bit simpler, at least in my everyday requirements. And while part of this bizarre illusion incorporates a career in aromatherapy, social circles organized around drums, and the incongruous use of ‘y’ in particular words that contain ‘men,’ the main thing that I’ve noticed is that, in my ideal fantasy life, there is no Internet.

Now, of course I’m not predicting the rapture, and I don’t see myself shrugging off all that I hold dear, signing up for an AOL address and going back to an unwieldy PC. But I do think that my imagination successfully diagnoses my writing problem, and it also explains why I get up close to 5AM in order to attempt to write every day. The continuous feedback loop of approval that I have manufactured for myself on the Internet has supplanted my ability to earnestly create.

Yeah, you’re the problem.

If writing previously gave me the satisfaction of, at very least, completing something, Tumblr can do the same thing in 1/18th of the time. Find a picture of a small animal wearing a hat and, surprise! Hearts are yours. And hearts feel good. Hearts feel (almost) as good as writing something, looking at it, and tooling around the words until they are good enough to send out into the world and be rejected or otherwise forgotten about. Twitter? Struggle to fit that dick joke into 140 characters and, whew, all that hard work will get you some retweets, some ‘at’ messages, maybe a DM and a few stars. Approval is yours! In less time and with less effort that coming up with that essay idea or writing an article about the history of snuff.

While I absolutely adore the people I’ve met as a result of the various blogging platforms and social networks I use, Internet has killed the writer in me. Nearly all of my inspiration, ‘ah-ha’! moments, and humor have been fed to the multi-headed hydra of Tumblr, Twitter, WordPress, Google+, Facebook, Flickr, and assorted comments. Instead of becoming a better writer with a more masterful grasp of language, metaphor, and flow, I’ve become a purveyor of snark and a popularity-hungry awkward kid, desperately trying to get her bad joke interjected into the fray. All I want is to belong, man.

But that desire for approval and to be liked (and “Like”d) has absolutely decimated the very thing that got me interested in the Internet in the first place. Originally it was a platform for my writing, a place where I could more-or-less effortlessly display my latest attempt and get feedback. That ouroboros consumed its own ugly tail ages ago.

So now what? Do I move out of Manhattan and structure my entire life differently, dole out my Internet usage like methadone, put up place-holding posts to indicate that I’m taking a day, a week, or more in order to really hone my skillz? Or do I suddenly delete all of my pages and join that “real” circle, bongos in hand?

Perhaps it’s like I said, that I’m just not cut out for this. Every day I see content generated by cute little goth teenagers that I follow, multiple posts, some with (horrendously spelled and incorrectly used) words, others with photos. These kids play on the glowy box between going to school, working part-time at the mall, and dealing with their various obligations, be they social, familial, or otherwise. How can they find the time to fuck around on the Internet and I, a well-worn adult with previously established time-management proficiency, cannot? Is it a failure on my part to play the game right or, as I’ve feared all along, is this an indication that I’m not really that much of a writer at all?

These are heavy questions, to be sure. And I’m sure I’ll find the answers eventually…once I’m done searching for a photo of a Chihuahua in a sailor suit.

My understanding of mathematics is limited to a calculator and phalanges, but I’ve recently come up with a new equation, all by myself:

Be inspired
_____________________            =    Create
Follow through

Yup. That’s my math. MIT, look out.

I’m learning that a successful project doesn’t just have to do with the amount of afflatus that hits me like a Chris Brown of creativity, it’s also reliant on the amount of effort that’s sparked by that initial creative titillation. Duh, right? Not so fast. The outcome is entirely dependent on a solid balance between the two. And, unfortunately these days, it’s hard not to be impulsive, constantly fiending for the idea of starting something new.

Too much follow-through without inspiration and my word play will be dry as Betty White’s vagina and feel disingenuous…not to mention that it will be an agonizing chore to get through, kind of like one of those mammoth puzzles in hotel lobbies, or intercourse with one of the Real Housewives of New Jersey.

But if you fall victim to the siren song of indulging inspiration too often, then you’re just smoking a dime and listening to the new Bon Iver album on repeat. (Or, in my case, too much inspiration and you’re just eating 23 ounces of frozen yogurt and masturbating to a Christian Bale movie on mute.)

It’s about fervor and forbearance. The key is to find the Mersenne prime of the two.

As a creative person who is prone to hyperactivity, over-caffeination, and sudden movements, it’s also a struggle tantamount to wrestling a grizzly bear not to get distracted. I’m often writing more than one document at a time, with enough tabs open to stock a 1972 vending machine. I want things to be done yesterday. I want acknowledgment, cash, and prizes as soon as I turn in a project, put up a post, take off my clothes. Personally, this is the way I’ve always been, but I think that technology has turned us all into a bunch of demanding only children, forever shouting Me! Me! Me!when it comes to having our picture taped to the Internet’s fridge.

Take blogs, for instance. Between WordPress, Blogger, Tumblr, Twitter, and other share-happy social networking sites, you can always self-aggrandize on a new platform if your first post about zombie ninja pirates or cats didn’t work out. There are a million ways to metaphorically crumple up your construction paper and move your crayons across a fresh piece. And since the audience for your latest-greatest is invisible and seemingly infinite, you can always have hope that this time it will stick.That’s the thing, inspiration is fueled on hope. You just need the hybrid equivalent for your project, one that will run on the electricity of patience when that limited hope in the tank runs out. No matter what, the Internet’s countless escape hatches convince us that, no, really, we’re still important. Even if we only kept that site going for two weeks, or we didn’t add a post to that collaborative that we were involved in.

In this age of reasonless celebrity and instant gratification, we want it to be easy. And that’s what inspiration tells us, that it is easy. It’s the thought that it’s going to be all cupcakes and baby otters that makes us spring to action without recognizing that there’s a whole race to run.

I’m not sure what’s on the opposite end of the spectrum from being a launch junkie. I don’t know if there’s really such a thing as a follow-through addict. While I believe that you can throw a rock and hit a person who has more than one blog, I don’t know if you can find the guy who has trouble tearing himself away from his original idea and starting fresh.

Uh, if you can find him (check the nearest coffee shop with WiFi),  I can almost guarantee that he buys two-ply toilet paper and has something called a savings account.

While application and dogged determination unquestionably amount to some form of success, no matter how questionable (see: pop music, cheese food manufacturers, reality television producers, Anne Rice) American utilitarianism and once-championed work ethic make it less appealing to judge traditional workaholics who dedicate themselves to undertakings that they no longer feel seduced by. It’s a shame, really, because – from my wholly biased and naively idealistic point of view – if you do what you love, you never work a day in your life. If you do what you hate or that makes you feel less enthusiastic than Rachel Maddow going down on Ann Coulter, then every waking minute is Sisyphean.

Granted, workaholics probably have nicer bicycles than those of us who choose to constantly hunt the smallest stimulating game, while they gnaw on the massive productivity carcass after the meat has long gone. But the truth is that the cost of life without a frequent, gut-gripping burst of energy that screams for us to begin! is sort of incalculable. The trick is to only satisfy that urge every so often.

Life’s too fucking short to waste it doing something that means less to you than dust, may it be an artistic endeavor, playing guitar in the Beatles, or being married. But constantly starting over only leaves you with a never-fulfilled sense of accomplishment and too many balled-up pieces of paper. If I ever get burned out or overwhelmed by writing in my little narcissistic bubble, I plan to abandon ship and start again, these wasted years be damned. Until then, I hope to keep my attempts limited, and the stamina for my inspiration insatiable.

Last year Christmas came with less comfort and joy, more panic and dread. It seemed like all of our clients had forgotten we existed, or had been so drunk at their holiday parties that they still hadn’t recovered from their hangovers. It looked like our New Year would be wrought with new debt and old bills. Of course, we were lucky enough that things picked up a few weeks after the ball dropped, but it hadn’t seemed like anything more than a stroke of luck, that a handful of individuals and companies had been inspired by the "season of giving" and made a resolution to do more charitable work, thereby hiring us to write for them. This year, too, there’s been a sudden and significant drop-off, which led me to wonder if it had just been our luck or if the holidays really lead to a hiring malaise. Turns out, December is reported to be a fantastic month to look for a job, even in this economy.

Though this positive prediction applies more to the unemployed searching for a gig, versus those of use who are freelance and struggling to detect new clients amidst the holiday hustle and bustle, I’m going to get into the spirit and share why this time of year is better for the jobless. For one thing, there are more job openings in light of new budgets that often come to fruition in January. Any human resources department will have gotten the requisitions for any new jobs last month, but they’ll need to be filled by the first of the year, which leaves these precious few weeks as prime hiring time for a lot of companies. Moreover, most hungry job hunters figure that this is the time to lay low. After all, between the seasonal help clotting the counters of many stores, and the blogged-about tales of booze-fueled parties where so-and-so hooked up with their coworker in the coat closet, well, it’s easy to assume that the holidays are more a time to be grateful for being gainfully unemployed than to be out ringing the bell for job salvation. But there’s less competition as everyone just stands on the twinkle-light lined sidelines.

If you’re living in mom’s basement, waiting for a call from one of the gazillions of companies that received your CV, get off your Santa-sized ass and pretend to be merry. Send tasteful, discreet holiday cards to hiring managers, especially to those who didn’t hire you. One of the reasons behind this tidbit that I discovered is that most new hires who get fired are terminated within the first ninety days (don’t think they didn’t steal a fair number of Post-It pads, though.) There’s a chance that the hiring manager who encounters your seasonal salutation will remember your awesome resume and personable interview and call you back in. Granted, I read this on a website. The only message I’d like to send to HR managers who didn’t give me a call back is "I hope your company fails miserably and publicly," which isn’t exactly imbued with Christmas cheer. But if articles by people who get paid to write about getting hired in the corporate world say to do this, I will regurgitate the information. Hopefully somebody who reads this blog will address a card with a fat guy and some airborne ruminant animals on it to a the human resources department that snubbed them, then get hired and keep Ministry of Imagery in mind if their company ever needs some copywriting work.

Another idea posted in smarter sites than this one is to work the corporate holiday party circuit. If you have friends who are employed (and not complaining incessantly about their job, or about to get fired) who have holiday parties coming up, ask if you can attend as a date. When you’re there, introduce yourself and have your card ready to hand out. Networking is always helpful, whether you’re out of a job or an ever-hustling freelancer, and December is a month filled with opportunities to get to know people. Just don’t go home with them. Or maybe you should. I’ve heard that hiring managers are total freaks in the sack.

Again, I’m not a card-pusher. I don’t even own business cards. I find them sleazy and ridiculous, and I associate them more with men who use excessive hairgel than with actual opportunities. I would think that someone who gave me a business card at a holiday party probably didn’t get out much or had been raised by soulless corporate drones. But I make very little money and have a lot of trouble finding clients, so do what I don’t and watch the offers roll right in.

Keep in mind that January is usually glutted with competition, since everyone who made some sort of New Year’s resolution to switch jobs starts looking, and all those fellow job hunters who hung back for the holidays return full-force, with their resolve fortified by weeks of newly accrued debt, egg-nog hangovers, and having to watch their siblings’ success lauded by every member of their family. I’d advise that it’s better to build momentum and keep actively searching during this month, after all, it helps you to feel productive as the rest of the world guzzles hot cocoa and wrestles with gift wrap.

There’s also the theory that December is the month to remember when pushing your resume around in the ether because a lot of those higher-ups are feeling more relaxed and have more time on their hands as things wind down towards the holiday break. That and the fact that they’re having post-open-bar one-night-stands.

This is also the month that many companies go over their staffing strategies and budget cuts. Meaning that the possibility of money that’s left in that new budget can be spent on new hires before the end of the year. Some of the industries that are looking to start a new-hire fire during the cold weather months are retail, finance-related companies, and airlines. Even if you’re able to score a late seasonal gig, do it. It isn’t unheard of for seasonal hires to become permanent fixtures at a job. Specific companies rumored to be hiring include Adidas, Bridgestone, and Century 21 department stores. As a heads-up to those of you who are in other industries: Accounting offices that handle tax returns and the like hire between February and March, as well as in late summer for the extended deadlines. Teachers, substitutes, and those who work in education should get their resumes ready for the months of March, November, and September, though there’s some hiring done in December, too, mainly in colleges. Hospitals start recruiting in January and May due to new nursing school graduates infecting the public. If you’re a hippie-dippie outdoorsman or lady, landscaping companies begin hiring in March and continue through the summer. And those of you who are personal trainers, summer is your season, but there’s a post-holiday rush induced by one too many cookies, too.

Of course, if you’re looking to get hired, you should always be thinking ahead. Think like a hiring manager, and then try to get into the mindset of your field. What has this past year meant for what you do? (Don’t cringe too much.) And then think about what the possible outcome of the next quarter will be.

Of course I found the flip-side to the sunshine-and-puppies aspect of December hiring. Fewer jobs are posted, due to the schedule. This year is unlike any other when it comes to budgets, projected numbers, and pitching new projects, so outlooks can be grim. Interviews take longer, many companies have installed near-permanent hiring freezes, very few new projects are being given the go-ahead because of budget woes, fear, and the fact that, hell, it’s the holidays, who wants to do anything other than eat, drink, and get some? But I’m not going to completely bah humbug the idea that this month might not be a complete waste of time when it comes to going out and getting a new gig. Though I still believe that scoring a new client before the New Year is about as likely as Santa landing on the roof of my empty house, it pays to keep plugging along on the job hunt front, even if your previous attempts have been scrooged. Looks like the humbug’s on us.

Over the years, I’ve collected rejection letters the way that most people collect books or underpants. I’ve learned that they’re part of the process, they’re pretty much inevitable, and, most of all, no matter how shitty my hair looks on any given day, they’re not personal. Also, it doesn’t matter how much good karma you try to generate by tossing pennies into the Salvation Army’s cup, or by smiling at post-office employees, the business of being rejected has nothing to do with how good of a person you are. The trick is to convince yourself that it has nothing to do with how good of a writer you are either.

My first rejection letter came on an afternoon in my preteen years. Coming home from a soccer game, which we had lost, I discovered a piece of mail on my desk, next to my goldfish bowl. My goldfish, of the five-cent carnival variety, was floating belly-up in the vase that served as his bowl. My fledgling poetry career was doing the same in the envelope. I lay down on my bed and took a nap.

Over the years I became desensitized, nay, even brazen about it. Stumbling home drunk at four-thirty in the morning, I’d struggle with my mailbox key and discover the latest gently-worded “fuck you” in the tiny compartment. I treated it no differently than the bevy of men and women I’d sauntered up to over the course of the evening, leaving with little more than napkin scrawl and a potential future outbreak of herpes simplex. Rejection is part of life. I stopped caring and started treating it as less of an occupational hazard, more as simply part of the job description. So long as I was still submitting I was still a writer. I became a hope junkie.

A few weeks ago I started work on a satirical essay that was pretty close to my little robot heart. It made light of caretaking and parents, it poked fun at some of the less-than-pleasant aspects of helping a sick family member at home. Of course, I drew on some of my personal experience thus far, as I’m lending a hand to my mom and playing the role of Falcor in our Neverending Chemo Story. I edited the shit out of the piece when I was done with draft one, and made sure that it struck the right balance between wholly acerbic and sorta poignant. I mulled over it, took my time, gave it breathing room, and…I liked it. That’s rare.

I thought of where to send it, after all, it’s not like there’s a gigantic market for gallows humor, unless I’m completely mistaken. Then I thought of McSweeney’s. Probably my favorite website, chock full of chuckle-worthy good writing and brainy wordplay, of course they’d accept a quirky little piece about homecare! They are the website that’s filled with genre-transcending prose and lists,  a sanctuary for the some of the most daring of swashbuckling pens. Maybe they had a slot open for a hopeful nobody.

As glib as I’m being, it wasn’t as if I simply expected to be accepted. I truly believe that I suck, just as much as the next fledgling creative, and certainly I acknowledge that I suck much more than those who have been lucky enough to find themselves in McSweeney’s. I’ve had more than one list play the role of skeet for their editor’s marksmanship. I hadn’t cared in the past. But this piece was different. More polished, closer to the marrow, locked within the birdcage beneath my nonexistent breasts. I edited it, spell checked it twice, said a small agnostic prayer, and sent it to their site editor, wishing it godspeed.

The days that followed were filled with what keeps me doing something so stupid as submitting to publications. I became buoyant with growing expectation, dancing along on my Converse, the Gene Kelly of my own rags-to-riches story of ambition, perseverance, and a flash fiction piece about cancer. My dreams were filled with literary success, launched by my little lampoonery. I’d make a name for myself. I’d be paid to write essays and articles. I’d make a living. I’d have Simon wearing a loincloth, fanning me with a palm frond, and feeding me green grapes by hand. (And vegan soft-serve by mouth.) Life was gonna look up. For the first time in my life as a writer, I was convinced I’d be embraced by the warm, snuggley arms of an editor on his ivory throne. Welcome, the letter would say, to where you’ve always wanted to be. Cherubs would sing and play Röysksopp on little harps. Chinchilas would do the hula.  Maynard James Keenan would write me fan mail. I would be in McSweeney’s. I would.

After my mom took her first monster dose of Xeloda, I ran out to buy her the B-6 vitamins she’d forgotten to take to prevent neuropathy. It was there, in the pharmacy parking lot, under a heavy, gray sky that I checked my email on my dented, pink Sidekick-ID.

“Hi, Ainsley. This one is not without its moments, but overall the conceit is just a little too dark to win me over. Appreciate the look, though. Hope you’ll keep trying.”

The sort of devastation one feels when dealing with acute failure is palpable. I’m not talking about the closing pitcher who blows an occasional game, or the still-beautiful pop singer whose third album doesn’t break the top ten on the charts. I’m specifically addressing the sort of failure that one feels when one believes, in no uncertain terms, that they will achieve great success. I hadn’t gotten all flushed and dewy eyed when Brown University bitch slapped my dreams of grad school in my early twenties, I didn’t let out a wail when Poetry Magazine sent me a very off-handed “thanks-but-no-thanks” in the tone of Sarah Palin. Like I’ve said, rejection is part of the game, if you’re truly a writer it should come as natural to you as the alphabet. I have no idea why the four lines from McSweeney’s caught me like a gerbil swept up the nozzle of a vacuum, but they did. My self-esteem, what there was of it anyway, has yet to recover, which strikes me as peculiar.

Don’t be mistaken, this isn’t a woe-is-me thing. Sure, I’m destitute, have no new clients, and spend every errant wish, from stars to birthday candles to 11:11 on the car dashboard, on the simple hope of making a living as a writer. Absolutely, my current situation, living with my mother as she battles terminal cancer while my partner stretches out in bachelor bliss on the couch in what once was our house in Oklahoma, it sucks. No bones about it. But the hard rejections, the ones that are more of a broken jaw than a flavorless jawbreaker, those are just another key in the QWERTY of life. Rejection is like entry fees, each varies in the amount, and there are few you can avoid. You want to know what would be a shame? To not resubmit the same piece — maybe edited slightly to make it less dark, maybe not — to another publication or contest. To give up and say, “That’s it, done, fuck it. I want to organize shelves in Whole Foods for a living.” (All right, I admit it, I do. But I can write, too.) Even though this particular punch in the gut was a shocker, what can you do? I’m writing about it. And I’ll keep writing, for myself and for an audience I have yet to find. And maybe that makes me an impoverished fool, but it also makes me a writer. And a Leo! And maybe also bisexual, considering I do this hoping you all will want to take me out to dinner.




As a final note, I share with you some morsels on the misgivings of this profession, that I discovered as I tried to drown my sorrows in the comforting waters of the Internet:

The editor of the San Francisco Examiner rejected a short story by Rudyard Kipling by sending him this little love note, “I’m sorry Mr Kipling, but you don’t know how to use the English language.”

If you’re looking for more consolation, there’s always the Rejection Collection and Literary Rejections On Display. They’re nice little reminders that we’re all in this together. Don’t let the bastards grind you down!

Drop me a line, AinsleyDrew at gmail dot calm. And thank you to everyone who donates! Means a ton, makes me do a little dance.

Hire us to word you.

These tough economic times call for a reevaluation of current career goals. I didn’t have to phone Miss Cleo to figure out that things are likely going to get worse before they get better.

Instead of succumbing to the gloom and doom, curling up into a quivering mess under my covers, loading my imaginary shot-gun and waiting for The Worst to happen, I decided to write a list of possible jobs I could strive for in fields that are less affected by the economic FAIL. In the true spirit of still trying, I made sure that each job could somehow be applied to my ultimate goal of being a professional writer.

It was either that I write this list or stare at the sky and wait for the vultures to circle.

Take note that this list does not include teaching, even though education is a sector that is still going to remain fair-to-strong in light of the recession. I didn’t include going to grad school and becoming a professor because I’ve heard that those who can do, those who can’t teach, and I can (and I will) get a motherfucking book deal. Note to teachers: I’m just jealous and don’t have the patience for your job.

Mortician
What’s the saying, every man dies, but not every man truly lives? Yeah, well, you can capitalize on the first part. The funeral service industry will always make a killing (sorry, had to), even if the stock market is plunging lower than B list starlet’s neckline. Other than going to school for it, you need to apprentice for two years, but with courses like Restorative Art and Moral & Ethical Perspectives on Death and Dying, and grunt work like embalming, you’re bound never to be bored. Nauseated, maybe. But bored, never.

• Helps with: Fiction. I’m not great at committing to a story that goes on longer than a few pages. Even the small spurts of storytelling I can manage to plunk out on my keyboard are, to me, unimaginative, lacking in any gripping narrative, with any sparkle solely centered around detail and alliteration. Working for death would definitely reanimate my imagination, and likely give me enough material to pen a solid manuscript, filled with gore, humanity, and floral arrangements.

If you’re looking to attend mortuary school, check out the directory.
The National Funeral Directors Association website provides each state’s educational requirements for a mortician’s license.

Drug and Alcohol Counselor
You’d be lying if you said that watching the news didn’t make you want to drink until you vomited all over your roommate’s flat screen. Or maybe that’s just me. I’ve often made reference to my time in recovery, and my tales from battle: the debauchery, one-night-stands, and assorted shenanigans I got involved with when sloshed. Nowadays, everyone seems to want to shut off reality, opting for alcohol (or other substances) to dull the pain of an empty pocket. There will always be a need for people willing to help those struggling with addiction, and I venture to think that the amount of addicted individuals is about to rise sharply as the Dow Jones drops.

Each state has different requirements for certification, schooling, and time in a supervised clinic setting, so do some research if pulling someone out of the abyss is the kind of career that appeals to you. And, as always, if you or someone you know is struggling, you can always check out the AA site. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I wouldn’t be writing this blog if it weren’t for the program. Which might make some of you want to slip me a mickey.

• Helps with: Self-help books. It was estimated in 2003 that the “self-improvement” market was worth a total of $8.5 billion dollars, with a projected growth rate of over $11 billion by this year. Needless to say, working in the field would probably help me to construct a pretty solid manual of how to productively handle individuals with addiction in a way that doesn‘t include condescension, a weapon, or a fraternity. It would be useful, especially since I’d be writing about a subject that touches pretty much everyone in some way.

Any Sort Of Low-Level Position In An Ad Agency
I have heard people far more successful than myself say, “You’re either part of the problem or you’re part of the solution.” Usually they’re talking about cleaning the kitchen.

The truth is that many companies have already started to reassess how they attract customers, how they present themselves on their website, what kind of advertising not only draws their clients in, but gets them to request a quote. Already we do this at Ministry of Imagery, and it’s the rebranding or web copy gigs that we love like a firstborn. They allow us to take an already valuable product or team and reinterpret their mission in text. It’s fantastic. But to jump ship and try to swim at an agency, as much as it goes against the very nature of my existence, as well as my business relationship with Simon, would be the best way to get into the thick of the feeding frenzy. Advertising will always be critical to industry, and especially with the death of print there’s a need for fresh, innovative ways to sell yourself. Another plus to selling out* is that agencies are like factories, many of them just chew you up and spit you out, which means they’re always hiring.

• Helps with: Screenwriting. Two words: Lawrence Kasdan. Also, the ability to sell is key to studio executives. Working with advertising would provide Mad Men-esque anecdotes, coupled by an invigorated ability to pitch a script.

*[Editor’s note: I don’t plan on selling out. Ever.]

Nurse
(Pharmaceutical techs aren’t struggling, but that job is boring as fuck.)
In all of my desperate research to try and find fields that were not devastated by the economic downturn, the one reliable constant was “any profession in the medical field.”

I used to play gynecologist, and I often use WebMD to self-diagnose, but other than that my healthcare expertise is nil. I’d have to go to school and get certified, and also learn how not to be afraid of people, diseases, vomit, or the combination of all three, but after that I’d be golden. And just think, I’d be helping people in a way that didn’t involve crude jokes and sarcasm.

If the kind of nursing that doesn’t directly involve breasts interests you, check out the Medical Student’s Resource Guide for information on how to help people and what those funny white hats are for.

• Helps with: Teleplays or non-fiction. Other than the incredible nursing blog I could start on my precious day off, I could write a smashingly successful sitcom script. Think about it: ER, House, Scrubs, Gray’s Anatomy, that spin-off with the frigid-looking redhead. The market is there.

Other than these gigs listed above, I could work for a winery, since American-based vinters are doing well, in part due to the price of imported wine as well as the recent popularity of entertaining at home. (I assume they mean key parties.) An oenophile’s job would be extremely funny, since I’m in AA. I could even apply to work for Caduceus. Then I could write a memoir about being an alcoholic working in the wine industry, or just fan fiction about Maynard James Keenan. You swill, I swoon.

The only other surefire career I can think of is to become a repo girl, because I’m sure that’s a business sector that’s about to start booming.

You can reach me at AinsleyDrew at gmail dot com. Hugs, handshakes, and huge gratitude to all those who donate. Times are tough, it helps to share your soup.

The job I have now is the most fun you can have starving. Hire us before we get too weak to type.

Like It is where you can see what I like. Or you can see me stutter across the QWERTY keys.

I don’t know when it dawned on me that I’m not actually a superhero, but I hope that it’s not too late. 

After all, if you asked Wolverine, “What do you do?”

And his response was, “Oh, me? I’m a superhero.”

You probably wouldn’t have a follow-up question like, “Really? What sort of superheroism? Saving kids from burning buildings? Global climate change? Cats up trees, that sort of thing?”

When you respond that you’re a writer, you’re suddenly asked to specify. I can only assume the list of responses – and their judgment –  goes like this:

Journalist (Badass!)

Editorial writer (Oh, like foxy Rachel Maddow?)

Novelist (She must live with her parents. Nobody makes a career as a novelist.)

Poet (She definitely lives with her parents. Nobody makes a career as a poet.)

Blogger (She must have been disowned by her parents. Nobody is proud of being a blogger.)

Unfortunately, I respond to the inquiry as to what kind of writing I do with a sort of twenty-minute long sales pitch that inevitably leads to eye-glazing and the removal of my name from any future invite lists.

It dawned on me that we need a rebranding.

If you click onto the Ministry of Imagery site, two things are immediately clear: one, we look pathetic, and two, we will write anything for money. The latter point is the problem. The former one is sort of beyond my control.

Saying that we’ll write anything, while it may be true, is not helpful to our cause. People do not Google search “copywriters” and hit our site, our portfolio isn’t so deep that companies across the globe have us in their Rolodex. And, certainly, the jobs that fall under the “anything” category may be fun (wedding vows and rejection letters are two actual examples that come to mind) but they aren’t the sort of sustainable work that we need.

Being somewhat organizationally compulsive led me to craft a plan for revamping our brand. What’s ironic is that we have been hired for corporate rebranding in the past and, to me, it’s one of the most enjoyable and challenging jobs that there is. So here’s a little taste of what it would look like if we did it for your company. (I’ll get back to this last line later.)

Step one, as it always is with this sort of evaluation and assessment, is to identify a goal. The goal for us would be to have between five and seven continuous gigs that would pay us to do updates and various frequent projects. This handful of key players would provide us enough income to make sure we’d make rent monthly, while also being the sort of “regular” writing jobs that allow for proper time management. Which would mean a sliver of time could be spent looking for those one-time jobs that have been providing miniscule cash injections in the nick of time, and doing other bits to broaden our portfolio.

Once this objective is identified, the next step is figuring out what those potential long-term gigs would be. From my point of view, we have three or four particular writing projects that we specialize in:

• Press releases and non-traditional advertising.
  
• Corporate blogging, news updates, and website text management.
  
• Technical writing and writing for high-tech companies. Past jobs include success stories and newsletters.
  
• Company rebranding and assessment.
  

All of these can be backed up by our portfolio and a small client list. More importantly, the first two assignments on this list of four can be done more than once for the same company. Just like electric cars and the breasts of gold digging wives, these are the kinds of things that have staying power. These are sustainable jobs. In theory, a company could hire us to write several times a month for them, to keep their brand relevant, their clients informed, and their website fresh. 

So now the more difficult bridge needs to be crossed while blindfolded: convincing Simon to redo the layout of the page, without getting him overwhelmed by the prospect of change. See, I could do it all on my own, but that isn’t very fair. The site was his and his alone before I came on the scene. And wherein I know and recognize the importance of having a robust portfolio completely accessible to potential clients, I also know that putting up a more focused and specified list of what we provide will only help to get more solicitations for said portfolio pieces. I’d rather change the face of the site now, and upload those examples as we move forward. Besides, if anybody wrote to us inquiring as to our previous projects, we could always email them the examples instantly. I just think that presenting a more streamlined and focused repertoire can only help us in the long-run. And it’s not as if we’d turn away anybody looking for a one-shot, small gig. I just think you need big bait to catch big fish. 

I call your attention once more to the taste line that I told you I’d come back to. That’s the final step of the plan. Prove what we can do for you, or any company, for that matter. Sell ourselves in a way that’s more up-front than quirky. Sure, we might be hired 9 times out of 10 for our personalities and communication style, but we could theoretically be hired, um, I dunno, for providing a service at a good rate. We can provide examples of what we do by updating our company blog or news section bi-weekly. This will complement our portfolio, along with a few high-profile, pro-bono projects that can get our name out there. Doing a variety of specific work will give us more exposure. Like socialites and porn tapes, more exposure can only be a good thing for our career.

To everyone who donates, thank you. Y’all are like the X-Men, only more hardcore.

Write me letters, Gotham: AinsleyDrew at the gmail one.

Batman and Robin

Other Sidekicks

Like Quantum Leap, only bald.

No matter how euphoric or abysmal a first date may be, the awkwardness of the follow-up phone call is unavoidable.

Maybe they told you to call because they actually do want to “do this again sometime,” or maybe they only said it because it was the only polite go-to statement to insert between dry heaves. You don’t know.

Being freelance is like dating, all of the time. In fact, it’s like dating and seeking not one True Love, but several. Preferably enough True Loves to do the cooking, the cleaning, and the taxes, and maybe a True Love that gifts you with a new iPod, too.

And after that first date, may it end with a mutually beneficial make-out session or a long, sleepless night pondering what would have happened if you just hadn’t made that one joke about liking anal, there will be an inevitable follow-up. Because just as much as freelancing is like dating, being a freelancer is like being a divorcée in her early forties who just dropped three dress sizes over the summer. Every date is a good date. Every date, even the bad ones, is worthy of a follow-up.

Okay, not every date. But most. The real doozies end before the bill is even paid.

Which leads me to where we are now, following up with a handful of clients who have tickled us over the past six months. Most of these companies had other projects for us in the proverbial hopper, that is, it’s like they definitely talked about taking us to that Ratatat show in September. We’re just getting in touch to let them know, again, how much fun we had back in July and, hey, wasn’t there some concert coming up?

It’s a weird line to walk, at least for me. I have too much pride to want to seem desperate (well, obviously not too much pride, after all, this is a blog about how close my hand is to my mouth on a daily basis) but I don’t want to let another potential job pass us by just because of the risk that the second gig has fallen through, or our main contact moved to Prague, or they just don’t have the money in light of their recent Peanut Butter and Chocolate Poppycock habit. Especially because the gigs that said goodbye with the thank-you-and-can’t-wait-for-next-time email were all surprisingly enjoyable and interesting. To have more work like that in our portfolio — and to not have to worry about rent for another month — would be a wet dream.

When constructing these follow-up letters two main things came to mind:

1. Let the client know what work we’ve done since we last spoke and how it has enhanced our portfolio, and thereby our capabilities.

2. Remind them who the hell we are.

Soon after sending these little cyber postcards from the edge, an old but uncomfortably familiar feeling crept up.

I was left with the question of how long to gauge before it is evident that, no, in fact, they don’t want to speak to us ever again.

I’m not even sure if sending a follow-up email is industry standard, but I can bet you my bottom .35 (that’s how much is in the change purse currently) that companies don’t have a standard “Uh, we were just saying that to be nice, we’re just not ready for any kind of commitment” email.

So how long do we wait before we know? I guess the answer is simple, until we get more work. Just like dating, I know this much is true, don’t call again. Especially not to tell them that you’ve picked out the names for your kids.

++++

Simon Goetz owes me a post.

He also misses shows because he is reading Japanese manga suitable for all ages. Not only does he read kids comics, but he also eats orange Tic-Tacs, which everyone knows are the grossest flavor of Tic-Tacs around.

I am running out of marginally embarrassing things to share about him. Pretty soon I’m going to have to delve into the kind of material that will leave me either sleeping on the couch or seeking that first date follow-up phone call.

++++

Salutations or sex solicitations: AinsleyDrew at gmail

I say it often, but that isn’t frequently enough: Thank you for donating. Seriously, we need the money, and every little bit helps.

The itsy-bitsy spider.

The waterspout.

There have been a lot of birthdays going around — cold nights in the late seventies and early eighties created more than fondue parties — and since both Simon and I turned one year (b)older in the past two weeks, we’ve both been forced to think about our inevitable deaths. Awesome.

Aside from the guy with the scythe, I personally was left wondering why it took me so damn long to give up on office slavery and do what I wanted to do. Which is not just stare at Olympic swimmers on the idiot box, skateboard, and eat burritos, despite what my whip-cracking inner manager says.

Success comes from doing. You want to do something? Do it. Period. No excuses, no disclaimers, no waiting.

Of course, this is after twenty-seven years, one wasted degree, and a bevy of jobs that include receptionist, fish monger, video store clerk, legal assistant, and pilates studio lackey. It has been a long, meandering path filled with complaints. Although I’ve sworn that I’ve thrown the yoke off for good, I still feel that at any moment I could be forced back into my button-down shirts and interview heels. But what got me to the point where I could write for a living, just barely scrape by, and be happy, has been simply doing it. Well, that and Simon. He’s been the fire under my ass and on my full-size mattress.

The psychological implications of manning up and doing what you want are immense. First, there’s the pocketbook risk factor. Then, there’s the idea of caring. For so long it was easy for me to rely on the stable nine-to-five lifestyle because if I got fired, or bored, or criticized, it meant little more than a momentary annoyance and the need to listen to pretty hate machine during my commute home. Now, failure is epic. Spectacular even. And this is not only because freelancing provides the sort of income as dependable as the baggage claim at O’Hare. It’s also because, for the first time in my life, my work matters to me.

To take the risk was the hardest part, of course. Success, however, is something less concrete. Sure, you can buy yourself a bandana, a pair of skinny jeans, the newest Band of Horses album, and put your ambition where you keep your weed stash, just like the average twenty-something hipster. There’s no actual achievement to be gained or reputation to be lost from not doing, and that’s a good thing to a lot of people. However, there’s a dichotomy between thinking and acting. And this is where I find myself engaging in some serious mental gymnastics that usually leave me frustrated and saying, oh fuck it out loud.

There are two approaches to success that I can see. One is the sort of attack that Michael Phelps made me think about (after I got finished fantasizing about licking Pop Rocks off of his fuck me muscles.) That guy totals about 7080,000 yards per week. Literally. Not including whatever non-amphibious exercise he engages in. It has been stated that all he does is eat, sleep, and swim. I have never been lucky enough to wake up and make him breakfast, but thank God for that, considering that every morning he basically eats an entire Denny’s in one sitting. One can only assume that his whole life is dominated by swimming, from his meals to his downtime. I imagine that most of his days are spent either preparing to swim, getting to or from his training facility, recovering from swimming, scheduling interviews about swimming, and not drowning. Of course winning two dozen gold medals is, in part, just luck, but one can’t help but imagine that it’s also the inevitable outcome of a machine-like training regimen since he was fourteen. Michael Phelps is an example of putting ambition into action and muscling his way through, nonstop, until he got to where he wanted to be. Also, he doesn’t seem to like indie rock. Which, to me, has become directly correlated to being lazy and whining.

Look at the fuck me muscles.

The other approach is that of creative visualization, based on the Law of Attraction, that Secret book whose cover makes it look like it should be about pirates and Oprah. Okay, not Oprah. Visualization seems to mean thinking about something in a manner that is less based on hope, and in a way that’s more like imagining when it happens, rather than if. Some of the people I know who have employed this technique include a cardiologist, a schoolteacher, an actor, and a TV writer, who used it and not only got the job, but also got the girl.

I’m not sure which practice works, or if they have to be mutually exclusive, or if, because the latter of the two can’t be proven by certified scienticians, both can even be attributed as the reason for a person’s achievements. I do know that I fall more into the camp of trying until dying, and applying all muscle and mettle towards getting what I want. I’m far too much of a skeptic (I call it “realist”) to believe that meditation would be anything more than a waste of minutes that could be spent typing or editing, but I am intrigued enough to try. Besides, every single one of the individuals I know who has employed some variation of the visualization method makes more in six months than I make in an entire year.

Granted, I’m more poor than I’ve ever been, but I’m also happier. So I guess that happiness, to me, is viewed the same way that most people view money: I could always have more. I suppose that I’ll just visualize a book deal and making someone laugh until beer comes out their nose.

Maybe a consumer society is what breeds the success of books like The Secret. It must in part, because the book’s status is based on people tossing paper. I do not equate money with happiness, though I do equate it with the ability to relax, freedom, and sushi dinners. I find a lot of pleasure in eating watermelon, listening to Pandora radio, and imagining how cool it would be if I could do origami. Can that buy me a house? No. But it does help me feel like my life is fulfilling outside of the written word. I still might check The Secret out of the library.

I’m going to attempt to be more open to positive visualization and see what happens. Outside of writing a list of goals, I’ve tried to dedicate some quiet time to tinkering around with my cerebral wiring and shutting up the voice in my head, which sounds just like actor Richard Lewis, that says, “You can’t do that. What are you, crazy? Can’t ever happen.” We’ll see how it goes. For now, though, I’ll keep on keeping on and stick with the philosophy that has brought me this close to the brink of starvation and joy: keep trying. Or even better, maybe now it should be try harder. After all, it’s sink or swim.

I know it’s been said before, and I’m anything but original, but if anybody who is related to someone who works at Apple reads this, you should really get Michael Phelps signed to an endorsement deal. Stat. Now I know that while I cook him breakfast I can totally listen to Tha Carter III.

And, lastly, unless you’re actually training for the Olympics, you have no excuse not to be reading Shows I Missed on the regular. If you are training for the Olympics, I hate to tell you this, but you just missed them.

Send a note or compare Michael Phelps fantasies. AinsleyDrew at the gmail one. And thank you to everyone who donates. It helps to keep me afloat. And that concludes all of the play-on-words related to swimming.

In the lane

Doggie Paddle

The other day I had an event tantamount to losing my virginity occur. Like that fateful evening it was awkward, unexpected, and inevitably led to a long internal monologue about whether or not I was a good person. Unlike losing my virginity it did not include a girl, the back of my father’s Jeep, a parking lot, and mall security.

The other day I received my first bona fide hate mail.

Upon first receiving it I had to read it over a few times, the punctuation wasn’t great, though I can’t blame the sender since commas are my personal downfall and the reason why I keep Simon around. Then I had to scan the email again for tone. Was it a joke? Someone I knew? Could a person really take a Twitter posting so seriously, and misinterpret it so much?

Immediately I got Tool’s “Hush” in my head, just as I would have at the age of thirteen, only with more perplexed head scratching and less aggressive eye-rolling.

As a girl privileged enough to experience the higher education system, I’ve often been called upon to analyze an author’s work and intent, especially within the scope of the public eye. In this day and age of YouTube, MySpace, blogging, reality TV, oversharing, and the general clusterfuck of exposure, where nearly anyone can be considered an “author” or an “artist” simply because there is this seemingly limitless platform for self-expression by way of the Internet, it’s hard to determine how to be aware of your audience, or even if you should be aware of it at all.

When I started writing, years and years ago, before menstruation or experimentation, before I even had anything half-way funny or interesting to offer, I used to spew ink in a journal. If you’d asked me back then why I wrote I would have said some convoluted version of “to express myself” and gone on to say that I never intended on anybody reading it.

Granted, back then, if you’d asked me what I wanted to do with my life I would have said “be a professional gymnast” or “play bass in White Zombie.” Without bills to pay, and with college offering me the promise of a rosy future, filled with an full-time job, guaranteed paychecks, and the dream of homeownership, I could have truly believed that I would’ve just written for myself and gone on to have an illustrious athletic or music career, with a nice single family home in New York. No dice.

I write because you read it. Period. I write to make people laugh, or maybe make them think, but I write because I hope that someone reads it. And I hope they offer me money to write more. (Granted, again, this ties into the free milk from a whorishly generous cow theory.)

The Internet, and writing as a whole, affords me a persona that is not too far off from the actual me, but it is, of course, a persona. For example, I do not post about the minutiae of my day, like how I purchased a box of Corn Flakes or that it is sunny, unless I can tie it into a euphemism or violence. This is because I understand that those things, without embellishment, are boring and ordinary, and although I have a megalomaniacal sense of self, I do not expect you to truly be interested in what I am doing on a minute-to-minute level. I do not use microblogging or blogging as an excuse to say that I am at the mall or that I am just hanging out, unless I can do so in a manner that I find publicly engaging, witty, or unique. In spite of what the hate mail alleged, I don’t actually do this for popularity or in the hopes of one day becoming an Internet celebrity (the very notion of such a thing is a fucking joke, in my opinion, considering how fleeting and ephemeral this medium presents itself, unless the entire world gets itself on Adderall I don’t foresee my shelf life extending beyond this very word that I’m typing.) I do this because I want you to read it, yes, and because I want you to want to read more…and possibly find a way to pay me for it. But I do not do it because I want to fuck you up the ass with a strap-on, or be your best friend, or feel better about myself as a human being. That’s not your responsibility as a reader. Just as it isn’t my responsibility to truly wonder what you think.

Wait a second, you say. That’s a contradiction. You want me to read, but you don’t care what I think? I smell some serious bullshit, Ainsley.

Sure. But, really, if you’re a conservative, pro-life, homophobic, upper-class Bible thumper who is reading my Twitter feed or my blog, well, you kind of know what you’re in for after a very brief amount of time. You don’t like vagina humor , vicious sarcasm, or ultra-violence? Well then don’t read me. You won’t like it. And all it will do is make both of us feel uneasy.

I am not an asshole or a troll, an expression that I only learned the other day as a result of said letter. I’m not going to go onto a conservative website and spew venom (unless they pay me to do so) and I’m not going to pick a fight with someone whose viewpoints are diametrically opposed to my own (unless FOX News is paying me to do so) and I’m not going to expect you to like everything I write (unless you are paying me to write for you.) Hell, I’m not going to expect any of you to even read my stuff. Like I said, I’m blindly hoping here. And I’d continue to write, and to hope, even if I had no subscribers, no comments, and not a single person donating or emailing me. The fact that I got hate mail means that I’m doing something right, I suppose, but it also means that I’ve reached a somewhat critical juncture where I need to express some fundamental truths that I hold to be pretty fucking self-evident.

I am not what you read. This goes both ways. You are not what I read on your social networking pages, on your Twitter stream, or on your blog. We are doing a burlesque show, and an amateur one at best. Some days are more titillating than others, and some disclosures are more honest, relevant, and immediate. But we know, or we should know, sort of, what is in store with regard to the writer-to-reader relationship.

I also feel the need to address that the Internet is not a fucking window, although I’m somewhat certain that I’m preaching to the choir here. After all, I have gotten a lot of very positive, very funny email from strangers, and that’s what makes me post as regularly and as happily as I do. It’s what makes this much, much more than a Hello Kitty  notebook with a lock on it. But I also know that most of you couldn’t pick me out of a lineup (shortest one, with the questionable gender, also probably looks sort of bored) and that you read what I want you to. If I get a book deal the same thing goes, I will write what I am paid to write. If I‘m not being paid, well, then I‘ll write whatever the hell I want to, that I think will generate readership. I could continue on this stream of thought and yammer on about James Frey and public accountability and the psychological implications of open source media, but I won’t. Just suffice to say that I love doing this, I wish I got paid regularly for it, and please keep reading and sending your feedback, yes, even if it is hate mail.

Only one suggestion, though. Be sure that when you send me hate mail, it’s well-punctuated and well thought out. For example, if I say that I’m going to break someone’s legs, it doesn’t mean that I hate people with disabilities. The same way that if I say that I’m going to rape your chihuahua it doesn’t mean that I condone violence against women or think that PETA is an organization that should be gassed. And when I say gassed…I won’t even get into it.

For those of you still confused, buy Tool’s Opiate album and listen to it all the way through. Hell, buy any of their albums, or take a peek at some of their exquisite videos on YouTube. The relevance is simple, they were what I was listening to when I stopped thinking that the journal was for my eyes only and started to realize that the reason why I did this little finger exercise was to hopefully get some money, and definitely to get some attention.

And I guess that includes hate mail.

Send it. AinsleyDrew at gmail.