in 1980 jimmy carter and ronald reagan both wanted to be president.
my goal was less ambitious, but not by much: i wanted to write, not just be a reader of other writers. more than that, i wanted to get paid to do it.
after years of making stupid decisions and fighting off bouts of self-doubt and depression, i finally managed to turn my life around. in january of that year, i graduated with a bachelor of arts degree in mass communication.
at the age of 25 and now armed with a college degree from truman state university, i was finally—finally—ready to make good on my life’s dream.
while i first felt the urge to write at the age of 14, the soil had been carefully prepared for many years prior. thanks to the encouragement of my parents, i read everything i could get my hands on, especially fiction.
it was there i met people like chip hilton, jupiter jones and huckleberry finn. and it was there, on the printed page, where i experienced what it was like to be stranded on a desert island, hit a walk-off home run and swing from a vine in the african jungle.
but as much as i enjoyed reading, i rarely gave much thought to the humans behind the scenes doing the writing. sure, i had favorite authors like clair bee, mark twain and alfred hitchcock, but that was as far as it went.
they wrote and i read. they wrote and i was nourished. they wrote and i always came back for more.
but then, in 1968, providence brought mrs. fields into my life. as my 8th grade english teacher at florissant junior high school, she convinced me that i, too, could write. that i, too, had the potential to create interesting characters, settings and story lines.
that i, too, could be more than just a reader.
in addition to providing positive feedback on writing assignments and my journal, she made the art of writing interesting and relevant. for instance, she had the class read and discuss song lyrics from the beatles and simon and garfunkel, and even invited us to her house for candle-lit poetry readings.
thanks to mrs. fields, my calling became clear: “write!”
while i wanted to write a book, i had read enough to know how difficult being a full-time published author can be. it seemed more practical and realistic to do so in my spare time. in the meantime, i decided to find a job that emphasized the importance of writing skills.
based on my divine mandate, after graduating from college i applied for jobs at publishers, newspapers, radio and tv stations, and public relations agencies. if writing was part of the job description, i applied.
after five months of mailing paper copies of cover letters and resumes to post office boxes, i was finally hired by advertising associates in a suburb of my hometown, st. louis. back then it was commonly referred to in industry shorthand as “aa.”
looking back now, 40+ years later, the acronym seems appropriate considering the intoxicating effect it had on both my personal and professional lives.
it was not how i imagined my writing career beginning, but history cannot be changed, not even a little bit.
this, then, is how it all began.
my title was creative account executive (cae), which meant i had dual responsibilities.
as account executive i served as the primary contact between the agency and its clients. but i was also a member of the creative team that worked behind the scenes to brainstorm, plan and implement campaigns and projects. the team included me, a graphic designer (the staff “artist”) and ron, who oversaw day-to-day operations.
at the time, the agency was known for hiring recent college graduates who had writing experience and good people skills. thanks to my college newspaper, i had the former, and thanks to my late-night tv mentor, johnny carson, i had the latter.
recruits were considered “cheap labor” by competitors and earned an annual salary of $12,000. while viewed as a bargain from the firm’s perspective because of high expectations, it was a lot of money for a fresh-out-of-college guy like me.
orienting new hires to the world of advertising and the businesses of its clients was important, but the agency emphasized how to do things the “aa way.” yes, newbies were raw and inexperienced, but they were also impressionable. thus, it was easier to mold them into the kind of caes the agency desired.
the end game was to reproduce inexpensive and inter-changeable versions of art, the agency’s founder and president. once transformed into his image, we could function effectively in both worlds as account executives and members of our respective creative teams.
art’s expertise in both areas was rare in the industry back then and he was convinced there were others capable of being caes. in may of 1980 i was one of the chosen ones.
three new caes started on the same day that monday morning: me, bob and jeff, the latter being art’s son. having been exposed to the world of advertising via his dad, it was clear from the beginning jeff had a built-in advantage. he already knew what the expectations were and how to meet them.
but orientation was for all the newbies, not just those who did not share art’s dna.
the first week all three of us were sequestered in a conference room from 8 am to 5 pm.
· each day the setting was the same: blinds closed and a blank flip chart standing guard in the front of the room.
· each day the same items were neatly displayed on the massive rectangular oak table: three yellow pads of paper, several freshly sharpened pencils, a coffee pot, mugs, spoons, sugar packets, powdered creamer, a water pitcher and drinking glasses.
· each day the same nutrition was provided: glazed donuts for breakfast and sandwich makings for lunch.
· each day the same person orchestrated the devotees’ indoctrination: the charismatic ron.
· each day the three major objectives of orientation were stated, re-stated and stated again.
while my job at aa was memorable in many ways for many reasons, orientation set the tone for everything that followed. without it, there would be no north star.
because of that, here are the three fundamental teachings of aa circa 1980.
1) appearance is very important
this first emphasis was one i took to heart. ron suggested we purchase the book, "dress for success” and i bought a copy that evening. i was nothing if not obedient. after leafing through the book, it was clear my wardrobe was woefully inadequate.
the weekend following orientation my fiancé and i went shopping at sears, j.c. penney and, reluctantly, the more expensive famous-barr.
i bought shirts, lots of shirts: an equal number of whites and blues, all cotton, and all with button-down collars with no pockets.
i bought ties, lots of ties: solid colors in navy, gray and black, as well as some with small, understated patterns. naturally, all were silk.
i bought socks, lots of socks: navy and charcoal, all solid colors, all mid-calf.
i bought suits, lots of suits: navy, charcoal, gray and light blue, all with vests. vonnegut wore vests, right?
finally, i bought a dandy pair of burgundy wingtips from a pricey downtown st. louis shoe store. the salesman told us they were made from the “hindquarters of a horse.”
driving home, my fiancé and i dubbed them the "horse's butt" shoes, a name that stuck no matter how many times they were re-soled over the years. they were unquestionably the most important part of an advertising executive’s apparel.
since i had never owned shoes needing a shine, we also purchased polish, a brush and a rag to do the job properly. as instructed in orientation, i dutifully buffed my beloved wingtips every weekend and even wiped the dust off them each workday morning.
even though i wore my dress shoes to work with pride each day, they were of vital importance when it came time for the annual agency christmas party months later. since the purpose of the event was not to celebrate the birth of christ but to wine and dine clients, the shoes needed to have an extra sheen.
that is because newbies were required to entertain our special guests. much to my disappointment (but not total surprise), jeff volunteered the three of us to write a song and perform it that evening.
the whole thing felt like something from a short film by "the little rascals,” where the child actors cheerfully and unanimously agree to “put on a show for the neighborhood.” or when gilligan, the skipper and ginger relished the opportunity at the thought of entertaining their fellow castaways with stirring vocal and dance bits.
while jeff was good with lyrics and bob played the guitar, i pretended to be enamored with the idea and did my best to be a team player. i do not remember the words to the song, but do recall the bluesy refrain:
"but i forgot to shine my shoes
so now i've got those over-ridin'
always hidin'
advertisin'
a--gen--cy--blues"
after the performance, our clients hooted and clapped with drunken joy for their agency marionettes. we apparently exceeded expectations. not only did our guests see their reflections in my wingtips, but we also wowed them with a right smart ditty.
that evening i learned an important lesson not covered in orientation. yes, one’s appearance is important, but so is a willingness to suck up to the rich and powerful who pay your salary.
knowing a professional writer is totally dependent upon the generosity of his or her reading public, this lesson resonated with me.
2) be on time and ready to work
this second major objective of orientation was not an area i had ever struggled with before. but then, this was my first grown-up job, so i paid close attention whenever it was mentioned, which was often.
starting time was 8 am sharp and it was not good enough to just be in the building. nor was it acceptable to be sitting at one’s desk sipping a cup of coffee and easing into the day.
no!
each morning, beginning at 8, we were expected to be working feverishly on that day’s agenda. every minute of every hour of every workday we were to be busy cultivating excellent client relationships and producing award-winning copy and materials.
ron also emphasized the importance of reading the wall street journal each day and gleaning nuggets from numerous trade publications. after each pub was read, we were instructed to put a checkmark next to our name on the distribution list and hand-carry the item to the next person.
the latter was a sacred duty, one i found both tiring and annoying. since the reading was not fiction, i found it dry and exceedingly dull. even though i wanted to keep up with current events and best practices, i quickly concluded it was too time consuming and not realistic.
because of that, i hung on to each pub for a few hours to give the illusion i was actually doing the required reading. after that, i would check my name off and dump the pub in the inbox of the next sucker on the list.
be on time. check.
work hard. check.
read industry and business-related crap? no way.
for the first time in my life, i willingly chose to be a non-reader. it felt blasphemous (and still does), but it was done out of necessity.
3) do not embarrass your employer
like the others, the third major objective was something i found intuitive. yet it was emphasized repeatedly due to its importance.
i will never forget ron writing the word “assume” in big black letters on the ever-present flip chart. i knew what was coming and so do you, the reader.
“do not assume anything. if you do, you’ll make an ass out of you and me.”
being the savvy advertising executive he was, ron strategically circled the gospel according to aa with a red marker, as he enunciated every syllable with vigor.
first, he circled the letters “ass,” then the letter “u,” and then the letters “me.”
ass-u-me.
ron did, indeed, have a flair for the dramatic. in doing so, he brought the well-worn cliché to life right before our very eyes.
over time i realized “do not embarrass your employer” really meant, “don’t embarrass art or ron in any way.”
be a brown noser and a “yes man.” check.
once orientation was over it was exhilarating--i was a real-life creative account executive and a full-fledged member of aa. my first real grown-up job was underway.
my writing career had begun!
unfortunately, my tenure with aa only lasted 12 months, a decision that was kind of my fault and kind of not.
art’s secretary called one morning in may of 1981. the purpose was to set up lunch between her boss and me later that day.
even though it was short notice, could i come?
“of course,” i said.
a devotee never rejects a one-on-one with the boss, even at the last minute.
i was excited because i had never had lunch with the big guy, but scared because of the same reason.
just before noon i went to the bathroom and wiped my shoes off with a wet paper towel. after all, appearance was very important with the shoes serving as the crown jewels. the “horse’s butt” never looked so good.
we drove together in his silver mercedes-benz. it was an automobile, not a car, a magnificent machine with the aroma of leather and cigars.
our destination was the fox and hounds, a cozy english pub at the cheshire inn in clayton.
while art was kind and chose his words carefully, our time together did not go well.
this is not what he said, nor how it was uttered, but this is what i heard: “you can’t write. you need to begin looking for another job.”
i was shocked and humiliated. in all my retail and manual labor jobs prior to becoming an adult, i had never been fired. never, not even chastised. and art’s conclusion was certainly not what an aspiring writer wanted to hear.
he was surprised i was surprised.
art gently pointed out that had i been paying attention over the last several months i would have noticed being gradually pulled off any projects requiring creativity. instead of writing, i was now confined to doing almost exclusively detail-oriented administrative tasks.
he was right. i had not noticed. i was distracted by the title on my business card, aristocratic attire and the proud owner of a brand-new mazda 626.
instead of writing radio jingles for boehmler chevrolet or ad copy for breckenridge inn at frontenac i was placing telephone directory ads for nationwide financial services.
i was—and still am—embarrassed i never saw it coming.
not only had i failed in my first attempt to be a fully functioning adult, but my heart’s desire had been ripped from my chest and discarded like a soiled, now brown piece of toilet paper. just because i had dressed for success, been indoctrinated into the “aa way” and played the part of a devotee had not made me one of the chosen ones.
for the previous 12 months i had fooled myself, not my captors. unbeknownst to me, i had not been made in the image of the founding father.
it was a tense and quiet drive back to the office. he asked if i was ok and i lied and said “yes.”
i suspect he knew better, and i certainly did.
even though art said i could have 2-3 months to find a new job, i quit that afternoon. after returning to the office, i packed up my personal belongings and told his secretary on the way out i was leaving.
not for the day, but for good.
the thought of having to face co-workers who would no doubt eventually hear about the demise of my writing career was too much to bear.
so, i did as i had done so many times before while growing up: i fled from even the hint of potential pain or confrontation. even though the tactic had never worked before, i foolishly believed it would work out better this time.
it did not.
a bad habit was, after all, still a bad habit.
art handled the situation well, but i did not. after a few days of experiencing what it was like to be unemployed and without a paycheck, i created a new, personal guardrail: never—never—quit a job without having another one to take its place.
behaving like a child in a cruel and unforgiving grown-up world would not serve me well. moving forward, supporting my family financially took precedence over anything i might suffer at the hands of an employer.
as i look back at my first job out of college—the launch of my divine calling to write—the experience was bittersweet.
while i got the chance to write and learned the basics of the business world, i was crushed when professional copywriters labeled me as incompetent in the creative arena.
was my calling a real thing? was i just a reader and not a writer?
where was mrs. fields when i needed her?
even though i was taller, thicker, older and wiser than the 14-year-old kid back in junior high, i realized that in some ways i had not changed at all.
despite being 26, i was still prone to making poor decisions followed by predictable regrets. worst of all, i was still prone to wallowing in the dogma of self-doubt.
not many people are kicked out of a cult, but i was. aa wanted account executives who could also write, not administrative assistants. so much for my writing career. so much for my calling.
in 1981 ronald reagan was president, but jimmy carter was not. that year others were writing, but i was not.
“i’m not good enough.”
“i’m a quitter.”
unfortunately, those all too familiar inner voices returned from my childhood, this time more powerful than before.
“i’m not good enough.”
“i’m a quitter.”
it is not hyperbole to say those voices have shaped who i was back then, who i am today and who i will be tomorrow.
for good or bad, they have been life-long companions in my quest to fulfill my divine calling.
i want to write, not just be a reader of other writers. that was true then and still is.
fortunately, i have been emboldened and encouraged over the years by a third inner voice, another of my companions.
i hear it in the voice of mrs. fields.
“write!”