In retrospect, I see that I was destined to work in marketing at some point in my life. I was a little girl obsessed with the fat, glossy J.C. Penney catalog (or “wish book,” as my grandma called it). When the Sunday paper came, I didn’t just read the comics—I pored over the sales circulars tucked inside. At the 4th-grade talent show, my best friend and I saw fit to perform comic renditions of mock commercials. And for career day in middle school, I struck out to interview execs at a local ad agency.
But even then, I assumed that my life’s legacy would amount to more than snappy headlines and can’t-miss pitch letters. There was just more in me than that. I couldn’t tear myself away from my sketchbook, couldn’t stop scrawling down words and pictures, couldn’t stop lollygagging in the nether-regions of my own mind.
On a related note, I also had a weird penchant for … stretching. I was no athlete, and was too tall to be a very good gymnast. But time and again, my dad would come home after a long day of work and find me upside-down on the green shag carpeting: “Lord, girl, what are you doing with your ass in the air like that?”
Had I been raised in a yoga-savvy household, I might have answered, “Shoulderstand, daddy!” Instead I blushed and somersaulted away.
Clearly, I was a daydreamer. At nine, I co-authored a poem with my dad:
I cannot write worth a dern
Nor can I remember what I learn
But my heart warms deeply whenever I try
So I’ll keep up my efforts till the day I die.
I’ll keep up my efforts till the day I die. I could not have known in my pigtail wisdom that this was much easier said than done. Nor could I have known how many sidelined artistes—my father among them—get sucked into day jobs and spit out on the other side depleted of their creativity. I certainly would never have guessed that I was in danger of becoming one of these poor schmucks.
Back then, I wrote plenty, and wound up majoring in art. Since I’d never really known any real artists, though, becoming one seemed pretty far-fetched. After a brief stint as an art teacher, I landed an editorial job at a small craft book publishing company. It seemed a good enough fit—I worked with upbeat, innovative coworkers in an interesting setting. But somewhere along the way toward the creative life I’d always envisioned, I wandered off-course and became a publicist, then a marketing hack.
Over the past eight years, I’ve churned out miles of copy, scrolled through umpteen-thousand pages of data in search of perfect pitch lists, and wrestled endlessly with Excel to generate results analyses. The nether-regions of my mind—where the creative juices once flowed freely—are practically barren.
Change is definitely in order.
I don’t really know what color my parachute is, or whatever. I only know that I’m out to charter a drastically different professional course. Perhaps I’ll give it another whirl as a teacher—of art, writing, or yoga. Maybe I’ll apply to grad school this winter to get an MFA degree. Or if my children’s book manuscript would get published, maybe my writing career could gather some momentum ….
Only time will tell. And here in this space, you can read all about it.
Hmmm. That photo looks mighty familiar. Is it possible we’ve met before–like in some distant, previous life? I myself once had a darling little girl who looked just like that. She had a shorter baton, yet insisted on using the longer one…for some reason I could never quite fathom. And although I too am one of those artistes who got sucked into day jobs and spit out on the other side depleted of their creativity, my little girl clearly is not similarly depleted yet. Not by a LONG shot. I know because she writes every bit as well as YOU do! And I aim to use samples of YOUR writing to convince her that it is precisely when one feels thus emptied of creativity that creativity rises up out of the ashes and burns more brilliantly than ever–as if the absence of energy creates its own fuel, from a virtual vacuum; a mysterious, super volatile power source that ironically is far superior to the spent propellant behind mere physical and mental processes. It is as if somehow, thanks to an invisible match timely struck by the hands of some unseen, cosmically-guided magic spirit that ignites the leftover fumes of an empty gas tank, and thereby produces more combustion than the liquid fuel ever could, Art manifests itself in its finest, most effective form…by diverting the force of the ensuing blast in such a ingenious and careful way as to express and explain things heretofore never conceived by man. And that ability to run on empty better than on full no doubt explains why so many tired, frustrated, impatient, outraged, depressed, demented and/or otherwise miserable people have produced some of the best art, music, ideas, etc. ever dreamed by mortals on this planet. So whoever you are, thanks for proving for my daughter that simply thus running out of gas–being virtually spent and down to nothing–is actually a positive for the true artist, a kind of cosmic chemical catalyst produced by numbing, icy lows that creates fantastically moving and mountain-melting highs that are to creativity what lava is to volcanic activity. Ahhh, to be able to make chicken salad out of chicken sh** like that; to be able to best express oneself like that during the very worst of times–what a gift! So thank the Almighty for bestowing it upon you and keep up the good work…knowing that besides creating outstanding and inspiring things and uniquely presenting and/or packaging basic truths and complex thoughts, it also helps round out the perspectives of old dads like me, while recharging the batteries of struggling art-driven daughters like mine….
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