Yesterday I had another edition of one of those endless rounds of meetings where work can only be killed; it can't be approved.
Where every frame, every word can be picked at and examined, but cannot be ok'd.
Where every proposition is "testable" or researchable, but is not deemed to be definitive.
You know what I'm talking about.
That road.
That journey.
The 47 "no's" on the road to "yes."
I have written in the past about how at the elemental level--how we are paid as agencies--agencies have fucked themselves. We are paid to continue making meetings. We stop being paid when we produce work.
But there's more.
There's bloat.
There's bloat and "equality."
There's a huge layer of people in agencies at at clients, of bright and eager people, whose opinions are solicited and listened to.
Everyone has something to say.
None of whom have the ability to think like a viewer.
We're supposed to suck it up--as creative people--and nod in agreement when some starched suit says, "this project will be a journey."
Fuck journeys.
They are the domain of blowhards and cowards.
They are the province of decision-avoiders and committophobes.
They are, simply, a waste.
Of time.
Money.
Energy.
Enthusiasm.
Freshness.
Life.
Love.
Laughter.
Grow some balls.
Let's get there already.
