Writing. Writing. Writing.

As I wrote about late last week, on Wednesday, September 18th, I had breakfast with my last official boss in the business. And less than three hours after wiping the egg off my face, I had a two-hour zoom call with my first official boss in the business.

There's something marvelous about that symmetry. Having been first hired by a great advertising writer in the early 1980s, and fading into the fog with another great advertising writer in the mid 2020s.

Marshall, my first boss, went on to write best-selling novels, TV shows, even feature movies.

He called me because he has a new book coming out--in about six months--and he wondered if I can help come up with an ad campaign for it. Marshall's had a #1 New York Times best-seller with his name alongside James Paterson. Now he wants a number one best-seller sans sidekick.

Steve, called me a few weeks ago to help on an assignment. One of those all too typical contemporary assignments where the client needs a ton of work and they have an ounce of time. While there's more to me than being a crunch-time kind of writer, I'm a crunch-time kind of writer. 

Chris Wall used to say the best way to rate a creative person is to pose a question: It's Friday and the pitch is Monday. Do you want them in on the weekend. I've always been one of those people you call in that situation. 

It bothers me somewhat. Just like if I were in the army, I'd hate to be the guy who always gets stuck with 33-seconds to defuse a bomb. But you generally get well-paid for that particular skill. Or maimed. Whichever comes second.

It's been a full 40 years between the time I started working for Marshall and the assignment I just wrapped up with Steve. 

40 years is a long time in any business.

My baseball hero was Minnie Minoso. He wound up playing five decades in the major leagues. I've decided to endure my way and try to make it to six decades in advertising. I've made it five: the 80s, 90s, 00s, 10s, 20s. In six years, 2030, I'll be 73, I'll make my sixth decade. Don't bet against me. 

Though you could bet against the world surviving that long.

When I think about my difference between me as a writer when I worked for Marshall and me as I writer when I work with Steve, I can't help but think about this information graphic that breaks down how Beethoven apportioned his days and nights.

When I worked for Marshall, I was scared.

Unlike Beethoven--as indicated by the green arc above--I rarely had a skein of eight hours when I just wrote. I was too young. Too nervous. 

I relied too much on others. So I sat with my art partner and tried to come up with ideas.

It would take me a week sometimes to come up with the requisite ten headlines it took to make a meeting. 

Since my Steve era I have learned a lot.

First, I've inculcated the old carpenter's mantra. "Measure twice, cut once." In other words, I don't consider a job briefed, or started or worth working on until I can say in six or eight simple words anyone can understand, what the product or brand I'm working on actually does and does better or differently. 

If you can't do that, you're wasting time. 

Along the way, my friend Rob taught me a discipline. Try to work out for whatever you're working on an F.O.B. A First. An Only. A Best. 

That's hard-work and should make you sweat. But it helps the client. It helps the agency. And it helps make better ads. Also, to be dumb about it, once you've worked out an FOB, you've got your copy, the website and half-a-dozen client powerpoints 90-percent doped out.

Once I have those six or eight plain English words written down, I go to work. I no longer have to think about the brief. Or the 91 people telling me the 191 things my ads have to do and the 1191 different demographic types they need to reach or the 11,191 ways I'm out of scope and haven't done my timesheets.

No, with my six or eight plain English words I can rebuff that second-guessing nonsense and fear.

Then I just start writing. 

I take the words and I rewrite them.
And I rewrite them. 
And I rewrite them.
And I rewrite them.

I rhyme them.
I write them backwards.
I write them upside down.
I rewrite them funny.
Scary.
Silly.
Punny.

I rewrite them as many different ways as I can imagine rewriting them. I rewrite them incomplete. I rewrite them in acronyms. I rewrite unrequitedly. 

Mostly I rewrite those six or eight plain English words until I get them to a place where no one has ever arranged words in that way before. Until I get someone to laugh about something like Robotic Process Automation. Or until I've squeezed them so tightly, they become succinct and memorable.

Often I think of a short poem by Ogden Nash that in four syllables explains the descent of man better than Charles Darwin ever did.

Fleas

Adam
Had'em

Or a poem by David McCord about dying. It was taught to me by my oldest closest friend who died almost four years ago. What a way to say goodbye. With a memory, a laugh, and a heart-ache.

Epitaph on a Waiter 

By and by
God caught his eye.

If you can write about evolution and death with such brevity and memorability, most advertising shouldn't be that daunting.

I've also got a passel of great ads I love to check myself against if my head needs whacking. Things by Trott, or Abbott, or McCabe, or Puris, or Hayden. Things that are so smart and good they're almost cruel in how they make you want to live up to them.

I go through all that.

I look at my six or eight plain English words and I keep writing. And rewriting.

If I feel I'm writing too much, I stop myself and say, "you're a writer, write." And I keep going.

Other writers, I'm sure, do things differently.

This isn't a guide.

It's nothing but how I've filled this space for almost 7,000 days in a row.