Ahhhh, the freelance life.

Ever since I started writing Roundseventeen, I have made it a point to mark an anniversary.

This year, amidst the mask wearing, the hand washing and the nail biting over the fate of our beloved country, I somehow forgot to pen the annual post. And so, two months late, I am penning that obligatory post.

I remember the day in June, 2004 as if it were yesterday. Hell every day seems like yesterday. And every tomorrow feels like today. Or something profound like that.

I was coming home from my job down in Irvine, California. Home of chain restaurants, faux Mediterranean residential architecture, and intellectually challenged, mask averse people who regularly appear in internet memes because they want to believe this whole pandemic is a hoax. Or worse, a devilish government plot and 5G towers.

I'm not clear on the mechanics of that, but neither are they.

The drive from the parking lot at Y&R/Irvine to my home in Culver City is (was) 56.3 miles. But who's counting? And that's only if I snagged one of the prime parking spots, which I never did because of my late arrival because the drive is 56.3 miles. Did I mention that?

On this one particularly horrendous commute home, there were snags on the 405, the 90, and the 605. Culminating with a jack-knifed truck on the westbound 105. In sum, it took me an hour and 45 minutes to traverse the 56.3 miles. By the time I walked in the front door, my two daughters had been tucked in and gone to bed. Meaning I would not get a chance to read Zundl The Tailor to them.

As I was eating dinner, by myself, and pulling the last hairs from my head, hairs # 137, 138 & 139, I turned to my wife and said, "I don't know how much longer I can do this."

The job was not all that rewarding. We were doing respectable car work for Jaguar (nothing great). And  I had some good kids in my group, many of whom have gone on to become awarded creative directors. And I was working with an industry legend, John Doyle, and another industry hero, my buddy John Hage. But that damned 56.3 mile commute was ripping the life from me.

"Why don't you quit?" my wife said in a her quiet, nonplussed wise way.

"I can't just quit. I don't have another job to go to. And there just aren't a lot of agencies who are going to hire a 44 year old writer making that kind of money."

She was too busy cleaning off the kitchen counter and putting away the leftovers. She shrugged her shoulders and repeated her earlier advice, "Just quit. It'll work out. It always does."

And so, for the first time in my advertising career, I left a job voluntarily, without having another job offer waiting in the wings.

In a fateful instant I had ceased to be a highly remunerated Group Creative Director, SVP at a major Holding Company ad agency and had become an unemployed freelance copywriter, with no plans but to not drive my car for as long as possible.

It was the best decision I have ever made in my life.

Except for the decision to marry my wife.
Except for the decision to listen to my wife and buy a house in Culver City.
Except for the decision of heeding my wife's advice again and putting a second story on the house and installing that expensive quartz counter in the master bathroom.

Let's just say it was good decision.

Because my freelance career blossomed. Soon I was booked. Double booked. And even triple booked. Making more money in one year than many CCO's, burdened with clients, shareholder worries, and dusk to midnight meetings. The kind of life that lands many in my shoes in Divorce Court or an early start on the Dirt Nap.

It's been, and continues to be, a great ride. Allowing me to do the thing (perhaps the only thing) I enjoy most about being in advertising -- the writing.

My only hope is that this trajectory continues. And that I am still clicking and clacking and cashing checks until I'm the ripe old age of 45.