A writer's confession

Recently, a very astute and inquisitive friend asked me a question. 

"Why, three weeks after graduating college, did I pack up a duffel bag, empty my embarrassingly underfunded bank account, and buy a $99 one way ticket to Los Angeles, 3000 miles on the other side of the country, where I knew not one soul nor had any game plan for the future?

The answer was remarkably simple: "To be a writer."

"What kind of writer?"  she replied.

Good question. One that didn't really have an answer. 

By the way, pictured above is the leviathan IBM Selectric II, the same model my father bought me as a birthday gift back in the 70's. It weighed well over 40 lbs. I didn't bring it with me to California. I only brought the dreams of an overfed naive college graduate who wanted a clean break from the past and a chance to click and clack a keyboard until it produced a laugh or even a paycheck.

Also I was drawn by the legendary lure of the blonde haired, blue eyed shiksa goddess. I was 22 years old. I'll cop to that.

But truly, my naivete knew no bounds. I suppose I thought I'd pick up the LA Times, scan the classifieds and start drawing red circles around tiny ads that shouted: WRITER WANTED.

The point is I could have become any type of writer.

Newspaper writer

Magazine writer (National Lampoon or Spy would've been my dream)

Radio writer

TV writer

Film writer

Porn Film writer (that opportunity did come up, I passed, though not without some hesitation and vocational research)

Technical writer

Greeting Card writer

Advertising writer

It took me three years of chasing down leads, following fruitless trails, wearing stupid ties to interviews, to jam my oversized big toe in the door, in the ad agency world. And as fate would would have it, that choice was probably the best.

For one thing, journalists make no money. Even less so now with the demise of legacy media. And the entertainment field is shamelessly ageist. Meaning, at this point in my life, I'd be retired, in a dirty nursing home, wondering if Pete the Janitor was pilfering my loose change and my Vicodin.

But I lucked out and fell into the ad world. It suited me to a Tee. It was low lift writing. Pithy little one liners, which not to sound immodest, came easy to me. It was casual. I found myself going to work in beach clothes: shorts, T-shirt and flip flops. And it was obscenely lucrative.

Gregg Benedikt, a fellow I only know digitally, runs a regular series of posts on Linkedin, titled Brilliant Advertising, How I Miss You So. Last week he ran a post featuring some of our ad work from 25 years ago.

The reaction was overwhelmingly positive. Enough to make an old man blush. I mean who doesn't like their work validated and praised in public? I won't lie about that -- that would off-brand for me. But I will posit the praise is somewhat unwarranted. 

In what other world does a single line or joke take on such a life of its own? I watch monologues from Steven Colbert, Seth Myers and John Oliver, and recognize the sharp wit and craftsmanship that emerges from their staff. Much of it, just fucking brilliant. That's writing! And yet, it's disposed of and forgotten moments after it airs.

Maybe I can chalk it all up to Latent Imposter Syndrome. Truth be told, I'm still yearning to do some writing that is more meaningful and resonant. 

Then again, that too would be off-brand.

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Earlier this year, I became Facebook friends with Sean Kelly, former editor of the National Lampoon. He passed away last week and my condolences go out to his family. I took great pride in the fact that he occasionally threw a Like at one of my political postings. A small measure of achievement. 

Here's a screengrab of our first correspondence...