But I Just Wanted to Write

Who am I and how did I get here?

The Passion of Creation by Leonid Pasternak

I didn’t have a plan after college. I briefly considered becoming a lawyer, but I realized that what I really wanted to be was a TV lawyer. I bagged it when I found out there was no David E. Kelley School of Law.

A friend of mine got a job selling knife sets, which sounded terrible. It certainly was for me—he guilted me into buying some. I lived at home, and our kitchen had plenty of knives. He’s the same friend who later stabbed me in the back, which in retrospect is kind of poetic.

But his experience reinforced what I already knew to be true: sales is not for me. There are many reasons for that, and they all start with “I hate.” These include, but are not limited to:

• Small talk

• Schmoozing

• Serial rejection

• Selling things

That last one seems particularly important.

Although I hadn’t yet found my calling, I knew I wanted to write, preferably in a creative field. I eventually got to do that, but what I couldn’t have known was where it would lead.

It was a rough job market when I graduated. I applied to a few local TV and radio stations, as well as to other positions that involved writing, but none of those worked out.

I ended up getting a job taking client-service calls at a large financial company. I did do some writing there, but it was all on applications for other jobs.

I eventually found my way to a writing position in the company’s Corporate Communications department, then later in Marketing. I hadn’t taken any finance courses in college; in fact, I don’t think I took any kind of business courses at all. So I learned a lot.

The last thing I learned was that I was dying inside. After 10 years, I’d long since run out of ways to stay interested in writing about yields and diversification, so I left to freelance.

I learned a lot doing that too, including the fact that I was lousy at selling myself. I probably should have seen that coming. When you’re freelancing, you have to hustle. Make connections. Reach out to prospects. Keep knocking on doors.

Unlike Walter White, I’m not the one who knocks. I’m the guy on the other side of the door, waiting for the knocker to go away.

I’d joined the local chamber of commerce, mainly because that entitled me to get on their group health insurance plan, but also because they held a lot of networking events. The amount of self-delusion I must have had to think that I’d go to any of them is remarkable.

People who go to networking events are bubbly and outgoing. They happily slap on name tags and exchange business cards. They say things like “Let’s set up a lunch next week” and look forward to going. They leave energized. They’re succeeding, and I’m sure they’re lovely people, they’re just not my people.

If my people somehow end up at one of these, they stand in corners and know where all the exits are. They give cursory smiles and avoid eye contact. They make deals with themselves that if they talk to one person, they’re allowed to leave. They look around at what’s going on and feel like an alien wearing a skin suit.

With this as my way of being, business slowed down. My stress level and bank account had settled into a steady inverse relationship. I did have some clients, based on referrals, but new ones were hard to come by. So, as much as it pained me, I looked for a job.

I ended up getting a position as a senior writer at a marketing agency. Things were fine there—I mean, the place was a fucking asylum, but I was writing. I got a couple of promotions along the way, and my responsibilities grew.

I started managing people, which wasn’t something I had any interest in doing. I liked it from the standpoint of being a mentor but disliked the corporate nonsense that went with it.

The company also sent me to conferences. I guess it made sense on paper, but what management sometimes doesn’t understand is that when you take someone from the creative department and put them in business situations meant for normal people, your results are going to vary.

Sending me to a conference is like dragging an agnostic to a Catholic mass. I find the customs and lingo strange, I tend to tune out the speaker, and I don’t really believe in any of it.

Some of the times I’ve felt most alone have been when I’m surrounded by hundreds of people at these things. There’s a specific energy that I find disturbing. It feels like I’m at a performance of Extroverts on Ice, with everyone skating around me, making moves that I can’t and don’t want to perform.

The colleague I usually went with was better at it. She’d approach people and enjoyed talking about whatever mind-numbing topic was on the agenda.

As is my stated M.O., I’d approach no one. In fact, a few times, I’d see someone approaching me, only to turn away when they saw the look on my face that must have said “Don’t do it.”

I really did try to be open and welcoming, but my body rejected it like some kind of failed enthusiasm transplant.

COVID put the kibosh on those events for a while, but right around the same time, things got better for me in one sense, and much worse in another.

Up until six years ago, my job—though not perfect by any means—was what I’d wanted since college. I was writing in a creative field. Less writing than before, but still a lot. Then, after one key conversation with my boss, everything changed.

Since then, I’ve been co-running a different agency, which is owned by my old one. We’re small, so we all end up doing things outside our areas of expertise. For me, that includes account services.

Before, I had exactly the right amount of client contact. I’d be in certain meetings and presentations to do my spiel, and that was it. I was a show pony. I liked all of our clients, so it was a pleasure to pop in and out as needed. The day-to-day contact—the running of the account—was up to members of the account team.

Now, somehow, I’m basically one of them.

In many ways, I’m right back where I started—taking calls. Sure, they’re video calls and we don’t talk about investments, but otherwise, I’ve come full circle.

Look, I’m grateful to have a job. And this is no reflection on anyone I interact with on these calls, the vast majority of whom are great. It’s just that having to be “on” all day feels like hooking my nervous system up to jumper cables.

Recently, my overlords started ramping up efforts to get new clients, and I’m part of the business development team. I’m sure you can understand my concerns.

When you work at an agency, you’re always trying to get new business, especially through existing relationships—ex-colleagues, clients who’ve moved on to other companies, that kind of thing. But this is different. This is a Mission. An Imperative. A Directive.

Consultants have been hired. Spreadsheets have been created. Conferences are being booked.

We were also given memberships to LinkedIn Sales Navigator. Has there ever been a more unexciting string of words? It’s like Actuary Mission Statement or Tofu History Lesson.

Aside from that, there are a few other problems here:

• LinkedIn makes me sad.

• Most of the features LinkedIn has to offer are garbage. I suspect this will be no different.

• Again, I hate sales. I don’t care who’s navigating.

To be more precise, it’s not the selling itself, exactly, that I hate. It’s finding the sellee. I’m fine if you put me in a room with a potential client. I can close. I’m a closer. I’m just not an opener.

I’m actually not sure what I am.

Somehow, through being a writer, I’ve gotten to a place where much of what I do not only has nothing to do with writing anymore, it’s in direct opposition to my entire personality.

I’m glad I can at least write about it.

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