I mean, I’ve worked. And very hard. But not for anything that’s earned any income.

Entering the otherwise quiet month of December, I felt great heading into 2012. The second half of last year was rockin’ with commercial directing work for Dell and Yahoo!. I also started blogging for Forbes and made several trips to Detroit to screen the short for “Lemonade: Detroit.” And I took a big chunk of the directing money I made (okay, almost all the directing money I made) and paid off much of the debt that has haunted me for so long. All the things on my vision board were coming to fruition.

With January came the promise of new projects and continued momentum. In early January I was bidding for two new gigs. Ironically, both came from former bosses at their new ad agencies. And, ironically, both were directing commercials for their health care clients.

Before I go on, you must know that 2011 was a gift. The assignments from Dell and Yahoo! were single bid. I was incredibly fortunate to start my commercial directing career off the way I did. But these two new potential projects were more traditional and competitive in the way they were awarded.

Now, I’ve been in situations like this on the agency side. My partner and I would get a TV project to work on, present a bunch of ideas, and the client would narrow it down to two or three. Sometimes, they’d end up producing ours, and sometimes, they’d produce another team’s instead. The latter was always a psychological blow, but at the end of the day I’d still get a paycheck.

As a business owner, if my ideas don’t win, there’s no revenue. And as it would turn out, both of these new assignments went to another director. As did the momentum I had accumulated in 2011.

My confidence, however, has never been higher. And here’s why.

1. I learned more from not getting those assignments than I would have had they been awarded in my favor. In both instances, I had the luxury of personal relationships with the creative directors, so they were candid about why they went in another direction. And while neither had anything to do with the treatment I wrote (both said I presented the best ideas on paper), they both taught me the value ofcompetitive bidding. At the risk of oversimplifying, it really came down to which production company provided the most value. I lost one because my competitor made a case for a less elaborate production at half the cost. And I lost the other (mostly) because of a production company that could do it two weeks sooner than we could. I’m not saying either presented less worthy ideas. I’m just saying, all things being equal, logistics and budget ultimately weighed in their favor.
2. Those treatments I wrote absolutely put me in a position to bid on the agencies’ next projects. The creative directors went out of their way to tell me that if it just came down to the treatments, the jobs would have been mine. So rather than sheepishly going into the next bidding cycle, I feel confident that I’m doing that part rather well.
3. I have no business debt. All that credit I freed up in 2011? I’m looking at that as an emergency small business loan. Don’t get me wrong, I hate the idea of living off credit again. I really thought those days were behind me. But my success in 2011 allowed me the credit to fall back on in 2012.
4. There are lots of rumblings about new projects. For the aforementioned reasons, Ifeel great about my odds when they present themselves.
5. There are lots of rumblings about freelance. I still have great relationships in the agency world, and I’m keeping my portfolio fresh with new work. (Hint, hint.) It takes a while to prime the freelance pump when you’ve been busy with other work, but it has been the once constant in an otherwise unpredictable revenue stream. Consider the pump primed.
6. There are lots of rumblings about “Lemonade: Detroit” funding. Any one of a number of hot irons could decide today that they want to underwrite the whole feature-length production. In which case, I will look back on this blog one day and think, “Silly Erik. All that concern for nothing.”

“Nobody said life would be easy, they just promised it would be worth it.” -Harvey Mackay.

I love that quote. I live by that quote. Let’s do this.

On the first day of my first advertising agency copywriting job in 1996, I reeked of insecurity. I checked all boxes of a fragile creative. “They’ll see right through me.” “How long before they realize I’m a fraud?” And the one I battle to this day, “I’m a hack.”

To someone who hadn’t spent a single day writing for a real client, the only tool in my chest was my willingness to work hard. I may not have been smarter or more creatively gifted than my peers. But I could always put in more effort.

I even erected a 50-point-type monument to hard work, printed in Futura bold, spray mounted on black board and mounted on top of my computer.

“Write Another Headline”

It was my daily reminder that I was no genius. There was always another idea, another spin on the brief, another stone buried somewhere in the huge rock garden of concepts that I had yet to overturn.

I was recently reminded of that little sign while listening to an episode of This American Life. In it, Ira Glass documents a “thumbs up/thumbs down” writers’ session at The Onion where peers bless or kill each others’ headlines for the upcoming issue.

Now, you may be thinking that these people are born funny. That everything that comes out of their brains is Sarcasm Gold. But the reality is that comedy – just like advertising or screenwriting or golf or cooking or painting – is all about numbers. You can’t get to great just by jotting down your first, second, or 50th thoughts. It takes discipline to work beyond the moment when you think you’ve come up with it, and keep pushing yourself to find something even better.

From that podcast:

It takes them two long mornings – on Monday and on Tuesday – to come up with these 16 headlines they’re gonna use in the paper this week. And to get to this 16, they go through – and I know this number is gonna sound kind of crazy – 600 possible headlines.

That equation reminds me a lot of a lesson that Sally Hogshead teaches often: “Write 100 headlines for every 1 that you actually need.”

Will headlines 598-600 be the best? Not always. In fact, probably never. But the same can be said for headlines 1-3. You have to do the work.

In any endeavor, simply showing up isn’t good enough. Not if you want to make your mark.

But I still believe in the ideals of Please Feed the Animals. I still think that people like me have something to pass along. Much in the spirit of the book Wisdom, written by people who have been there and done that, PFTA can be a place to get some perspective from a bunch of wise people who have gone through a layoff, reinvention, or enlightenment, and can pass along their life and career lessons to you.

From here on out, PFTA will be a blog written by several semi-regular collaborators. These are all folks who have contributed guest posts in the past, and who required little or no editing on my part. They are all accomplished in their fields, and have each inspired me personally in one way or another over the past two years.

The first of these contributor posts will come from Aaron Templer, who wrote this amazing post last May. Aaron and I have become friends and collaborators over the past year and a half, and I’m thrilled to have him on the roster.

Stay tuned for his post, as well as a list of the other contributors as they are confirmed.

Peace,
Erik

Scott Gerber’s new book Never Get a Real Job is marketed to 20-somethings who find themselves looking down the long barrel of a traditional career path thinking, “Is that all there is?”  But I’m here to tell you, it’s for ANYONE who wants to start a business, young or old.

Gerber’s writing is relentless, his passion in on his sleeve, and he pulls no punches. His main messages: You are not entitled. Starting a business isn’t easy. And the chances that you will fail are great. But fail you must, many times over.

First, he knocks the wind out of you with a reality punch to the chest. “Nothing will go as planned. Ever. Plans change, businesses change, and markets change. Your world will be flipped upside down on a daily basis.”

Thanks for the pep talk, Scott.

For the faint of stomach, the early chapters are disheartening. Some people just aren’t hard wired for business building. But if you get past that, he takes you through the valuable steps of how to get from fanciful dreams to actually closing deals and seeing black numbers on your balance sheet. (I particularly enjoyed the One-Paragraph Startup Plan.)

I wish I would have had this book in my 20s. But all I know is I’m almost 40, and I’m glad I have it now.

Never Get a Real Job is only $14 on Amazon. Get it for yourself, or your entrepreneur-in-waiting for Christmas.

Note: This post originally appeared in the3six5.

Two years can feel like an eternity. A president can go from savior to pariah. Cancer can form and remiss and return again. Careers can take enough twists and turns to leave you wondering if there’s any point in wondering.

Yet, two years is a blip.

We get so caught up in singular events that it’s easy to forget how time erases the gravity of most everything. Yes, we will always remember where we were the day the planes struck. And the death of a loved one can have permanent, often scarring effects on those by whom they are survived. But the truth is, most seemingly monumental occasions are mere specs on the timeline. What feels devastating in the moment can, with hindsight, be traced back as the genesis of a positive, life-changing shift.

Getting laid off falls into this category. It’s crushing. It feels like the end of days. And for a period of no more than 48 hours, it’s acceptable to be in that space.

But the best advice I can give the suddenly unemployed is to put yourself in the two-years-from-now mindset. Find a way to really, truly grasp that you won’t be homeless. You won’t be dead. Your family and friends will still be your family and friends. If you have to move in with your in laws? It would suck. But you know what? It’s a roof over your head. And it’s temporary.

In the universe of big events, a layoff is really quite tiny. As much as you can, trivialize it. Make a molehill out of a mountain. Free your mind from the anxiety of demise. Because once you do, it’s supremely liberating.

Today marks the two-year anniversary of my own most-recent layoff. I cringe when I hear people say, “take it from me.” But take it from me: The worst that can happen is rarely the worst that can happen. In the past 730 days, I’ve blogged, freelanced, made movies, started writing a book, and directed commercials. And none of that would have been possible if I hadn’t lost my job.

October 15, 2008 seems like yesterday. Yet it feels so long ago.

I’m facing a conundrum.

Once upon a time, Please Feed the Animals was a “blog for the recently unemployed advertising professional.” The mission was singular. It was simple. This was going to be a place for people in the biz to support each other in their quest for work while riding out the shitty economy. With the help of so many people, we were even creating a portfolio site and job board for y’all to showcase your talents. It was gonna be awesome.

Then a funny thing happened. People wrote in that they were using their layoff-induced downtime to re-evaluate things. Many of the Animals weren’t all that interested in getting back into advertising.  A lot of you were changing careers, starting your own businesses, and downsizing the stuff in your lives so you could more easily pursue your passions.

I decided to make a film about you called “Lemonade.” And in the process I fell in love with the pure form of storytelling that is documentary filmmaking.  I was hooked.

I started ingesting as many documentaries as I could, including “Surfwise,”  ”Baraka,” “Hoop Dreams,” “College, Inc,” and every episode of “This American Life.” Then I shot a trailer for my next film, “Lemonade: Detroit.” I was even hired to direct a series of short, branded-entertainment documentaries for Dell computers. (Both of which will be out very soon.)

This is all to say that in following my own advice, as well as feeling inspired by everyone who was part of “Lemonade,” my own passions veered away from advertising. While early on, I wrote often about the state of the industry and how fucked up it is, lately I find myself not caring. I simply no longer give a shit about who’s doing what for what agency. I do care deeply about my friends’ successes and frustrations. But the business itself is a barely-audible ping on my sonar.

Which leaves a big question mark about what to do with this blog. My dear friend Brad Mislow has been picking up some of my slack. But he recently got a new, hours-heavy job back in the business, so his blogging time is minimal.

I’ve thought about handing it over to several people. Maybe auditioning for several writers who could contribute a couple times a month. People who could keep things positive, interesting, and sincere.

I’ve also considered making PFTA a space for all things reinvention. Creating a whole business out of it. Books and blogs and films and seminars geared toward people who would like to stop defining themselves by what they do and start doing what they are. I may still do this. But the truth is, I’m still tinkering with who I am. Right now, today, I am a film director. And that’s a full-time commitment.

So as I have done so many times before, I would like to ask you what you think. What are your ideas about Please Feed the Animals? Where would you like to see it go? Can this be an open-source space for everyone? Is there a model I haven’t thought of yet?

If PFTA isn’t a “blog for the recently unemployed advertising professional,” then what is it? And what should it be?

Well, this feels weird. So here it goes. Since you all (or y’all, depending on what side of Maryland you’re reading this) are my online buds, I’ll share some news about me since writing my first post on this blog a year ago.

Don’t Fear the Reaper, for some strange reason, remains the most read post on pleasefeedtheanimals. I honestly don’t know exactly why. At the time I was without a full-time job for the first time in my career. Yet, for some reason I still don’t understand, I was feeling was tremendously positive despite my layoff and uncertain future. I felt it was within my power to reboot my career. Still, the economy last summer was just plain awful. Like many of you, I was wondering from where my next paycheck would come. I should have been freaking out. When I sat down to write, I found the right voice. It was funny. It was upbeat. It was me. I’m humbled that so many of you have read the post and continue to do so. Thank you. Over and over again.

Since then, amongst my frequent online ramblings, I found a lot of freelance work at various agencies, and did a decent job being an independent soldier of copywriting fortune. I felt fortunate to have found work when I did. Honestly, I think a lot of it was luck. My father always told me, “you make your luck,” and I believe there’s truth to that. Even though I secretly wanted the big TV shoot with the travel and the craft services table and the wrap parties and everything that makes advertising fun, I was happy to accept under-the-radar digital assignments and direct pieces. They kept the lights on, the kids fed, the bills paid.

As fortunate as I felt to be finding steady freelance, recently, a full-time job presented itself. I thought long and hard about it. I remembered my last post about someone who turned down an offer in a weak economy. I looked at the news about the continued fickleness of a recovery that just won’t settle in. I accepted. And I’m working with good people who I want to grow with. Perhaps this is my chance to reboot, and to laugh in the face of “the reaper” who I wouldn’t let get the upper hand.

Maybe I’m just having a good year and should simply accept that with the deepest humility. Or maybe I should smugly tell the reaper to take a hike. I’ve got ads to make.

Epilogue: If the happy ending of this post turned your stomach, or made you throw up a little in our mouth, then here’s a hyperlink to agencyspy, where there’s an ample supply of snarky comments to fulfill one’s daily dose of cynicism.

Brad Mislow is a senior copywriter and just wants to please you.

This article has caused a recent uproar on the interwebs lately. To sum it up, a 24-year-old college graduate lives at home with Mom and Dad. He’s been looking for work since graduating in 2008 with a PolSci degree (I know, I know). His search yielded one result, a $40K-a-year offer as an insurance claim adjuster. And he turned it down. According to more than 1,000 overwhelmingly angry commenters, this young man made the dumbest move of his life. Others are outraged that a child of privilege has the option of being choosy when so many would jump at such an opportunity for full time work.

So it made me think about those who haven’t had a full-time job offered in some time. Say you’re offered a job at an agency you’re not crazy about, doing work you don’t want to do…do you take it? Times are tough. Do you suck it up? Let your portfolio take the hit? Just to keep the bills paid?

There’s one camp that says, “of course you take it.” Any job’s a good job. Those bills don’t pay themselves. If you have a family, they’re not going to stop eating or needing new clothes or getting sick, etc. You stick it out until something better comes along. Or just make the best of it. Or both.

Then there’s the other camp. Hold out (and hold your breath). Trust your gut. Wait for the next thing to come along. That choice job offer should turn up someday.  Maybe it does. And maybe it doesn’t.

A career in advertising is judged by the quality of work one completes. Awards are won. Parties are attended. Rockstars are made. That’s what we all aim for. In rough economic times, those goals may just have to wait. Your reality may be way bleaker. If you find employment, freelance or full-time, you may be called in to work on unglamorous client-driven projects: newsletters, direct mail, banners, Facebook pages, etc. You’ll get paid to do it. You don’t have to do it. But do you?

Brad Mislow is a freelance writer type person who loves fresh peaches in the summer.

Anyone looking for a new gig knows that lonely and confusing feeling. The one which you’ve done all you can to get the attention of anyone who can hire you. You’ve emailed. You’ve called. You’ve emailed again. You’re waiting by your cell phone, trying every Jedi mind trick you know to get it to ring. Mine involve a lot of scrunched-up facial expressions and hand motions, to no avail. Must consult Master Yoda on that one.

Basically, you’ve found yourself in the limbo world of radio silence, and you don’t know what to do next. Lord knows you need that job, but all you’ll settle for is a fucking phone call or email saying “Hi. We got your message and you [got the job/didn't get the job/we're not deciding anything till the boss gets back]. Something. Anything.

No one sets out to be a stalker. It’s just too time consuming and far too creepy. And the cheerier you sound, the creepier it is. I bet if I listened every one of my follow-up voice mails, anyone would conclude that I’m a bumbling idiot or a serial killer. Because behind the breezy, casual “hey, I was just seeing if you looked at my work and made a decision yet” is “will you people just hire me already? Don Draper is not going to magically appear and write banner ads for salad dressing. So clear off a desk and brew a pot of heavily caffienated coffee. I’m coming over!” Nope, can’t do that. That’s why there are security desks and large men behind them.

Has sending brief but cordial rejection letters gone the way of the Gulf Coast sea turtle (ooh, too soon?)? They were all the rage when we were fresh out of portfolio school. Friends of mine used to post them on a wall of the house they rented. The jist of them all was:

Dear____,
Thank you for your interest in ____ agency.
Unfortunately, (lame excuse here).

We wish you luck in your endeavors.

Signed,
someone’s actual name.

As trite as that is, at least it was a response. The crazy thing is that nowadays it takes a fraction of the time to bang out an email. No envelope. No stamp. No mail carrier. And yet, so few places do such a simple act.

We’re all big boys and girls. We can handle the rejection. If we can’t, why the hell would we want to work in advertising, a business, in which more often than not, you hear the word “no”?

So all your follow-up emails and voice mails just go down a black hole, I guess. Just digital bits and bytes gone forever, sucked into a galactic vortex. That is, until some ad or project you worked on goes viral, wins an award, or gets the attention of some very desperate creative director needs a warm body right now to bang out ideas that were due three days ago.

Hey, sometimes you take what you can get.

Brad Mislow has a new website! It’s bradmislow.com! Clicky clicky clicky!

I was in a meeting this week and someone asked me how long did I work for my first agency.

“Eight years,” I said.

Everyone looked up.

Judging by the expressions around the conference table, you would’ve thought I was the 2,000-year-old man.

(with a Mel Brooks old man accent): Let me tell you about 1999! Oy! The black sketch books we carried around! People listened to music on CDs! Oh boy, were they shiny! You would stack them on your desk like waffles! We didn’t know any better!

Eight years in advertising is an eternity. My next job lasted two. As a freelancer, I now count work cycles in weeks. Sometimes, in days. I guess the next logical step would be to work at a place for eight hours before moving on somewhere else.

Longevity used to be celebrated. End of year holiday parties would call out people who worked at an agency for 10, 20, 30, 40(!) years. It’s one thing to read a book by David Ogilvy. It’s another to have actually reported to him.

Ad people like to move around. We all know that many agencies don’t do much to encourage longevity any more. There’s kind of a natural flow of hirings and layoffs to keep agency culture fluid. This is not necessarily a bad thing until you realize that no one at in your department knows anyone above a certain level on the org chart, or where the damn toner cartridge is.

I once read that people under 40 in today’s workforce will change careers seven to eight times in their lifetime. I’m starting to see why.

They aren’t given much of a choice.

Unless they don’t want to eat.

Brad Mislow is a regular contributor for this site and an irregular person overall. If you see him, say hello.