Minor crisis

Damn you, Jees-vis.

Coming as it does hot on the heels of a spark (actually, more like a jet-propelled space-rocket) of hope ignited by having a pitch accepted for an article on a social issue dear to my heart, and then finding out that the basis of said article pitch was naught but smoke and mirrors, this news from Advertising's ex-Jesus/Elvis has plunged me into minor crisis.

I'll let you in on a little secret. I'm not a very good writer. I can put a sentence together, and I can write prettymuch anything you like (from tagline to 375-page book) within a spectrum, given a half-decent brief. Yes. But these things do not an actual writer make.

For no little time I have been writing to briefs. But recently (okay, not that recently) I began to wonder if I could use my powers for real, undeniable good, rather than evil or evil-veiled-as-not-badness or even okayness-but-nothing-specialness.

I began to wonder if I could say something important, rather than merely prattling.

And now? Now art's buying mass media, which is, frankly, a dream we all (come on, admit it) must have had for as long as we've been sentient and subjected to advertising.

Which raises the question: what the fuck am I doing?

I was hoping to appease that sentiment while simultaneously earning an income. No, I am hoping to do this. But perhaps now, along with the ESL qualification and philosophy and those two novels I started (oh, and work), I should commit myself to actually doing something that actually achieves that appeasement.

Yeah, don't worry, this is totally cool. All I need is Google calendar, a scotch, and a little quiet.