Chapter Two

The next couple years of my life revolved mainly around creative denial. I focused on my advertising job, pretended that my work mattered, and watched in silent hell as the owner of a local Midas Muffler Shop edited the dialogue in my radio spots.
(You know, Prioleau, you don’t have the words Midas Muffler Shop in here enough. They said at the seminar it should be said at least five times).

Of course, that is but the tiniest of examples, as my entire day revolved around clients strangling the life out of any idea I laid at their temple of approval.

Me: And at this point, we cut to a guy on stilts, who says—

Client: Stilts? What do stilts have to do with selling cars?

Me: That’s the point. We’re getting the viewers to—

Client: Stilts have a negative connotation.

Me: A what?

Client: Everyone fell off stilts as a kid. That’s a negative.

Me: A negative?

Client: I don’t see any price and item in this script.

Me: Well, if you’ll let me—

Client: Where do I walk in? I’m the brand.

Me: You’re the what?

Client: The brand. People buy here because they know they can trust Crazy Mike to be the low price leader, with service after the sale. That’s what we’ve got to sell. You see? That’s creative. The low-price leader with service after the sale. Do you have someone at your agency that trademarks stuff like that? You know, with a little circle C or one of those TM’s?

Me: Brilliant idea. I’m on it, Mike.

My literary pursuits during this time were minimal, thus allowing time for the bile associated with my previous failure to settle. To soothe the savage beast in my belly I’d swing by the bookstore, look for something that looked as good as my brilliant musings, and smugly leave empty-handed.

One day, however, the self-help section obstructed my path, and an epiphany struck me: A self-help book! No, a parody of a self-help book! Genius! A half-dozen of the stupidest looking titles leapt into my basket, and followed me home.

Strike Three

My parody of a self-help book wrote itself, set to the background music of my hysterical laughter.

It was so funny to make fun of life’s losers and the proposed personal advancement techniques.

I laughed and laughed, sitting there. Alone. At my computer. Laughing at my own jokes.

Even as the manuscript launched north via overnight to my agent, my laughter rose to the heavens. Any agent, even an agent who disliked me, could turn these witticisms into a gold mine franchise of books, movies, a TV series.

After a couple weeks of silence, I made the dreaded call.

Me: Hey, Man! What’d you think?

Agent: About what?

Me: My self-help book, dude!

Agent: Oh, yeah. I read it. On the can. Why did you write it?

Me: It’s funny! It’s original!

Agent: Are you at your computer?

Me: Yeah.

Agent: Google “self help parody book.” How many hits?

Me: Uh… let’s see. One million, one hundred and sixteen thousand. And some change.

Agent: That’s all? Wow, Pray, you’ve really discovered an untapped niche. Ever heard of any of the titles you see?

Me: No.

Agent: Do you think that might be some indication of how well they sell?

Me: Hey, I have an excellent idea. Maybe we should talk before I undertake my next manuscript.

Agent: Maybe that would be good. Unless you’re really more in for the typing. Ha! Like that joke about the hunter and the bear? Where the bear says, “You’re not really in this for the hunting, are you?”

Me: Alexander… out.

Out, indeed.

Why on earth does anyone want to be a writer?

I just couldn’t get right with my dream.

A musician, sure—sex, drugs and rock n’ roll. A painter, sure—people look over your shoulder as you work, and comment on your talent.

An actor, why not—you pretend to be someone else for a couple hours, and people clap.

A writer? Hell, it takes me two hours to get my software to indent correctly… and trust me, there aren’t any groupies getting naked in admiration of proper formatting. In fact, there’s a standing joke in Hollywood that goes, “That’s a starlet so stupid she slept with the writer.”

The lunacy of my dream washed over me like the darkness over The Dude. And in that darkness, on the edge of that abyss, I came to grips with what a time-wasting pursuit it was-- and convinced myself it wasn’t a dream worth chasing.

I became Springsteen, down by the river.

John Galt, working the subway rails.

Charlie Croker, reading the works of the Stoics.

Skip Wiley, surrendering his beloved everglades to the developers.

It was indeed, Alexander… out.

Hey—hold my beer. I wanna try something…

The curse of the creative mind is this: There’s only a very small “Whatever” box for filing all the things that deserve to be ignored.

The greatest blessing a man could possibly receive in the brains department would be a bottomless “Whatever” box: Politics, Economics, Social Security, Illegal Immigration, Partisan Corruption, Steroids in sports, Must-See TV, Rush Limbaugh, Al Franken, the IRS, The Middle East, hell, the future itself… whatever. I gots to fry me up this here bologna sandwich.

Unfortunately, a creative mind usually refuses to shut down, and the push is for more understanding, more insight, more truth, more humor, more whatever-- in the case of Einstein, it was for more really, really confusing math.

Some creative people are good at dealing with this bombardment of ideas (Einstein), and others, well, Hunter S. Thompson comes to mind.

In my case, my demise came about not as a result any great level of unsustainable brilliance, but an inability to square my McTalents with my particular profession. As an advertising guy, it just reached the point where I could no longer spend a day working on an idea… pitch it to a client… and after one second of deliberation hear them say, “Well, what about if____?”

The problem was me, not them. My brain snapped, crackled, and popped, and I quit.

And, like that, something to write about materialized. Phone call time:

Me: Hey, Man. It’s me.

Agent: Pray! What’s up?

Me: I’ve got an idea for a book.

Agent: Pitch me!

Me: I quit my job.

Agent: Good start.

Me: I don’t have another job lined up.

Agent: Ah, you’re going for the “Le Mis” thing here? A novel?

Me: No, Dude. That’s not the pitch. It’s a fact.

Agent: You mean you actually quit your job, as in you quit your job and have no paycheck?

Me: Check.

Agent: Pray, you’ve got to earn some money before you call up looking to borrow some.

Me: No, no, no. Here’s my idea: It’s a book entitled You Want Fries With That?, and it’s a memoir about a white-collar burnout dropping out of the rat race and working minimum-wage jobs.

Agent: Man. I actually like it. I really like it. How much have you gotten done?

Me: This phone call.

Agent: Well, lemmie see it when it’s done.

Me: Can you sell it?

Agent: I’ll know after I read it.

Me: Dude, dude, dude—you’ve read my stuff. You know it’s good. Can you sell it, you know, like on spec? Get someone to agree to it before I actually work these jobs?

Agent: Sell it before you write it? Like a President’s autobiography?

Me: Yeah?

My agent was still laughing when he hung up the phone.