Prosewhores

I've always wanted to be a writer. For as long as I can remember I've relished the idea of giving thoughts a tangible form. Whether it be pencil or pixel, any arrangement of words would satisfy me. Somewhere along the way I started to yearn for something more than being just another forgotten wordsmith. So I chased one such profession that, I believed, valued ideas. And I found my way into advertising. The transition from writer to copywriter happened smoothly and passed unnoticed by my preoccupied subconscious, which was busy tackling below-the-belt puzzles. I began to settle into the role with apparent ease, never suspecting what it entailed.

But now I see that I've sold my soul to the consumerist culture. Creating something has become a matter of purpose, rather than the habit it used to be. Squeezing a few sensible words out of this mind is often a task only completed within the icy confines of my office. It has become impossible to think freely, uninhibited by the chains of an ageing company's values or the intelligence of the least common denominator. I don't write anymore. I simply sell things. I'm the pimp who whores my ideas to the only bidder I know; the brand manager. And often, he doesn't think too highly of the assets I bring to the conference room anyway. His choice is unique. He is happy with the drug spoiled street wrangler as long as he gets a place to stick his embarrassingly puny unit. He will not think about the better commodity a creative mind can bring. He doesn't bother with spending time on an idea. And the problem is, he's the one paying for my unique services.

And I promise you, they are unique. I find myself frustrated at the indecency of it all. We aren't creatives here. We should be ashamed of the term. Here we are just a bunch of strugglers playing catch-up with the world around us. And we are so afraid of being discovered that we've built a nice bubble of ignorance to keep us safe and disillusioned. A fact which we attempt to blur with the sheen of grand award shows packed with emotional and hollow applause.

No matter what part of the industry you go into they chase only these two things. They chase awards or real work. I want to chase ideas. That's a higher ground no one seems to offer. This fucking profession doesn't allow it. I cannot become a round-the-clock mental prostitute. Doling out ads like blow jobs at throw-away prices waiting for my turn in the big league where someday I should feel grateful at tasting some Cannes cock. I joined advertising to change the perceptions of people, not brands. I came here to be some kind of voice on mainstream media that everyone can stumble across, not be bombarded by. I came here as the fool I find myself making of people.

I'd rather be unemployed than foolish.