What the hell are you doing?

Well? Tell us. What the fuck (for emphasis) are you doing? For some reason, I ask that question a lot. I get asked it a lot too, but it's usually in regards to something I'm doing with food or dress. Lately I've been asking it a lot concerning my career, part two. I find this humorous for a number of reasons, among them the notion that the word "career" would ever appear in a sentence regarding me.

I worked in advertising and design as an art director and designer for 17 years. During that time, if someone asked me what the hell/fuck I was doing, I usually replied, "I dunno?" And it was true. I fell into that line of work and stuck around because it was mildly entertaining and you really don't have to work that hard. "Entertaining" and "you don't really have to work that hard" would make a great college course, along with, "Fuck it, I'll teach" and "Bong design - a survey."

The entire time I worked in advertising and design I felt mostly like an imposter. I didn't have the drive to want the awards (possible that I didn't have the talent either) or to try and maneuver my way through the various ad shops until I landed at one of the big names. I rarely took the work seriously though I fought an awful lot with account people, creative directors, etc.. I look back now and think it was the bipolar talking, but I knew it was something else - I didn't want to be there, but I didn't know where I wanted to be and there was an enormous amount of frustration resulting from those feelings.

I started writing in high school. Short stories, song lyrics, poetry - all of it horrendous  - and what I wouldn't give to have them in my possession now. College came around and I found myself gravitating towards screenplays and t.v. pilots. And then I got married and moved away and fell into advertising and that was that.

But the writing was always in the background, wondering when I was gonna get back to it. Writing taunted me, called me names, added fuel to the "imposter" fire. And then one night I had an idea and I started to write it. And then I'd stop. Then start again. Then I fell into a deep depression. Many things brought me out of the cold, dark hole, chief among them - writing. It quickly became ritualized which in turn made the work flow. I stuck with it through all the rewrites and plot revisions. Most of all, I felt that I belonged in that world. Writing kept me one step ahead of the depression. And it provided an answer to that fucking question: "What the hell are you doing?"

"Writing a book," I answered.
"Good. Carry on," the question said.
"No shit, I'll carry on and who asked for your permission anyway?" I said.
"Chill. I'm just glad you're back in the game," the question said.
"Thanks. Sorry if I got a little defensive - "
"Forget about it. But enough of this blog shit. That second book ain't gonna write itself."
 "Right. Thanks. I'm on it."