In the course of my life the jobs I've tackled has been varied. There's been lots of sweat-of-the-brow kinds of work like detassling corn, baling hay, milking cows, washing dishes, buffing floors, cleaning toilets, digging post holes, and hanging Christmas greenery. These were a natural thing for me. I grew up in a blue collar family. So as a musician/artist, I think of myself as a blue collar kind of guy.
In my twenties, I'd also gone the retail route, which was okay. But the slow days were murder and I was always wanting to check out of the job and go do something productive like paint or write or play music.
And when I got into my mid-thirties, I decided it was time to tackle the corporate world. All my friends were plugged into it. Making their way. Climbing the ladder, etc. I guess I figured I should do the best I could to try to do the same thing in order to add some stability to my life with four kids and a wife now in the mix. But I failed miserably. It wasn't for lack of trying. I'd longed to feel like I fit in — that I belonged. But the game left me clueless.
This never came home more than in the last corporate gig I landed. It happened because the CEO of this large corporation loved my creativity with words. He felt that the way I looked at things was unique and just the right kind of outside-the-box viewpoint his company needed to set them apart from the typical boilerplate kind of writing he was seeing his competitors burp out.
And in my desperation, I reluctantly decided to give it a shot. But there was this little voice in my head that kept saying, "they aren't going to want what you write. It's a little too fringy and creative." And six months in that voice was proving to be right. I was pouring every ounce of my vision and creativity into these marketing stories for the company and with each piece I submitted, more and more of my style was being excised from the articles. My offbeat word pictures were gradually replaced with tired clichés. By the end of my time with the company, all of the "talent" that I was told was the reason I was hired had been removed from the writing to the point where each piece was as interesting to read as a Dick and Jane early reader.
By the last year, I knew my days were numbered. They were inserting more and more people in between myself and the person I first started working under. It was a demotion and I got it. I was frustrated. I was told I was talented. The CEO loved my writing. He wanted my unique perspective. I was told the company wanted what I had to offer. But everything in the day-to-day of the work was whispering a different tale.
In the end, I got a call from the middle management boss and I could hear the platform drop from beneath my feet. They did tell me when I began that one of the things this company did was give a person enough rope to climb to the heights or hang. So when I got that call, I knew for certain I'd been laboring on that hangman's scaffold for some time. Now it was the manager's time to tell me I'd just pulled the lever.
It was all done with civility. It was done with a finely-polished marketing kind of vibey thing. He began by saying, "You've done a great job. You've certainly gotten the web content jump-started. Created lots of wonderful content. Helped guide the direction." Blah, blah, blah. And "oh, by the way, we have to let you go."
Hmmm. . . if I'd done all of these wonderful things, what the. . . Anyway, I hung up the phone perplexed. My immediate boss talked to me one last time and said, "Frankly, I have no idea why they got rid of you." And that was that.
Six years later, at nearly sixty, I am still scratching my head about that part of my life. And I see that as a creative I've always struggled with this "gift." And there has always been someone in my life who feels the need to take it upon themselves to help me. It's the "you know, you're so talented. I can't believe how well you paint. Have you ever thought of drawing little owls in a tree? You could sell them as family tree posters with peoples names on each cute little owl." Or "Hey, I loved your last painting about art. Have you ever thought of doing something with your talent like draw cartoons for the New Yorker?" And a hundred other iterations of these themes.
What this all boils down to is that people see something, but they don't know what it is they see. They want you to be able to make a living because they care. And in some instances they step in and hire you, then proceed with their best impulse to pound you through that round hole.
Maybe there's something about being an artist or musician that brings out that instinct in others. I don't know. It's something I still live with regularly, even with total strangers. They can't seem to help themselves, either. The oddest part of it all is there seems to be this assumption that I've not enough imagination to figure out what is a reasonable thing to do— that even after fifty-eight years on the planet, I've never pondered the various ways a person might express their talent.
All I know is, I try to smile and be gracious when that caring soul erupts into a discourse on what I should do with my life. Like the other day when I was in the chicken joint and one of the managers suggested I become a cartoonist. I smiled. Nodded my head and tried to act as if they were the sage bringing illumination. Feigned the best attitude of appreciation. After all, they figured out what I should do with my life after a minute-long conversation. Stupid me, I haven't got a clue with a lifetime of experiences in my field.
Because I do love people, I try to make them feel like they've done me a big favor. Besides I know they only mean well. : )
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