Where do you see yourself ten years ago?

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It’s 2009 and I’m sitting in my basement office in a very pricey Herman Miller chair soon to be held together by decidedly less-pricey packaging tape. From ten years away, the rearview mirror is foggy.
The only way I can picture 2009 specifically is by the projects that graced my in-box that year.

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Was the world of freelance creative advertising actually different then? A wee bit.

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That year delivered a decent variety of writing and concepting assignments: naming projects, poster campaigns, TV scripts, web banners, print ads, and a slew of tagline jobs. Traditional advertising was still keeping the future at bay.

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So what’s different in 2019? My own experience seems to parallel the industry’s in general.

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Less face time, more emails.

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Endless new jargon to learn or ignore.

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More branding projects — tags, brand videos, elevator speeches — and fewer ad campaigns.

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TV projects have begun a very slow fade to black.

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Print ads are still an occasional joy.

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Conceptual radio has fallen off the dial.

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Turnarounds are faster and budgets are tighter.

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Data rules the roost.

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And, somehow, clients suddenly seem to be in their late teens.

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But the landscape isn’t totally unfamiliar. Because for freelance writers, the upheaval hasn’t been nearly as disruptive as for some others in the shifting world of advertising. At least that’s the way it appears over my own recent decade. I think that’s because what hasn’t changed — at least not completely — is that clients who know what they want to say still want ideas on the best way to say it. 

 

So although the good ol’ days had their fair share of advantages, I have no justifiable complaints. I’ll be quite content to find myself working feverishly with dubious posture in the same spot in the years ahead.

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Assuming the cheap new office chair holds up.

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Let us now praise art directors, albeit
briefly.

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(For one thing, they'd never break a headline the way LinkedIn just did.)

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There are countless reasons for me to be grateful for stumbling into a career as an advertising writer and creative director. The list includes simple pleasures like getting paid for dubious ideas, treating every day like casual Friday, and inspiring palpable jealousy in friends who have to do grown-up things to fund their existence. But one of the reasons near the top of the heap has to be the opportunity it gave me to work with so many wonderful art directors. I realize, of course, that the AD's I worked with have now grabbed hold of the nearest solid object as they wait for the rug to be pulled from under them, but they can relax. I’m being sincere — for the moment at least. 

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I have melded minds with more than 75 art directors over the years. And I’ve been utterly spoiled by working for good agencies and on top brands that attracted some of the most talented around. To be fair, for some AD’s the stereotypes can occasionally ring true. They can sometimes be flaky, tardy, and, indeed, a bit maddening — totally unlike any writers I know, of course. But those quirks are rare and easily overwhelmed by their talent, work ethic, and general affability.

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Art directors as a rule are interesting and interested folks. They’re passionate about the creative arts and ever curious about the world around them. They’re hip. Cool. And, as it’s said, a very good hang. Which is a good thing, since a writer hangs with his or her AD partner for countless hours of concepting, presenting, re-concepting, re-presenting, casting, shooting, craft service visits, editing, post-project finger-pointing, award show tug-of-wars, etc. But not color correction. They can do that themselves while the writer strolls around Manhattan.

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From a selfish point of view, it’s their talent that appeals most. For example, I’ve always felt that a well-art-directed print ad — remember those? — has a virtually instantaneous “ahh” factor. As you turn the pages of a magazine at warp speed, you suddenly screech to a halt because of something very unexpected — an ad that actually appears smart and attractive. And before you’ve had a chance to read a word, you know it’s going to be good. The layout has been carefully crafted, the balance perfected. Reading the headline and absorbing the concept only serves to confirm your gut. And even in the rare instance that it doesn’t, the writer has benefited from an ad that looks like it’s worth reading. One has to appreciate that.

 

Naturally, some people would caution me not to praise art directors too much since some of them might end up reading this. But c’mon. Art directors that read? I think I’m safe.

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But I can say in all seriousness — that is, with 0% advertising hyperbole added! — that knowing and befriending so many art directors has truly enriched my career and my life. They are a key reason why a totally insane profession has often been such good, wacky fun. There, I said it. Now leave me alone. Don’t you have some type to kern?

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Glossing over reality

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If you’re like me — an advertising creative of a certain vintage — then somewhere deep in a dark and cluttered closet hide the ghosts of portfolios past. I’m referring specifically to the dusty stack of laminated print ads that have somehow eluded various cleaning efforts over the years. 

Most of the work in the stack should be generally respectable. Our best ideas are there, after all. So are a fair number of “hey-not-too-bad” concepts. But it’s that small percentage of average-at-best and painful-at-worst notions that gives us pause. What could we have been thinking to feel the need to preserve such thinking — or lack thereof? Did we hope that a sheen of thick plastic would somehow add heft to flimsy concepts? If so, we deluded ourselves, which, admittedly, creatives can be apt to do. Of course, the stalwart plastic can’t shield the truth of their mediocrity nor withstand the withering self-critiques. Unfortunately for the weakest of our work, the glossy layer — if you’ll forgive the parlance of my advertising brethren — merely polishes a turd. 

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Laminations were de rigueur in the pre-Internet world, when points were presumably awarded for the physical presentation of a creative portfolio. They not only helped display one’s work a little better, but also protected it from the careless and overworked CD’s and gatekeepers who rifled through it while eating pizza and juggling phones at their desks.

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Creatives often took great pride in the quality and thickness of their laminations. Some, perhaps, went overboard in seeking an upper hand in this “stiff competition”. I recall one AD friend of mine who got a call after sending his work to a top agency. Unfortunately the call wasn’t to shower him with compliments and/or gold. It was simply to ask who had done his premo laminations with the wicked-cool, black fabric backing. I still wince in sympathy.

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Of course, these days print ads are considered quaint by some. In fact, many younger creatives have never been tasked with developing any. So I’d hazard a guess that laminators aren’t getting much business from ad folks anymore. Not too much call for laminated websites.

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But back to that small pile of chaff at long last separated from the wheat. What is one to do with these non-recyclable monstrosities? No self-respecting creative could bear the indigestion they’d cause if re-purposed as placemats. But perhaps they could be melted down and re-formed into something more useful, like frisbees for nonjudgmental dogs.

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We can choose to throw these plastic reminders out and do our best to forget them, but the problem remains because they’ll always remain. For we have rendered them indestructible. Which means they could survive the coming Martian invasion and be offered up as definitive proof of our inferiority as a species. Make sure your name isn’t on the back.

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The thrill of victory,

the pride and joy of defeat

 

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The adage that resurfaces time and again in a copywriter’s cranium is the reminder that we’re only as good as our last piece of copy. It’s always useful to have it bubble up. For it serves both as motivation to maintain one’s standards and as encouragement to redeem oneself from unwittingly vapid verbiage. Or, as they say, garbiage. 

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For today’s freelance copywriter, there are a wider variety of opportunities than ever for rapid redemption. Writing projects now arise not just from ad agencies and their various stepchildren, but also from a growing number of crowdsourcing sites. When the requirements aren’t too onerous nor the prize too puny, veterans of the ad game can be tempted to join these crowds. I was thus tempted recently when my son mentioned an online tagline competition. 

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These ventures are always a bit of a crapshoot — you have no idea who’s competing or, more importantly, who’s judging — so I generally avoid investing much time in them. But since I’ve been lucky enough to score on a few of these contests, I like to dash off ideas if they happen to make themselves available before the deadline. This time they did.

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I submitted my entry and turned my thoughts back to real assignments with paying clients. Weeks later, when the winners were announced, I scanned the page for my name. It wasn’t there. But my son’s was.

While the site’s legal policies forbid me from sharing his proposed line, he did tell me what it was. And since I’ve toiled as a creative director for the better part of my life, I can tell you without hesitation that it was most certainly better than mine. I chose a somewhat intellectual approach and he wisely went more for the gut. His line was simpler and more memorable — a worthy winner offering me scant opportunity to excoriate the judges for their opinions on all earthly matters. 

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Naturally, it was slightly disappointing to receive notice of the winners and not spot one’s name upon clicking through. But my mood made such a quick and glorious U-turn when I discovered my son’s name on the screen. It was a nice little moment, a trivial loss morphing into a rewarding victory. And well worth the ribbing I’ll continue to absorb for being bested by a damn rookie.

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Of course, there is also solace to be found in that endlessly looping adage, for that also-ran idea is no longer my last piece of copy. Many projects have followed since and many more will follow still. So I must endeavor to make each successive set of syllables sparkle a little brighter than the one before — without trying way too hard like the start of this sentence. Fortunately, my son is spending more time doing freelance production assistant work than freelance writing. So if you can’t get him, I do hope you’ll consider his old man. 

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Letter to Roger

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August 2023

 

The Washington ad community lost a legend recently. The great Roger Vilsack. A few years back, Terry Wilson asked former colleagues of Roger’s to contribute letters to him on his birthday. I thought I’d post mine here to share how much he meant to me.

 

 

Dear Roger,

 

Do you still recall the days of HJK&A circa 1986?

 

Do you really care to?

 

I actually remember them quite fondly. Most of them at least. They began shortly after I’d finished my first tour of hard-knocks advertising as an in-house retail copywriter. Nothing remotely glamorous about that gig. Wacky hours. Nasty boss. Dreadful work. Okay, so maybe not that different from many ad agencies —

but different from Kaufman, fortunately. I recall a colleague at that job asking if I planned to continue in advertising, saying that they couldn’t see doing “2 for 1” promotions all their life. They believed that was the sum total of advertising. Heck, even I knew more than that back then. But, truth be told, not a whole lot more. As you couldn’t possibly recall, I was rescued from retail hell by Virginia Ault, who ran the recruitment advertising department at HJK&A in those days. That department was a couple levels below your department — both physically and creatively. But it was a viable way in the door, nonetheless. And it gave me an opportunity to work with real creatives from the real creative department. Which meant, it gave me the opportunity to cross paths with you.

 

I didn’t know a damn thing about the world two floors above me. I didn’t have a portfolio. I’d never written or produced a radio spot, much less a TV spot. I wasn’t aware of the shiny objects of award show season. I was PMS 368 green. In fact, I can actually recall you telling me where to place the video description on a script. I don’t know how you possibly could have, but maybe you saw some faint glimmer of potential. Or perhaps you just saw someone who already knew how to find his way from the free parking in the Rat Patrol lot, past the dumpsters behind the strip club, to 2233 Wisconsin Avenue. Whatever the reason, you plucked me out of recruitment and placed me in a cubicle near the receptionist on the main floor. I didn’t get too far in the door, but I did get in, somehow.

 

Of course, while “retail to recruitment” was but a simple sidestep, “recruitment to Roger” was, for a wide-eyed youth, a true quantum leap. For naturally I was in awe of you. My first genuine “Creative Director”. Impressive ideas scribbled and scattered all over the walls. Cool retro chair in your office. Gleaming Porsche in your parking space in the garage. The gravitas of a deep, gravelly voice. Stylish eyewear propped on your head. And the fine threads of an old-school adman with classic artistic flair. A pretty far cry from my purported “superiors” at the retail gig. I didn’t understand the workings of an agency nor the pressure you faced from all directions, including the corner office. All I saw was this supercharged guy always on the move, grinning, grimacing, and spouting ideas as he paced the carpet from doorway to wall and back again. You never stood still. Maybe it was the nicotine, but I suspect it was simply creative energy — and good strategy, of course. Much harder to hit a moving target. So if you heard something
you didn’t like, you could let your momentum carry you right out the door and on to the next creative

conundrum.

 

I was surrounded by talented, experienced and, fortunately, very supportive people. This was the small slice of your Kaufman years that included a fabulous group of miscreants like Terry Wilson (AKA “Señor Art Director”), Jennifer North, John Patterson, Neil Dewsbury, Merrick Murdock, Rick Headly, Phil Sabatino, Ann Cutchin, Mary Duncan and Libby McNulty, among others, on our wing. And Leslie Marshall, Lori Mintz, Helen Sullivan, Sunny Besterman, Mike Carberry and more off in the distance. My cube was right across from Lisa Quier, our future “McGlen” client. I learned a tremendous amount from Jennifer and Neil, and shared many a sophomoric laugh with Terry and John. I still haven’t been able to shake the latter two reprobates despite numerous restraining orders.

 

Bit by bit I began to gain a tenuous grasp of what I was doing. Much of it was through observation. Which ideas slowed or stopped your pacing? Which garnered a point of a finger or a head thrown back in laughter? Which inspired you to raise your palms, thumbs out, and frame a detailed picture of how you saw

the concept coming to life?

 

I would say there were many firsts for me at Kaufman, but of course everything was a first at that point. The opportunities and experiences were numerous and colorful. I enjoyed many radio sessions at Rodel in Georgetown, and also with the brilliant, if cantankerous, Bobby DeFranco (at The Mix Place in Manhattan) who quickly taught me not to even think about challenging him on plosives. I had a chance to work on original music with Paul Christianson. I endured my first focus groups and won my first award.

 

Random memory interruption: Having a print concept killed by focus groups. Unfortunately, you weren’t in the room for that debrief. The visual was a teen holding the registration card toward the camera with a line something like “Take the law into your own hands.” The groups judged the line by itself instead of

considering how the visual modified it. So suddenly it was perceived as a vigilante message. When I dared to push back, the AE told me emphatically “Francis, words mean things!” I do wish someone had told me that before I became a writer.

 

As for accounts, I worked on The Mint, Savings Bonds, GW, NSA, FBI, Wolf Trap, AAA, SSS, Apple Association, Hyatt, Hardees and others I can barely recall. Of course, many if not most of my concepts were feeble to be sure, but what’s important is that I learned what a concept was.

 

On top of all the opportunities you gave me, you helped prepare me for the unforgiving showbiz world beyond HJK&A. I left the agency not only with a better sense of what worked, but also with a clear understanding of the effort it took to create something that did. It was a critical first rung on an oh-so-rickety ladder. And it helped me all along the way as I toiled to create for top brands, establish a reputation, and mentor a fair number of greenhorns of my own.

 

Of course, I wasn’t through with you after leaving Kaufman. I had your damn son-in-law spying on me at Arnold. And fate brought you in for a firsthand view of my hazard posting with Pete Hanley. We had some fine times creating “Bye Bye Retail” ads for MacArthur Glen — including celebrating an earlier birthday of yours with some bocce ball and assorted hijinks at Il Vagabondo. And I was also fortunate to work with you on various PSA projects once I’d joined you in the joyous, post-full-time world of advertising. You always found some cool stuff to work on. (Kaufman did reappear on the radar at some point when they tried unsuccessfully to lure me back to be CD.)

 

Anyway, what was supposed to be a simple happy-birthday letter has devolved into a self-indulgent historic recap. But hidden within is a heartfelt thank-you. The truth is, we all need a bit of good fortune to end up working not only on the right accounts, but also, and more importantly, with the right people. I certainly had that good fortune in working with you. You helped get me started on a rewarding career that’s been way more fun than doing actual grown-up work. So I do hope you enjoy the most glorious of birthdays. I wish I could have sent Ambrose from St. Regis to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to you, but he wanted double scale, so this will have to suffice.

 

With All The Sincerity

An Ad Guy Can Muster,

 

F S

 

Francis Sullivan

 

P.S. I’ve always avoided long-copy ads, so you should feel very special.

 

P.P.S. Words mean things.