Writing "Spots"

Sitting in my office of the radio station cluster where I work, I'm tuned in to one of our stations during an ad break, wincing at a commercial advertising a "Diva"-themed holiday party at Wayside (for you out-of-towners, the most notorious BroHo bar in Kalamazoo).

My face is contorted as though I've actually just eaten something sour, my left eye squeezed shut and lips and nose pursed into one big wrinkle; against the dull hum of the office in the late afternoon, the morning DJ's nasally chirp sounds especially shrill, reaching stratospheric pitches with each and every fun, frilly, and oft alliterative verb. So while I'm wincing for an ostensibly very good reason, it might not be the reason or reasons you're thinking.

The truth is, I wrote this commercial. I wrote this commercial and a ton just like it, hawking everything from theme parties to air quality control to trailer repair to gourmet pizza. This is what I do: market research, commercial copywriting and a plethora of related sellout, ex-writer tasks.

A genuine queasiness set in as I listened to the rest of the commercial for the diva party, and I came to the sick conclusion that this is my life not only as a professional, but as a writer now. I guess the reasons for this are sundry. Looking back, my creative volume had decreased significantly as my blog neared its second birthday, and to make matters worse, West Michigan Noise-- not only a creative stimulus, but a network of friends and readers that create a huge support system-- scaled back from obscure print 'zine to its Internet roots and eventually withered to nonexistence. And I'm continually haunted by the fact that I've all but completely deserted my blog; not on an "ego" level, or out of a sense of any sort of obligation (as I've long since accepted that no one cares anymore, if they ever did [ed. note: not a cry for help or attention! A simple statement of facts.]) But the fact that I simply don't care anymore is what's truly disturbing.

So what does this mean? Is it simply that I'm almost 24, and I simply can't reconcile my current self, who gets paid to write public broadcasts (no matter how low-quality), with my twenty-year-old self, who struggled financially while pouring hours into a blog for no pay and next to no recognition, for no reason other than passion?

I guess that's the trouble with blogging. Blogs are started by people with nothing but time and passion. Those people are, more often than not, kids. Kids grow up into adults, whose supplies of time and passion are inversely proportionate with their practical needs. Like paying rent. And so it goes: the "I have to pay my rent" creative alibi. The groovy thing about it is that no one can shut it down. We all grow up, and reach the only thing more cliche than being a starving, hated artist: being a sellout ex-artist content with paying rent and a marginal amount of professional recognition.

So it's after five on the day before the Thanksgiving holiday; my boss and I are the last ones in our half-dark office and all this has got me thinking. He's in a band and as soon as part of me wonders if he gave up his dream to work here, I realize that he must have. If you're an artist, if you've ever known what it means to create anything, part of you truly wants to do that, and only that, every day for the rest of time. I'm reminded of something I read in a Martin Scorcese interview recently; he'd said that, realistically, anyone who creates anything just wants to be remembered. And I think that's why I'm weirdly fulfilled by writing radio spots. Because I know that even if people remember my clients' businesses, or if they remember having a good time at some event I planned or a silly party I promoted, part of me-- at least a small part-- is satisfied.

So I'm still here. Working. With the boss. And with every click of the clock past five, all I can think about is wondering what I'm waiting for... What I'm hiding from.

But at least I'm writing.