My team and I have been committed to posting content over the last 5+ years, and we now post on Words Plus Internet, email, Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, LinkedIn, YouTube, Spotify, Apple Podcasts, TikTok, and Medium. And I still get that shred of doubt before almost every post. We are not widely followed on any of those platforms by the way, and we don’t care. We write, we talk, we draw, we make videos, and we create. We do it because it’s a lot of fun and because we believe it's worth it.
I wrote this down months ago: "I’m going to stop using my age as an excuse not to be awesome." I didn’t know why then, but I think I do now. I like to make fun of my age and openly discuss the arrival of my irrelevance. This is a self-preservation tactic, and I want to stop. There are no rules except for the ones we make for ourselves—which are not real rules. Two people who are the exact same age could believe "I am too young" and "I am too old," respectively. That's hilarity and insanity. Asking yourself, "Am I too old for this?" should only be answered by your self.
We recently started an apprentice program for those looking to learn more about advertising, branding, and agency life—but this is not about that. This is about one woman who torpedoed her own interview to ask two of our designers a vulnerable question: "Why won’t anyone hire me?" Katy and Sharon were not exactly sure what to say, but they came to me afterward and asked that I speak with her. I did. She asked me the same thing. She had been rejected for full-time positions—which she was more than qualified for—over and over again, and she had had enough of the auto-rejection emails and the polite excuses. She asked for the truth, so I told her. “You’re older, and your work is starting to look old, too.”
I love packs, because—like everyone—I long to belong. I don’t just join them, though; I like to make them. I make packs like I smack my gum—instinctively and unaware. I have always known this, but I just realized this morning what a consistent theme it has been throughout my life.
Winning the lottery is a cheat code to a game I am enjoying too much. Once I have infinite lives, what’s the point of playing? That's why I sincerely pity anyone with a big-ass trust fund. If there's no struggle, where's the fun in succeeding? If that works for you, go about your business and don’t mind me, but also, no thank you. Cliché or not, you only get one shot at this game, and I plan on playing the hell out of it.
I had a client ask me “Where is the gift guide? I was looking for it on Cyber Monday.” And, I was like, “you took the gift guide seriously? That’s awesome!” Sorry we missed Black Friday, Cyber Monday, and Giving Tuesday, but here is our gift guide just in time for Forgetful Friday!
I am proud to introduce you to the 2020 gifts and the wonderful people who swear by them.
At first, working from home was required, and it worked fine. Then, we came back very slowly and voluntarily. Now, the office is at about 50% on most days. Some folks come in every day- others rarely. We basically just asked everyone to make a schedule that works for them and clearly communicate where you’ll be on the company calendar. And, it works. The only reason I can think of that we have not done this sooner is a fear of change.
I don’t even accept “millennials” as a term. When they were called "Gen Y," no one derided them or poked fun at them. It wasn’t until they were branded “millennials“ that they drew the ire of older generations. I believe I have a better term for millennials: young people. But they're not even that young anymore. They’re anywhere from their mid-20s to 40, which makes them the present and future of the American workforce.
Once upon a time, I was somewhat obsessed with the grind. I wanted that really hard job, the kind you hear about on the internet where you work 60, 80, or even 100 hours a week (but preferably inside, unlike my first job spent landscaping over the summer in Louisiana). I wanted to see if I had the mettle to eat dinner at work and spend weekends in an empty office. The concept was sort of romantic to me, and it seemed like an experience everyone should have. I felt like an overgrown Boy Scout missing his workaholic badge.
I am writing about this because I don't want to write about this. The more uncomfortable I felt about it, the more I felt I had to write something—even if it's not very good or insightful. I just know that not talking about it is no longer an option. (And, of course, if we want to hear from anyone, it's a white guy who grew up in New Hampshire.)
