Think what you will about my ambition and aspirations, but no, I don’t want my own agency.
“Kania,” they say, “You’ve been a writer since forever. Time to move up.”
“Launch your own creative firm, your own consultancy, some clever startup.”
Sheesh, no. I would be hilariously incompetent at that. Perhaps even criminally incompetent.
I have no idea how to wrangle a crew of wild-eyed creatives. I have no idea how to manage or administer or direct anything.
Two months in, there would be a mutiny. Or anarchy. They would perp-walk me out the door.
Besides, I have seen what agency heads do all day.
It is mostly talking: cajoling, explaining, deciding, smoothing over, turning down, pumping up, reprimanding, pitching, and dunning. There are always 347 such tasks on the daily agenda. Mostly talking.
By 11:12 am on Monday, I would be trying to escape out my office window, if I could get it open.
(Favorite quote from an agency chief: “Some days I feel like I’m strapped to a runaway freight train. Other days, I’m dragging the whole rusty train up a hill.”)
Me, I’ll stick to writing, thank you. Which is all I can do anyway.
I’m much better with my feet on the desk, trying to think of stuff. That is my turf, my bailiwick, my wheelhouse.
Most days my entire to-do list is two items. Maybe three.
– Find a cool way to talk about this company, this product.
– Think of an even cooler way.
– Write the sentences.
I’m okay with pacing the floor. I have no fear of the blank screen. I don’t panic when I have only crappy ideas. (Maybe a little.) I’m okay with writing the same sentence forty-six different ways. Some days I do that all day long.
Other days I’m trying out lines and phrases in my head as I mow the lawn. And I actually like it. (Not the mowing of the lawn so much.)
My one job is to figure out how to get people to think, “Oh. This is interesting. We should talk to these people.” Or, “I never thought of this before. I like it.”
My ambition, such as it is, is to get better and better at that. To the point where smart and moneyed clients are lined up on my driveway, jostling each other aside. “No, I was next.”
I get the irony: I have zero interest in a company of my own, but I will gladly spend all afternoon, or the next three days, thinking about yours.