About

An Open Letter To Whom It May Concern First off, I’m different. Yeah, I know, we’re all unique and perfect snowflakes, but in so far as the ad business goes I’m kinda the flakiest. ...Wait. No, I didn’t go to ad school, nor was I created in a lab. Hell, I dropped outta college after, like, two years n’ change, which could very well implicate an underdeveloped mental capacity or tolerance for cheap beer, but don’t get it twisted; my "thirst" is cetacean. So, why then did I ditch the halls of higher learning in favor of my living again with the ‘rents? Free meals. And to follow my writing jones. I started pecking out my first novel (mkay, novella) with Ernestian gusto until one night... I had a dream. A big astounding dream about a big sweeping story that didn’t feel like, pssh, a book or even an adjudication letter. I described the thing to a director friend (we all got one, right?) and he suggested that perhaps what I had envisioned was, wait for it, a movie, a film. And so, going against his advice and armed a copy of Taxi Driver to light my way, I began my quest for Hollywood screenwriting glory- million dollar spec sales, niçoise salad lunches at The Ivy, stoopid piles of coc-- Anyway, it took me a minute, but I finally cut my teeth- landed the agent, had the meetings, did the things, and was so confident that I’d beat the biz that I got the hell out of dodge and moved back to the PNW. Cue epic Greek tragedy. Yup, my wings melted and I belly-flopped into the sea, er, Puget Sound. I was humbled, bewildered, terrified, and soggy. So, I did what any self-respecting writer would do and got a bartending gig in the city. Then, I had an something of an epiphany helped along by a tough-loving wife who was definitely not the biggest fan of my late-night schedule. I/we figured that if I could tell stories/bs well enough in script form, I could prolly do just as well or better telling them in advertising. And get paid more regularly. And not go to bed at three or four in the morning drunk on red wine and The Golden Girls. Didn’t hurt that we had a friend in the business who was willing to give me a shot. No pun intended. Fast forward a few years later and, well, here we are- me spilling my own tea down the front of my shirt, you deciding whether I’m just full of shit enough to be employable. I got a feeling I might be, but I could be biased. Yours in Niçoise, J.R.