Paris Letters

by Janice MacLeod

  Perhaps all I really needed was another vacation. Not some grand journal-writing experiment. Not to become an artist. Or maybe what I needed was a boyfriend. More yoga. More kale. Therapy. Meditation. It was probably just because I am a Capricorn. I could blame my parents for that one. In fact, I could probably blame them for everything. Or karma. My knees. The golf balls of knots running down my back. My mouthful of mercury fillings. My sisters. My ex-boyfriends. Who else could I blame? Let’s get this party started!

  No, no. No. Blaming people, places, or things wasn’t going to serve me on the road ahead.

  By the second month of my year of journaling, I had used reams of paper to offload my gripes about work. It didn’t feel like any answers were coming, as Julia Cameron had promised. And yet, in a way, they were. By the end of February, as I literally saw before my very eyes just how much I complained about my job, a question was revealed. A question that had never occurred to me before. A question that was so juicy that I immediately abandoned the pursuit of becoming an artist. A question so startlingly simple that I am still astounded that I didn’t think of it before. At the end of yet another three pages of complaining about work, I sighed and wrote this question:

  How much money does it take to quit your job?

  I asked my colleague Akemi. We were sitting in her office picking through our salads.

  “I don’t know. More than I’ve got,” she said, scrounging at the bottom of her cardboard box for bacon bits. “Plenty. Maybe a million dollars.”

  “It would take me forever to make a million dollars. I’m talking about buying yourself a buffer of time so you can quit your job and figure out something else to do.”

  We contemplated in silence for a minute, letting this question swirl. She set down her salad. “It depends on how much money you spend in a day. Multiply that by how many days you don’t want to work. Save up that amount. Easy.”

  I set down my salad, astounded at the simplicity of this. “It’s like saving up to buy yourself your own sabbatical,” I said.

  “Exactly.”

  “How much do you spend in a day?”

  “I have no idea,” she admitted.

  “Me neither.”

  “Say you spend $100 a day. That includes rent, gas, food, everything. You’d have to save $36,500 to live the same way for a year without work.”

  “And use that year to figure out a way to buy yourself another year.”

  “And so on.”

  “And so forth.”

  She picked up her salad. “But what would you do with your time?” she asked. “You’re a copywriter. That’s who you are.” Her eyes narrowed. “Is this about the vacation policy?”

  “Maybe,” I replied. I swallowed hard on my kale. I was the official office griper about how little vacation time we were given. A mere nonnegotiable two weeks. I griped so loudly and so often that my boss hung a giant calendar on the wall outside my office and would mark down all the approved vacation time for everyone to see and for me to stare at from my office. While I worked my way through the pile of folders that came and went in my office, a Folder Parade if you will, I could peer through the glass and watch her conduct her Vacation Policy Parade. She would walk over to the calendar with my nervous colleagues in tow, their Vacation Request Forms shaking in their hands. She’d point at the calendar, “See here, there are already two art directors out that week. We need you in the office.” Dejected without a worthy comeback, they’d slink away Charlie Brown-style, cancel the plane tickets they’d already bought, take a few Tums, and come over to my office to process what just happened.

  I had tissues, a loathing for the vacation policy, and a master’s degree in counseling, so they knew they were in a safe place to talk. They’d vent. I’d nod in agreement. They’d vent more. I’d nod more. I’d tell them where they had gone wrong and how they could improve their strategy for next time. “See here,” I’d point at their rejected Vacation Request Form. “When you wanted eight vacation days but you only accrued four? You can only pull that off with the help of a public holiday. Plus, don’t think about tacking on sick days. If you do that, you won’t get paid for any of them.”

  Their eyes would bug out, and they’d stopped crying mid-sniffle. “What?! I won’t get paid?”

  I would lean back in my desk. “It’s happened before.” I had anecdotes about others who had to cancel flights and work over Christmas, about someone being told they hadn’t accrued the time off to attend a funeral (me), about honeymoons reduced or rescheduled. Entire weddings were delayed until enough vacation days had been accrued for the honeymoons.

  I was a Vacation Request Coach.

  I always took one of my two weeks of vacation in Canada over Christmas to visit family. It would be months before I could take another week of vacation. I had already bought my tickets for Rome the following May and gotten my Vacation Request Form approved. I was on the calendar, which meant my vacation was as good as carved in stone. I started to wonder why I had chosen a life of twenty-minute lunch breaks, time sheets, and two-week annual vacation policies.

  Akemi’s phone buzzed. “An email. Subject: Main Conference Room in two minutes. Don’t be late! It’s from you-know-who.”

  By the way she jumped up, I knew exactly who it was. Taking her cue, we quickly gathered our containers, tossed them in the trash, and walked to the conference room. Being late would mean being scolded by our supervisor, who would tell us that we had to buck up and pull our weight around here. Then we would slink off and doodle hateful images in the margins of our notebooks.

  Spankings, office-style.

  The big emergency was a surprise office birthday party for whatshisname. Always awkward. Always necessary. These office birthday parties remind me of other dumb moments in corporate daily life, such as saying “hump day” when it’s Wednesday and “one more day” when it’s Thursday. We ask the same dumb questions: “How was your weekend?” on Mondays and “Got big plans for the weekend?” on Fridays. We share tips for how to make the best oatmeal in the office microwave (use cold water). We send a card around the agency with an envelope for you to throw in your extra bucks for the birthday/wedding shower/baby shower/going away gift.

  When would it end?

  Every time I slipped a couple of bucks in an envelope, wrote a pithy comment in a card, or sat through a sad rendition of “Happy Birthday,” I couldn’t help but sigh inwardly and think, This is not my life.

  After the slick birthday cake from Ralph’s big-box grocery store, I returned to my office and began writing my daily three pages. Today’s journal entry took an interesting turn. Instead of griping about office birthday parties, reeling through what I should or shouldn’t have said to so-and-so in our disagreement about due dates or about how much I loathed filling out time sheets and permission forms, I thought about what Akemi had said and started writing money equations. This is nothing new. People everywhere are calculating their incoming and their outgoing. They are looking at the numbers and wondering how to make more, save more, buy more, pay off more, make ends meet, or how to have more money left at the end of the month rather than more month left at the end of the money.

  How much money would it take to quit my job? Could I get by on spending just $100 a day in my future life…including rent, car, bills, food, everything? This number was arbitrary because I didn’t know how much I currently spent in a day. All I knew was that I could afford my current life and extras like that trip I was taking to Rome and eating out. But I still had credit card debt. I was still beachfront adjacent.

  What I liked about her $100-a-day equation was that it was easy math. I have a wall in my brain with math. If you ask me a question about an equation, I’ll answer it with a blank look. But even I can multiply a number by 100. And this basic math skill was enough to keep my pencil on the paper, fooling with numbers. Say I would have a budget of $100 a day in my future life
where I’m not working. If I took 2010 to save $100 a day, I’d have to save $36,500 by the end of the year. I already had some money in savings, but not much. $100 a day is not so impossible. So the preposterous, outrageous, ridiculously large, seemingly unreachable number of $36,500 became just saving or making $100 a day. A hundred bucks is something I can imagine quite easily. I can aim for $100 a day just by going to work and saying no to that group lunch or buying that sweater.

  I could make this happen. I wasn’t sure how, but I’d figure that out later. For now, I had to save or make $100 a day.

  Sitting at my desk with the number 100 staring me in the face, I finally understood what all the journal writing was about. I didn’t need to find an artistic pursuit, a hobby, or creative outlet. I needed to figure out how to save up enough to fund my own sabbatical, or even better, get out of my job. Perhaps even my career. I would create my own Shawshank Redemption.

  I put down my pen and stared at the number. Forget finding my true art. Forget becoming an artist. I needed to become an escape artist.

  DEAR ,

  Exciting news! [It doesn’t matter what news it is, I’m going to make it sound exciting. This is where I tell you that there is a great offer, but it’s only available for a limited time so you’d better act now.]

  The first bold subhead is usually a short version of the offer I described in the first paragraph.

  That’s right, I’m going to say it again because I know you won’t read this whole letter, you’ll scan it, so I’ll sound like a broken record until you call the 1-800 number or visit us online.

  The second subhead is the first selling proposition. I’ll tell you why we’re better than the other guys.

  I’ll tell you why we are the biggest, fastest, clearest, safest, and best in the league. And I’ll be offering it for the best price, obviously.

  The third subhead will address you and those in your target.

  If you’re a mom, I’ll discuss family packages. If you’re a student, I’ll tell you about our affordable high-speed Internet. If you’re a senior, I’ll tell you that Medicare will cover a portion of the cost and you won’t need a medical exam.

  The fourth subhead will tell you that you’d better act now or you’ll be sorry.

  I’ll write about how this is a limited-time offer, which it may or may not be. Next month I’ll have another offer, which will be more or less the same as this offer. “I’ll add a customer testimonial here too,” to add validity to the claim.

  And a final sentence that will tie to the overall concept of the campaign, unless the client changes it. Then it will say, “Act now to take advantage of this incredible offer!” or something else equally uncreative.

  Signed arbitrary title

  John Big Shot Client Whom I’ve Never Met

  P.S. 90 percent of the time, you’ll only read your name and the postscript so I’ll give the most important information here: the offer and how to get the offer. Plus I’ll mention yet again that it’s a limited-time offer (not).

  P.P.S. The average U.S. household receives 1.5 trees’ worth of junk mail each year. In 2010, there were 114,235,996 households in the U.S. That’s a lot of trees.

  3

  Clean Out Your Underwear Drawer

  My first step to Paris started in my underwear drawer.

  During the slow morning commute to work the next morning, I pondered how I could save or make $100. I looked around at the people in the cars around me. All of us in our little boxed-in lives listening to music, talk radio, or an audio book, calling friends, and trying to make use of the time we were spending in the car. All just to get through the commute. All to make it bearable. All of us off to work, trying to afford our lives. How was I going to afford my future life?

  Clean out your underwear drawer.

  I knew this voice. Call it God, the authentic self, my imaginary friend, or the angel assigned to my case. It was the Wise Guy in my head who was constantly calm. His voice was mine, but also not mine. When my voice trembled, his was strong. When my thoughts were frantic, his were assured. In my mind’s eye, he looked like Mr. Miyagi from The Karate Kid. An old Asian guy who said a lot with very few words. And his presence in my car that morning was so palpable that I could have reached over and tickled his knee.

  I have turned to Mr. Miyagi at times for assistance with my job. When I prayed for the next headline, I prayed to him. Sometimes I would write to him in my journal, and he would write back in my journal. And sometimes, if the deadline was looming, I would make my requests out loud. “Please give me a headline!” This was often followed by “Pretty please, pretty please, pretty please.” Which was often followed by “I’ll do whatever it takes. Just give me the answer before the meeting.” Which was sometimes followed with a quiet “Or I’ll be totally screwed.” And finally, after a minute of silence, the headlines began to flow.

  At this point, if I didn’t have my journal out, I would reach for a napkin or a receipt to write down the lines. Or a coffee-stained pack of Post-it Notes, the back of a magazine, or a paper grocery bag. I’ve even written headlines on the car insurance papers stored in the glove box. Seasoned copywriters will always have a good pen in the car too. One with flow, like a Uni-Ball Vision. When the ideas came, they came fast, so preparation was key.

  I spent a lot of time writing at stoplights, taking dictation from Mr. Miyagi. Was it God that wrote these headlines? Was it a genie? Was it just me? No. Yes. I don’t know.

  On one morning, I was sitting at a light, writing a few lines on a napkin, when I looked over and saw Jon Hamm, the star of Mad Men, sitting in his car waiting at the light too. He was likely on his way to the studio to play the part of someone like me. In that moment, I wanted to play anyone but me.

  I’ve often walked into the morning status meeting with a handful of inky Post-it Notes and handed them over stealth-style to my art director partner, the one who would later put the ideas into layouts. The project manager would ask where we were with the concepts for the next campaign. I’d confidently respond that the concepts were complete and just needed to go into layout. My partner would have looked at me bewildered, knowing that at the end of the previous day, we had had nothing. On the way back to our offices, she would look down at the Post-it Notes, which detailed the ad with headlines and layouts, and nod knowingly.

  My in-car copywriting with Mr. Miyagi was part of what made me a successful copywriter. I had made it. Making it happened after a series of awards, promotions, and bumps in pay. Once you really made it, you were middle management. And if you were middle management, you had to go to the 9:00 a.m. daily status meetings. The status meeting was filled with project managers, studio managers, and creative managers who had also made it.

  Head Mistress led the status meeting. She was like a bossy babysitter. She was on task. She was on time. She was professional. I bet if she could do anything with her free time, she would go grocery shopping or organize things or boss other people around.

  Sanjay, the IT guy, unabashedly played games on his phone during the status meeting. That is, when he made it to the meeting at all.

  Squealing Liam was always in attendance. He and his perfect posture were always early. He always tattled on those who were late. He was the nice kid on the playground who even the nerds hated.

  I was one of the leaders of the creative department, which was filled with art directors who draw the pictures for the ads and copywriters who do the writing for the ads. Together, they would come up with the idea for the ad. I was a copywriter, but officially I was an Associate Creative Director. This title meant I qualified to sit in this daily status meeting so project managers could boss me around. Because I had made it.

  I was typically three minutes late for status meetings. It was a passive-aggressive thing. I knew this. I was aware. If I had not been required to be in the status meeting, I w
ould probably be three minutes early for work. I would probably be a model employee. I’d probably even have perfect posture like Liam. But as it was, I walked into a full group who picked up their pens as I sat down and opened my notebook.

  Trying to stay focused and not get caught doodling geraniums in the margins was the hardest part of my job in the status meeting. Usually at some point, the back of my neck would get hot and the lion inside would start pacing the cage. Rather than roar, I nodded and let them tell me what they needed me and my department to get done.

  Thoreau said that the majority of men lead lives of quiet desperation. Quiet desperation. That was me in the status meeting.

  • • •

  Clean out your underwear drawer.

  This wasn’t the first being from the ethereal realm I’d felt in the passenger seat of my car. A few years ago, a colleague of mine died of a heart attack. He and I were like peas and carrots at the office. Whenever we wanted a coffee, we’d fetch it together. Lunch plans were always a matter of private consultation before public commitment. When he didn’t show up to work one morning, I began learning about grief. To mask it or heal it (I am not sure which), I would imagine him hopping in my car to go grab lunch. I’d imagined it so often that I could almost see his long legs trying to fit into my small Honda Civic. Knees to the dashboard. The same jeans. Always the same jeans. And his floppy red hair in the corner of my eye. Imagining him there led to talking with him.

  “I’d like to re-create the status report,” his phantom self would say. “But this time, instead of Complete Budget Reports, I’d write Buy Bananas. Instead of Send Layouts to Client, I’d write Make Magic Wands.”