The Art of Living

I probably shouldn’t say that, considering that my company offers online marketing, but it’s something I’ve been thinking so much about of late as I work through my projects, remember some former clients and try to live as humane and ethical a life as possible. Being a Francophile means a number of different things to different people, but part of the appeal to me of the French-inspired existence is the idea (ideal?) of a more deliberate, thoughtful and (dare I say it?) intelligent life. So much of what we long for in our current society revolves around money–getting it, keeping it, saving it, spending it, blowing it, practically making love to it–that it can be a downright revolutionary act to say, No, I will not be manipulated by a faceless, soulless corporate entity that can’t even be bothered to know my name to purchase something I clearly don’t and never will need. Money is all. Money is king. Money is queen. Money is so, well, money.

Marketing, on the other hand, exists solely to manipulate convince you into thinking that you do need something, even if you don’t quite know what that something is just yet. That your life couldn’t possibly go on without this gadget or that doo-dad. That if you’re fat, skinny, lonely, depressed, single, married, childless, Octomom, dark, light, or just sitting there doing absolutely nothing at all, there must be something seriously wrong with you, and oh, here’s something that will fix all that ails you and welcome you back into the fold of slap-happy humanity.

I get that. I once had a client at a marketing firm I worked for who sold a weight loss “tool” based on the wholly ridiculous and scammy “law of attraction” trend. Of course, it was my job to spin all kinds of magical copy to tout all the wonderful things about this product–that’s what marketing copywriters do. Never mind that the tool itself was terribly overpriced and of poor quality, or that the client had little experience in weight loss or nutrition. I dutifully tried to ignore the fact that the overall campaign seemed a little sleazy, not to mention more than a little condescending to women. I did my part, grumbled about it a bit, but thankfully moved on.

It’s about as far from a “deliberate, thoughtful and intelligent life” as one can possibly go, and yet it’s part of what I do. Modern society and industry no longer truly value writing as a skill; rather, it’s a commodity for which one can bid at the lowest possible price. I once wrote a review of an Albert Camus biography in which I lamented that the days when a writer could make a living simply by writing are long, long gone. Writers now must find a different vocation to keep body and soul together (to use a favorite Somerset Maugham term). The only marginally lucrative profession for a writer to have now–save for the fortunate few with steady gigs at national, mainstream magazines–is business writing, whether it’s copywriting, ghostwriting, web writing, or PR writing. Indeed, a contemporary writer is no more than a producer of content, that awful word (which of course I use frequently in my company literature) that Dictionary.com defines, in part, as “the subjects or topics covered in a book or document.” Where writers once had the power to start wars, inspire generations of readers, develop new philosophies, or even arouse feelings of lust and romance, we now simply sell.

In fact, sometimes they don’t even have to do that very well. Sometimes all a client wants (because as most business writers understand, one no longer writes for a reader but a client) is for the writer to bring the customers to the front door. The client will do the rest. Case in point: an ad I saw today posted by a company in need of a copywriter included the helpful suggestion that “[i]deally the copy should make sense but not essential.” Apparently writers don’t even have to craft logical sentences; they just have to string together enough “keywords” to “drive traffic.” What does the company sell? Who knows? It’s 1999 all over again, only this time even fewer people are making money, and it’s certainly not the writers.

I suppose I’m fortunate, in a way. I’ve tried “selling myself” in the past–not in the streetwalking but rather the job-hunting sense–but have had checkered results. Writing is what I’m best at, and although selling my skills to a headhunter or hiring manager has only marginally worked for me in the past, manipulating (there’s that blasted word again) the English language to sell a product or service over something as anonymous as the Web has become something I’ve done quite well. As I read this post I can’t help but think that perhaps I’m being just a little too precious, that I might be spending a little too much time whining about present circumstances and not being grateful enough that I can make a living at all, considering the economic doldrums in which most of us now wallow.

And to be fair, some of the clients with whom I have worked with have been generous, smart and terrifically genuine people. My newest client, for example, is about to launch a nonprofit to serve needy pet owners, and as a dog parent passionate about animal rights, I’m incredibly proud and honored to be working with her, even though the project for which she hired my company has nothing to do with her charitable work. She’s the kind of client I’d like to work more with, although I wonder sometimes if I’ll always have this luxury to pick and choose, or if someday I’ll need to take on projects that starve the soul but at least feed the stomach.

Thankfully, this not all that I do, and maybe that’s why I write my novel. It’s a refuge from the shrill noise that so much of marketing is. In the graceful and powerful words of a great writer, I willfully succumb to the emotional and intellectual manipulation of a damn good book. I’m happy to buy what they sell so well. It’s a product I need more of but am finding less of in the “real” world.

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