Well, it’s Sunday night, 11:54pm and I’m just getting around to writing Monday’s post. Why so late? Did I have to “work” this weekend?
Well, I didn’t have to go to the office. No all-day Saturday cram session before the big presentation. No one from the agency called or texted.
But believe me, I worked. It was one of those, “I’ve got a shitload of stuff due Monday, and the only way I’m even gonna come close is to do it on the weekend. It’s the kind of weekend work your boss doesn’t count. You weren’t at the office, so you weren’t working.
And that pisses me off.
Creatives are paid to come up with ideas. So whenever we are thinking about work, we are working. A few weeks ago, I stayed home with a cold. But I had headlines due, so I worked for about 3 hours and sent them to the boss. But it still counts as a sick day! We never get credit for the hours we spend thinking about the stupid shit we’re working on. How many times have you spent your entire commute trying to come up with one more killer concept? How many lunches have you spent starring at a notebook or sketchpad trying to come up with gold? How many times have you been watching a movie or TV show and the working part of your brain suddenly screams out, “Hey, that would make a great radio spot!”?
I am sick of this whole, “It’s only work if you’re sitting at your desk” bullshit. I mean why do we even have an office? We text people who sit 10 feet away from us. They might as well be at home. Or on the other side of the fucking globe.
The only reason we have physical offices is so old, last-generation Madmen can point at a big phallic building and say, “That’s all mine ladies. And the little people inside are all mine too.”
I’d write more. But I gotta work.