Is copywriting your dream or your nightmare? New guy looking for help.

Guidance.

I'll tell you about myself--my fears, experience, ambitions.

Fifteen years ago I had a genius of an English teacher. He forced me to write an essay...my first college level essay. I wrote a hypothetical piece about a timeline where the Nazis and Japanese won the war. I thought it was fantastic--and the ******* failed me--because it sucked. A year later I received the third highest mark in my graduating class for my essay on, "Completion." It saved me from repeating grade twelve. I thought, "What luck!"

Six years ago I was working as an audio video installer (basically a digital plumber.) I didn't care for it. Part of my job involved training the noobs on a boring ass software package. Being lazy, I decided to write a training guide so I wouldn't need to spend precious time better utilized smoking pot and playing video games. I wrote it, emailed it, and went on with my day.

The next day I met with my Boss. "Tony...," he said, "This is fantastic."

"Oh yeah? Thanks."

"Tony."

"Yeah?"

"What are you doing here?"

"What do you mean?"

"You aren't an audio video technician. You're a writer."

The idea excited me enough to try. So I interviewed a local rock band, and sent it to the community music rag. The accepted it...and paid me $35! They also asked me for another.

I then told everyone I knew I was a writer. I pitched stories at other local rags, and soon I was penning for four different magazines and pulling in a whopping $400 a month writing about music.

I started getting invited to cool parties. Local bands wanted to buy me beer and hang out. It was pretty sweet. At twenty seven I was a music writer. Nobody ever asked me what my credentials were.

Then one magazine went out of business. Then another went out of business. Then I quit my job and left for Winnipeg Canada! My best friend got me a gig at the Winnipeg Free Press, writing advertorials about truck shows and baby conventions. I made enough to scrape rent and eat Kraft dinner. I felt like a wizard that lived in a shoe.

Something was different about this awesome job--it sort of sucked. I was broke. I was also sick of hustling. I stopped writing for money. I gave up. I moved to Montreal and indulged in poetry and drugs and sex, occasionally getting published in rant articles. That was four years ago.

For the next three years I slaved as a bus boy, trying to hustle my way to bartending hoping that would fulfill me. My friends would ask me, "What happened to the writing?" I just shrug, "I still do it for fun." Fun for me was two hundred Bukowski inspired poems, eight thousand words of an imaginary novel and nine thousand forum posts on self help.

My friend is working as a copywriter and insists I am perfect for creative ad copy. "Isn't it like digging ditches with words?" I ask.

"Where you gonna be when you're sixty?" He says.

The **** if I know. But I have to choose something. Maybe advertising is it. Maybe I should dig my own ditch. It's got to beat bartending.

Writing copy seems like some terrible dream. For me it feels like a choice. But I don't know much at all about much of anything. I'm sure I'm perfectly capable with some training. It's just difficult to decide what the hell you want to be and why.

I'm thirty three now. No education, a bunch of writing experience and some restaurant bull****. I'm really sick of ****ty low paying jobs. I'm better than this. I'm better.

Don Draper don't look too happy but at least he gets to drink at work. I'm gonna grab a beer right now. Thanks for reading.