I was thinking today about all the things I’ve written.
These thoughts (along with fantasies of joyous early retirement) came to mind as I was suffering from writer’s block â€” which was quite obvious to the person I report to as she commented that I sure was walking around the office a lot â€” what she says is a sure sign that Christine is trying to write something.
The other thing I do is use multiple expletives in a long unbroken long chain. I do this in my office and I don’t think I’m loud (I’m convinced it is under my breath) but once a colleague who sits nearby popped her head in asked if I was okay. She was fairly new at the time â€” I imagine she’s used to it by now and knows it’s just a sign that words are not magically appearing on my computer screen.
So there I was (not typing and swearing periodically) thinking about all the things I’ve written.
I’ve written (in no order):
- news releases
- public service announcements
- newspaper articles
- opinion pieces
- ad copy
- poster text
- brochures on myriad topics
- a chapter about getting your message out on community television
- radio copy
- quarterly highlights for a major industrial interest (I needed a new bar of soap every three months but they seemed to go over well â€” I kept on doing them)
- magazine articles
- visual identity guidelines
- web style guidelines
- creative briefs
- pleas for more time to complete a project couched as memos
- regular old memos
- speeches I have given (not that many)
- speeches others have given
- web copy
- banner ads
- two poems published in a (now defunct) literary journal
Once I get going I’m fine. Heck, I’m even pretty good at it but sometimes I think it would be more pleasant to design furniture or plan neighbourhoods â€” two other things I think I would’ve also enjoyed had I not been seduced by Edward Bernays.
The one thing I don’t think would be pleasant is being a novelist. I think many people who write (PR-ish, PR-y?) things think about writing books but I don’t think I could ever do it â€” if I didn’t die from drinking all that Tide, I’d wear a path in the carpet around my lonely (novelists don’t have co-workers) desk.