Give a shit.

Whenever you meet someone new, one of the first things they'll ask is always, "So what do you do?" 

I actually kinda hate this question. Because all my conversations go like this: 

Person: So, what do you do? 

Me: Oh, I'm a copywriter. 

Person: (blank stare) So... what does that mean. 

Me: Oh, um to sum it up quickly I work in advertising and branding. So, I work with the design teams to create ad/brand concepts and then I write all the words that appear in that brands advertising or marketing messages.

Person: Oh, you work in marketing! So... like, why? 

Excellent question random stranger! 

If you want to know why I love it, we'll have to go all the way back to 2007. I was a junior in High School taking AP English with the hardest teacher in school, Ms. Loretta Funk. She was renown for giving a lot of really fucking difficult assignments and being a hard ass about it. 

I did not excel in AP English. I kinda just stuck around in the middle of the pack. My grades were fine. I understood the assignments, but I really didn't care. And she could tell. 

So, one day after talking about The Scarlet Letter all period she asked me to stick around after class for a moment.

I'll let my good friend Eminem explain what I was going through in that moment, "Palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy, there's vom..."

No Eminem! I did not vomit. I was just nervous.  

Anyways, I walked up to Ms. Funk and just looked at her. I couldn't even start to speak. 

She asked me if she knew why I was asked me to stick around for a second. I was so nervous I could barely shake my head. But I managed a slight shake. 

She sat down on the edge of her teacher desk in that cool way that supposed to disarm the student. She looked me directly in the eyes. And for the longest moment in the history of the world, I was just staring into the eyes of the most fear teacher in school. I think I died. 

Then she leaned in a little and just said, "I need you to start giving a shit Jason." 

I tried nodding. I wanted to leave so my heart could start beating again. 

Then she did me the single biggest favor anyone has ever done for me. Sort of.

We were supposed to write a report about The Scarlet Letter and have it turned in the following week. As is tradition with book reports, no one was looking forward to that. 

She asked me if I had started working on that yet. 

I lied and nodded. 

She said, excellent. In addition to that book report, I was to turn in a one-page paper. I could write about anything I wanted to write about. It didn't matter, she just wanted me to give a shit about what I was working on. 

So, in addition to a book report about the Scarlet Letter, I turned in a poem. 

I wish I kept it, but I know it wasn't very good.

But in my heart, it's what I wanted to write. I got a B on the book report, and while my poem wasn't technically graded she told me she would have given me a B+ on it, but she was just happy that I gave a shit and gave it my best effort. 

So, why am I a copywriter? Because I give a shit about writing. Beacuse I like solving problems with creativity and cleverness. Because I love words. Because if I did anything else, I'd be a big ball of grumpy.