They were the words that soothed my first broken heart.
Don’t you wish our lives were like VCRs?
And we could fast-forward through the bad times?
It was senior year of high school and I’d just been dumped by Dave, my first real boyfriend. “All my friends have broken up with their girlfriends so we can spend more time together,” he said over the rainbow phone that played Fur Elise and normally brought me so much joy.
“I thought I should break up with you, too.”
We hung up. I sat on my bathroom floor, Sandra Boynton wallpaper mocking me, and cried my eyes out.
A few days later, my friend Caitlin gave me the Shoebox card I would carry in my backpack for the rest of the year. I felt its calming presence and would pull it out to read whenever I needed strength. The words were magic.
Nine years later, I sat under a trio of majestic gold chandeliers in disbelief. I can’t believe I’m here.
“You’d be surprised,” Mick1, one-half of the duo interviewing me over lunch, smirked under his mustache. “We do a lot of sexy work in the marketing studio.” It was the first time I’d ever heard the word used for something other than a sentient being.
Next to him, Teri nodded vigorously, as I tried to stay focused inside this airy, two-level cafeteria buzzing with people.
I was halfway through a day of shuffling among interviewers across all departments, inside the biggest corporate headquarters I’d ever been inside. The bustling, teddy bear-scented halls of Hallmark.
“The deadlines can be tough,” Teri added. “You only get two weeks per project.”
Scenes from my existing agency job filled my head: Working late on rush projects for clients we could lose at any moment. Execs barking that your hours better be billable OR ELSE. Did she say…two weeks per project?!
“Two weeks, huh?” I asked, trying hard to un-widen my eyes. “I could probably manage that.”
I’d never considered trying to write for Hallmark, despite living in the same city as their headquarters. I’d studied advertising in college and had only ever considered copywriting; writing greeting cards had never crossed my mind. Then, a co-worker brought it up one day as we sat in her office, despairing over the lack of creativity at our agency jobs.
Could I write something other than ads? Could I write greeting cards like the kind I’d carried around in my backpack? The kind I’d go to drugstores and read for hours?
I poked around the “careers” section of their website until I found the workbook of writing and editing exercises to be completed and mailed in before you’d be considered.
Time to make like the kind of slogan I knew I’d never write: Just do it.
I worked for hours every night on that workbook. The exercises stimulated the part of my writer brain that developed early when I was a kid and so bored, I’d memorize joke books. Exercises like: Write a short message to acknowledge one’s parents’ 25th anniversary. (Happy silver anniversary! From the one who put plenty of it on your heads.) To celebrate a friend’s 50th birthday. (How would you like to celebrate your 50th? Dinner? Movie? Menthol rub?) To apologize to a friend for not keeping in touch. (I’m horrible at keeping in touch. Just ask my parole officer.)
I crossed my fingers and sent it off.
Weeks later, I got called in to interview. What I didn’t know then was that I’d gotten extraordinarily lucky; a coworker at a previous agency had recognized my name from the pile of unsolicited workbooks—which I’d later learn numbered in the thousands per year—and passed it along, assuming that I wanted to continue my career as a copywriter.
I met with people from across the company, overwhelmed by all the org charts and departments and unexpected uses of “sexy.” I didn’t have a feel for what they thought of me. I knew what I thought of them: this place was so unbelievably big. And worked so differently than what I was used to. I didn’t hold out much hope.
A few days later, a woman in HR called to offer me a job as a writer in their marketing studio. My stomach dropped. Somehow, I hadn’t known that was the intended path during those interviews.
If I was going to make a leap, I wanted it to be a big one. This was Hallmark. I wanted to write cards.
Brokenhearted, I thanked her and turned the offer down, stuttering with embarrassment that what I really wanted to do was write cards. There was a long silence.
“Ohhhh,” she said. “We saw your resume and assumed marketing.” She contemplated for a moment. “Let me get back to you.”
I was crushed, but not surprised. I’d figured that writing cards was such a niche career, those positions were almost impossible to come by. I’d either put up with advertising a while longer or figure something else out.
A few days later, she called back. “Tell you what,” she said. “We’re willing to reconsider you as a card writer, but we’ll need you to complete another workbook with more exercises.”
Oh Jesus. (Could I say things like “Oh Jesus” if I worked at a nice company like Hallmark?2) Half excited, half filled with dread, I wasn’t sure I had it in me to complete another workbook. I bared down and after a few days, sent it in, exhausted. I didn’t dare think it might get me further; I was still embarrassed I hadn’t realized what I was originally interviewing for.
The next week, the same woman called back. “We got your second workbook,” she said, pausing for the longest beat ever. “And we’d like to offer you a job as a greeting card writer.”
Come again? I was stunned. Terrified. I never thought I’d get to this point, and now I was faced with the huge decision of staying put in the career I’d trained for or venturing inside that giant building to face the unknown.
I asked for a week to decide. She chuckled a bit, likely marveling at the balls of this girl (could I say “balls” if I worked there?3), and agreed.
I didn’t know what to do. I wanted it so bad, I almost didn’t want it. I asked a former boss to dinner for guidance. Like many ad people, she wasn’t a fan of the corporate world—a place most believed was where creativity went to die. “Do not do it,” she scowled. “You’ll be miserable.”
I went home, dejected. Then, a day or so later, something deep inside me shifted. What did she know? What if I loved it?
I spent a few more days talking it over with my husband before saying the two words that have taken me the furthest in this life: Fuck it. (Could I say “fuck it?”4)
Life isn’t like a VCR. There’s no rewinding, either.
I’m taking this sexy job.
1 Some names have been changed. Although if you have a mustache and use words like “sexy,” you should be stripped of all rights. But I am a big person!
2, 3, 4 Only on sympathy cards. Jkjkjk or…am I?
I can attest to that being a really hard way to get a job. They were lucky.
What a great story. It’s nice to put a face with an actual Hallmark card writer.