Six Hard Lessons I Learned at Hallmark
How I finally found my way, creatively
It takes a helluva long time to gain confidence as a writer. It did for me, anyway. I can count on two fingers the number of writers I’ve worked with who started out confident. And they both got fired for being assholes. Imagine!
Out of college, I spent the first five years of my career in ad agencies, where I didn’t really consider myself a writer. Besides being young and scared, there was something about all the brand standards and strategy I had to contend with that didn’t feel as though, deep down, I was for-real writing. It also didn’t help to know that most of the people I worked for thought of me only as Billable Hours.
Then I moved to Hallmark. Which is where it all changed for me, creatively. I spent 17 years there, writing just about everything. Mostly cards, but also books, gift product, branding, marketing, merchandising, packaging, social media, blogs, even—newsworthy!—the box copy for the Michael Oher Keepsakes ornament. (Fun fact: for legal reasons, I was not allowed to mention “The Blind Side.” I don’t remember what I came up with. Maybe… Oher’s story is the basis for a movie starring: Rhymes with Bandra Sullock!)
The support and community I found at Hallmark was unlike anything I could ever have imagined. Which is good, because I had a lot of growing to do.
Through a number of hard lessons I learned there, I figured out who I was, creatively. Learned to trust myself more. And after 17 years, finally found the confidence I needed to call myself a writer.
Here are a few of those lessons:
1. Like it or not, the basics have to come first.
Soon after I was hired, I got bold: I told them matter-of-factly that I wanted to write humor. That, trust me, I could do it. They smiled politely; it didn’t quite work like that. I’d have to learn the business first—and no doubt earn their trust, too.
I sweated through almost two years of learning the basics before my wish came true and I got moved permanently to the humor studio. Thank goodness they made me work for it. I can’t imagine the jokes I would’ve written without knowing what went into putting products on shelves.
If you’re creating for yourself, by all means, throw out any and all of the rules. But if you’re creating for an audience, here’s the thing: There are a lot of talented people jockeying for their attention. You gotta know your stuff.
2. Trying to be good at everything will make you miserable.
A few months after I started, I knocked on my mentor John’s cubicle with a question that had been bugging me for a while. “So: do they want us to be really good at one thing, or kind of good at everything?” There were about 50 writers at the time. Surely we could all specialize and they’d be covered?
He thought for a second. “Well, both,” he finally answered. We could specialize up to a point, but there were a lot of needs, and we were all expected to pitch in. I was new, too—I’d need to prove myself decent at everything before I could ever be bold enough to start asking for specific projects (see #1). Fair enough. It was a business.
I dove in, but it was rough. I never felt like I got beyond “kind of good” at anything. Thankfully, when you’re writing cards for a large audience, “kind of good” is often perfectly fine. Kind of good is safe. Kind of good sells.
When I got to humor and could start specializing more, I was a lot happier. And I’ve taken that lesson with me for decades now. Every time I worry that I should be doing all of the things, I remind myself: focusing feels better. I know now that trying to be great at one thing is a lot more satisfying than settling for average at a whole bunch of stuff.
3. If you don’t love it, don’t put it out there.
One of my first assignments was to write long, rhyming verse for baby baptism cards. I went into full panic mode: I had never written verse and was in over my head. I worked overtime, even going into the office on a Sunday (which, at the time, no one did).
I sweated through hours and hours of writing those cards. I was miles outside of my comfort zone. Finally, I turned them in, terrified. The good news? I did well. The bad news? I did well. “You nailed these!” the editor wrote back. “We’re going to ask for you again!” SHIT. What had I done? I dreaded having to write more. Should I have done worse on purpose? Of course not, obviously. I was being paid, and I owed them my best effort.
But it did teach me something really important to remember, now that I’m out on my own: if you don’t want to do more of something, do not put it out there. People might love it and want more. You might get known for it. It’s been said that R.E.M. hates “Shiny Happy People.” This is why.
4. You can slop things together sometimes. It still counts.
Before I moved to humor, I was on a project writing boxed Christmas cards. I struggled mightily at coming up with the inspirational, poetic messages they needed and finally slopped together a piece that felt like I wrote it using magnetic poetry. I felt like a fraud, but turned it in anyway.
The quote, paired with the simple illustration of a deer in the snow, went on to become the best-selling boxed card that year: “It was as if nature paused, silently wishing for peace on earth.”
I still shudder when I think of it, feeling as though I just lazily strung some words together that made sense. But hey, maybe that’s all you need to do sometimes. So quit overthinking it. Add a deer and move on.
5. You have to turn it all the way off.
Finally, more than a year after I started, I got the good news: I would be moving to the humor studio. I was elated. Minutes later, I froze in fear. Could I do this? I couldn’t do this. There was no possible way I would be able to come up with jokes every day. I was doomed.
The only solution I could come up with was to keep a small notepad with me at all times, forcing myself to come up with half-baked jokes and premises everywhere I went. Days. Nights. Weekends. How else would I be able to have the number of ideas I’d need?
I wore myself down quickly. Never giving my brain time off left me without any energy for my family, myself, or any other part of my life outside of work. And when I was on the clock, I was tapped from the minute I sat down at my desk.
Exhausted, I finally gave in. I ditched the notebooks. I had to trust that I could come up with material when I needed to. And guess what? I could. I learned that off-time actually feeds your brain. And that living your regular old life gives you all the material you could ever need.
6. Never miss a day of work unless you’re absolutely certain Bono won’t be there.
Ah, yes. The most painful lesson of all. One year, Hallmark had signed on to create a line of cards and products for Project (RED), and I was one of the writers assigned to the creative team.
During that time, there was a Friday when I wasn’t at work. A Friday when Bono made a surprise appearance to thank the Project (RED) team. In person. BONO. IN PERSON. Due to security, his visit hadn’t been announced ahead of time. Meaning no one could tip me off, even if they wanted to.
I literally died when I found out. (YES LITERALLY, I am writing this from up above. Lemme tell ya: the harp music? Getting old.) To make matters worse, he asked the group: “Who wrote the dirty card? I need to meet this person.”
And of course, of course, it was me who’d written the dirty card, pictured below:
I will never forgive myself for missing that day. Doesn’t matter. I’m literally dead, remember? I’m in the clouds now, just hangin’ with my deer, silently wishing for peace on earth. Starting with all these g.d. harps.
Input:
Could not put this devastating psychological thriller down
Almost done with this fantastic collection of essays from the column every writer dreams of landing
I might have to try making one of these
Rewatched this perfect gem of a movie that I only gave a 7/10 the first time? The embarrassment. (Now corrected to a 10/10!)
Turns out we’re all just a bunch of lurkers
A fascinating look at the notes of a genius
Talking points for just about any situation
I can and will lose hours on this crowd-sourced acronym site (MOTEL: Motorist Overnight Thrifty Essential Lodging!)
Waiting for this version, freaking out, and wishing I had one of these when I was 8 and pronounced recipe RE-sipe, causing my dad to burst out laughing (trauma alert!!!)
See you in two weeks!
Obviously, Bono did not find what he was looking for.
How is it you say… 'these things just kind of write themselves.'
Excellent lessons! I especially love the baby baptism card story. And the photo where we are wearing matching ninja outfits.