Chicago had a way of rewarding you, just when you thought you couldn’t take one more day of winter’s misery. Overnight, trees began to leaf out and early bulbs sprouted. Fannie fancied herself a master container gardener, coaxing out all matter of flowers and herbs on their back deck, which happened to get full sun. As summer approached, Carlo, Fannie, and I continued resurrecting a friendship that had just been waiting for our call.
On the professional front, my work, which had felt stagnant for the past year, was suffering. As creative director for a boutique advertising agency I, along with my original partners, had felt the growing pains of acquiring not one but two smaller agencies in the past year. Of course, the acquisitions meant higher billings and more than a little good publicity.
On the flip side, it meant the tricky integration of highly talented and even more highly opinionated creative types. What had started as a small group of seven people had grown to twenty-two on our own, and then to thirty-nine and fifty-four with the most recent acquisitions. More people meant a move to a larger space and an unwieldy creative department of twenty-seven. “A wonderful problem to have,” our friendly competitors kidded.
Never a great people manager, I wasn’t so sure.
In an effort to reinvigorate my creative side, and possibly to rediscover why I was in the business in the first place, I signed up for a weeklong conference titled “Creativity and the Process of Wonder.” The name felt a bit granola to me, but John Clemmons, a former employee who I hated to see go, called and recommended it to me. “One thing, Drew, you have to get there early for registration and sign up for Tommy Hastings’ seminar called ‘The Personal Journey.’ Seriously, it’s the whole reason for going. It’s going to change your life.”
Feeling a bit oversold, but trusting John’s intellect and excitement, I arrived at Northwestern just as spring break was starting. The conference, unaffiliated with the university, was being hosted on the mostly vacant campus. To complete the experience, we were housed in the dorms.
Faithful to my promise to John, I arrived early and registered for Tommy Hastings’ morning seminar. I was surprised there were only twelve openings, and was grateful for John’s tip. I arrived at the appointed room, a rather plain and small classroom with about fifteen desks. The room was almost filled to quota. I was the last to arrive.
Having been sold as a guru of sorts, Tommy was, initially, a surprise. He was neither tall nor commanding nor impressive in the way high-power speakers usually seem. About five-five, Tommy was close to my age, wore a buttoned-down white shirt untucked, and a pair of unremarkable jeans and sneakers. He stood before us, all smiles, and waited for the room to settle.
“Welcome. I’m truly glad to see you here. I’ve had a chance to review your registration bios and I’m impressed with the work you’re doing out there.” Thinking that flattery is always a good start, I listened as he continued. “Speaking of bios and work history, I’m sure you’ve seen mine in the conference materials, so I won’t bore you with more of that kind of stuff. What I’d like to do, however, is to have you say a little bit about yourself, your career paths, your personal achievements, whatever has gotten you to this place. Who would like to begin?”
It was difficult to be invisible in a room of thirteen people, but I waited for someone else to begin. A nice-looking man in his late forties rose and introduced himself as John Mangus, Executive Vice President of Development for PepsiCo. He lived outside of New York City in New Rochelle. He had two grown daughters, one grandchild, and another on the way. We all nodded in approval. Tommy smiled and asked for our next volunteer.
One by one, the other ten men and one woman rose and introduced themselves. After the third mini-bio, I was beginning to wonder just what the hell I was doing in the room. The attendee roster read like a Fortune 500 corporate roundtable: John Mangus, of course; two CFOs, one at Eastman Kodak (this was before digital photography killed off film), the other at Nabisco; three additional EVPs, at Morgan Stanley, McCann-Erickson, and Microsoft; three directors of development, one at Sony Pictures, one at Pixar, and the third at Sundance; one strikingly handsome thirty-something man who carried the title of “venture capitalist”; an EVP of sales for Hasbro toys; and our lone female, the VP and creative director for L’Oréal, New York.
And then there was me.
Not one to believe in self-deprecation, I stood and gave a brief chronology of my career: from banking to advertising copywriter, senior writer, to creative director, founder and owner of my own shop, and partner and executive creative director of what Ad Age had called “Chicago’s up and coming creative powerhouse agency.” Since everyone else threw in their place or places of residence, I mentioned that I lived on the lake and enjoyed summers on a smaller lake in northern Illinois. As I took my seat, Tommy beamed.
In fact, Tommy beamed at all of us the entire session.
“I think it’s important you know the company you’re in, and I think you’ll agree this is an accomplished room.” We all exchanged knowing nods of recognition with our distinguished cohorts. “So, I want, just by a show of hands, to know how many of you are pleased with and proud of where you’ve arrived, personally and professionally. And there’s no need to be shy or modest.”
Again, we glanced around the room. Slowly, one by one, hands went up. Light laughter and grins ensued until all hands were held high.
“Wonderful!” Tommy’s smile was both genuine and infectious. “Thank you, and you can put your hands down now.” Tommy turned toward a large whiteboard that ran the length of the classroom. I thought he was going to write something sage or worthy of capturing, but he turned back to us and said, his smile receding into an earnest face: “You are precisely the people I’m worried about.”
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