Today I attended
a day-long course called ‘Writing for Advertising’. Now there’s nothing I look
forward to more than a day of learning (and a day out of the office), but in
the last few days my excitement has been marred by a burning discomfort: I hate
advertising.
Advertising is an
industry that, minus a few notable exceptions, brazenly profits from peoples’
insecurities. An industry that is institutionally sexist, racist, ableist,
classist, homophobic and offensive in any other way imaginable. A bit like
politics or religion, but with a bigger budget and, worryingly, a bigger
audience. It’s run by people who insist on clutching an old, safe, familiar
idea about how things should be in the world and then aggressively and
intrusively reproduce that idea over and over again until we all blindly accept
our place in life and affirm this with our wallets. Fast cars are for men. Fairy
liquid is for women.
But I work in advertising:
I’m a copywriter for a cancer charity. Sure, I’m advertising great stuff – Think
about the needs of others over your own pathetic pain threshold! Spit into a
tube and you could cure cancer! If you donate your stem cells you’re the best
person, like, EVER!”1! – but I’m in advertising nonetheless. I leap a mile from
the association ‘copywriter’ brings with it thanks to Mad Men, because I’m a
socialist. I abhor private wealth bound up by a few of the super-rich at the
top and anchored off a boat in Morocco, private business that’s exclusively for
profit and bereft of social benefit or goodness. The thought of turning my hand
to write for Barclays, let’s imagine, makes me cringe. Why would I pour my
energy and passion into copy that, if successful, would convince even more
people to give their hard-earned money to Barclays, an organisation so
deplorable I can only imagine it’s run by pantomime villains who snatch bags of
loot and laugh derisively as they speed off in their yachts driven by
moustachioed British butlers? And since I’m neither willing nor capable of shutting
up about the deep wounds of social inequality that private finance induces,
working there would be pretty #awks anyway.
But as I
listened to what the bright young things around me on the course were saying, I
realised that there were clearly people in advertising that thought a bit like
me. In fact, they didn’t reflect what I perceived to be the “advertiser” trope
at all; they were just witty and articulate people who started writing stories
when they were six and want to write more. One woman worked for a Pharmaceutical
company and when we were tasked with writing 200 words on something that concerned
us, she chose the unfair distribution of wealth within America’s healthcare
system. Another spoke of how she worried that social media was brimming with
cats, gifs and Ed Balls, allowing stories like the kidnap of schoolgirls in
Nigeria to be relegated as unsexy and irrelevant. Right on, sisters. If these
are the sorts of thoughts that fresh faces in advertising harbour, maybe we’re
not all quite as effed as I’d thought. If those same people, benefiting from
the hard-won and ever-increasing opportunities of women’s liberation, get
themselves into positions of power perhaps the sound of our media’s rhetoric will
shift. I don’t doubt that the pressure to stick to the status quo will be
oppressive, but small steps by the right people are a lot better than strides
in the opposite direction. A gay couple here, a boy with a doll there – I’m not
fussy. I should embrace the diversity of those going into the field, not simply
mourn potential talent lost from the public sector. If a smart-talking
socialist got themselves to the top of Barclays, they’d have to compromise
during their ascent, sure, but perhaps our nation’s economic landscape would
make for a prettier view from the top.
So while private
sector work may not be on my horizons any time soon, it’s reassuring to know
it’s not an industry entirely filled
with mindless arrogant armpits. Hurrah! This celebration may seem premature but
since I’m almost constantly filled with despair, it’s nice to get the
optimistic moments on paper so I’m less likely to forget them.