Colin Marshall

What I wanted to be when I grew up, ages 5-26

Film writer/director/produce/actor. I loved watching movies like Ghostbusters, Total Recall, and Raiders of the Lost Ark as a kid. A form of childhood logic (that has only strengthened itself since) told me that, if I enjoy them, I should spend my life making them. But as a die-hard play-alone-in-my-room only child, I couldn’t bear the idea of collaborators tainting my vision. I figured that, come the opportunity to make my own Ghostbusters, I’d simply do every job and play every role myself. In the meantime, I wandered around in front of a VHS camera I found in the house and then gave up.

“Author.” As soon as I learned to read them, what we tots called “chapter books” became my main source of pleasure in life. A pursuit even more solitary than movies? I’m down! I decided to make a career out of writing my own chapter books, but lacking the fortitude and/or patience to write thousands of words — even a thousand words — I typed up a series of pamphlet-like “books,” illustrated them with colored ball-point pens, and seeded them in my classroom’s library. When I realized actual books could take whole hours to write, I gave up.

Comic artist. (I hated the term “cartoonist.”) Finding myself even more excited by the possibilities of, to quote Scott McCloud, “juxtaposed pictorial and other images in deliberate sequence, intended to convey information and/or produce an aesthetic response in the reader,” I burned a significant fraction of my childhood hunched over Calvin and Hobbes, Tintin books, FoxTrot, and, slightly later, Peter Bagge's Hate. Absolute control over words and images; what could appeal more strongly to my near-autistic creative sensibilities? Crazed with desire to imitate all this, I spent endless hours drawing comics, but then saw how many of my friends were beginning to get into drawing comics as well. Sensing mild competition ahead, I gave up.

Video game “maker.” If anything thrilled me as much as reading books alone, watching movies alone, or drawing comics alone, playing video games alone did. Actually, that overstates my isolation; I often enjoyed playing two-player games with friends or, more often, being in proximity to friends as we all individually played different games. But my desire to create video games inevitably came to match my joy in playing them. Alas, my technical and disciplinary incompetence also rose to the occasion. I laboriously copied programs out of BASIC instructional manuals, understanding nothing. I carted around a stack of C++ manuals, understanding nothing. I found game-creation applications that allowed me to avoid programming, but they mostly enabled my tendency to start project after project, laboriously crafting one character’s walking animation before burning out and giving up.

Indie auteur. Discovering film for real as an adolescent, I immediately delved into the oeuvres of all those bootstrapping, put-the-budget-on-your-credit-card independent filmmakers of the nineties: your Kevin Smiths, your Quentin Tarantinos, your Richard Linklaters, your Robert Rodriguezes. (I read Rodriguez’s Rebel Without a Crew like a hundred times, pretty much.) As soon as video commentary tracks came along, I knew I had to join their ranks; I mean, they sounded so cool, so funny, so into stuff. At 16, I interviewed for an internship at this one Seattle media collective and blew the interviewer away with my single-minded focus. “Wow,” she said, astonished, “you really know what you want to do. When I was your age, I just had no idea.” I didn’t get the internship and never did like the idea of having to herd actors or ask adults for money anyway, so I gave up.

David Sedaris. Seeing David Sedaris give a live reading, I couldn’t believe (a) how hard he made me laugh, and (b) that he’d found a way to get paid for traveling around and reading funny stories out loud. Standing onstage, alone and near-motionless, while hundreds stare at me in rapt, unchallenging appreciation? Where do I sign? When I recalled how many compliments my writing abilities had drawn in school, I figured I stood next in line for the job. Sedaris’ example spurred me on to write more, to write things other than reviews of stuff I watched on video two weeks ago for my own web sites. Or at least it spurred me to think about that; whenever I actually tried it, the mortal enemy that is my brain chanted the same chorus it always does: “This sucks. Who would ever want this? This sucks. Who would ever want this? This sucks. Who would ever want this?” Convinced, I gave up.

Brian Eno. I first read Brian Eno’s A Year with Swollen Appendices just before leaving for college. The book comprises Eno’s diary entries from the year 1995. From what I could discern about his day-to-day, he seemed to do pretty much whatever he wanted, including but not limited to “enlarging bums in Photoshop,” hanging out with the likes of David Bowie, Anton Corbijn, and Steward Brand, cooking risotto, and thinking about ambient music, often by himself. Gots to get me some of that, I thought. But given the obvious impossibility of becoming another existing person at that grain of detail, can I really say I gave up?

Charlie Rose. Watching Charlie Rose one night, it suddenly struck me how much I’d love the world to see me on a show with a solid black background and unbroken by commercials. Also, Rose seemed friendly with all of his guests, no matter the industry they came from: publishing, politics, entertainment, journalism, wherever. “This guy can probably just call up Brian Grazer and say, ‘Let’s hang out,’” I thought, stunned. “What would that be like?” I have since worked hard on acquiring the interviewing chops, although my shoddy, improvisationally constructed social skills probably need a Herculeanly basic, foundational teardown-rebuild that I don’t even want to think about.

These days, I have settled on making myself into one-quarter Brian Eno, one-quarter Charlie Rose, one-quarter Werner Herzog (or maybe Peter Greenaway), and one-quarter whichever essayist I like most at the moment. I also want to make myself into someone who realizes the essentially pathetic nature of a 26-year-old man who frames life in terms of what he wants to be when he grows up.

Five months

I have five months left in Santa Barbara, which means five months left of not having to/being prevented from seriously using my actual skills. Despite understanding all along I would eventually need to live in some sort of major metropolitan area — Santa Barbara serves 18- and 65-year-olds fairly well, but those in-between and ambitious get the shaft — I think I once assumed that something would “carry” me out, as if by force: the frenzied momentum of The Marketplace of Ideas, probably, or maybe the enormous, hopelessly addicted audience of this very blog. Constantly flying out to negotiate the pileup of radio-, book-, and speaking-related contracts feverishly offered me would, by something like May 2008, mean that I effectively would live outside Santa Barbara. Citizen of the world.

Yes, this town has pretty sweet-deal weather — though having grown up around Seattle, I could use more rain — but as far as opportunities to create things, you can only imagine its bone-dryness. People make all kinds of unreasonable concessions to live here and bask in its small-town beachside glory, including but not limited to (a) remaining unknown, (b) making no money, and (c) making that money by burning huge chunks of their lives meaninglessly turning cranks at one of the region’s few large employers. “Hey, you should feel lucky to have a job at all,” those who complain often hear back, “in this economy.” But as tentative exploration suggests that, apart from a couple freak hirings, I am not traditionally employable, I exempt myself from that withering admonishment.

So come September, down the road to L.A. with me to live by my crafts. Which of my skills do I count as actual? Broadly speaking, broadcasting, writing, and filmmaking. More accurately speaking, broadcasting interviews about eighties pop music and avant-garde novels, writing essays about Yasujirō Ozu and parodies of The Book of Disquiet, and making Super 8 films loosely based on the work of Jorge Luis Borges. I foresee a rich, rewarding unification of life and career ahead.

Arguments for broadcasting: suite of sub-skills required remain relatively rare; years of hosting/producing experience already racked up; little competition in subject areas of interest; undying attraction to the medium rooted, no doubt, somewhere deep in childhood.

Arguments against broadcasting: scarcity of existing venues for interesting content, at least on terrestrial radio; even greater profusion of distracting nonsense in venues other than terrestrial radio; public radio’s moaning (exaggerated or not) implying imminent demise; belief that “I will make it in broadcasting” requires self-esteem.

Arguments for writing: have honed writing skills since single-digit age; have consumed, widely and repeatedly, a rich field of high-quality examples; sense heretofore unexplored possibilities in the book form even now; occasional indications that I might not suck.

Arguments against writing: unending woe of aspiring writers (“just look at the numbers”), though mostly from MFA types; landscape of currently published books a vast wasteland (possibly an advantage?); low barrier to entry causes extreme self-doubt; belief that “I will make it in writing” requires self-esteem.

Arguments for filmmaking: films and filmmakers remain the most exhilarating source of inspiration; have consumed, widely and repeatedly, a rich field of high-quality examples; film retains seemingly vast potential; medium barrier to entry causes only medium self-doubt; have made a “real” short without disaster.

Arguments against filmmaking: seemingly worsening quality of “profitable” films; in three months, people will watch all movies free on Bittorrent; have made a “real” short without result; belief that “I will make it in filmmaking ” requires self-esteem.

But I have no other skills, which renders the above irrelevant. I’ve determined that I’ll only need to make like $300 per week in L.A. to live. Should I turn to crime?

Objectivism

Nobody really puts an “objective” on their résumé, do they? I understand that the how-to wisdom of the résumé ancients dictates that thou shalt put one at the top and, within, thou shalt describe thyself as an "accomplished administrator seeking to leverage extensive background in personnel management, recruitment, employee relations and benefits administration in an entry-level human resources position" or something even worse.

I can’t write three words of an objective before I double over in the pain of being the century’s greatest dorkus. So I’ve never included an objective, but then again, I’ve never succeeded, so I took the issue to the hive mind. Representative responses:

“Isn't that what a cover letter is for?”

“just as many people (who counsel resume writing/job searchers for a living) tell me that it omg-has-to-be-on-there as I've had tell me omg-don't-put-it-on-there”

“bear in mind that most resume style advice is being given by people who are not themselves looking for jobs, and who have no incentive to keep track of the effectiveness of the advice they give”

“Half the time people shoot themselves in the foot by stating objectives that do not align with the position in question.”

“I think the objective thing is one potential part of the overall package and if you sell yourself better without some contrived paragraph then do that instead.”

“So once upon a time, somebody who knew stuff found it was a good idea to put a descriptive sentence or two at the top of their resume to sorta prime the reader into thinking how everything below fits into it. As that bit of knowledge diffused through the stultifying filters of corporate idiocy, it transmogrified into the ‘Objective: to get you to hire me’ line.”

“If I saw an objective statement that really seemed to uniquely fit the role I was hiring for that would definitely get my attention, but it's never actually happened.”

“if the truth is, ‘I need a fucking paycheck. Why do you think I'm applying?’ maybe leave that out.”

“they only ever stand out when they suck so much that they singlehandedly eliminate the candidate from consideration”

“at best a little bit of harmless dorkiness, and at worst makes me think of the writer as some kind of toadying idiot”

“God I hate objectives.”

“It screams ‘I'm the sort of person who really, really, really loves to contribute to workshops on developing vision and mission statements we can all get behind, and on explaining the difference between a vision and a mission over and over and over again.’”

“It's the type of useless thing a campus career counselor would tell you to do.”

Prejudices confirmed! Devil’s-advocating against myself, I used some of what the MeFites said to build the strongest possible pro-objective argument, but that argument only comes to suggesting you maybe include an objective if you’re applying to some vast, disorderly organization (shudder) that might separate your résumé from your cover letter and forget what job you applied for in the first place — and if you don’t think you’re quite smart enough to subtly build your objective into other, less obvious bits of your résumé. Their self-disrecommending quality seems inescapable.

Gentleman of the iron highway

That bidding war over The Marketplace of Ideas keeps not starting, so I’ve been looking for public radio jobs. Something tells me the ongoing mass exodus from NPR might stiffen the competition at the other outfits, so I work extra hard on my résumé. Whenever I step back and take a good look at it, I bask in the glow of my own pure invincibility. How many of those ex-NPR hopefuls can claim experience as booker, producer, host, engineer, editor, and web manager? How many of them can claim to have interviewed Clive James, Momus, and Peter Bagge?

Yeah. Thought not.

Nevertheless, this has yet to actually work. But hope springs eternal, and I keep an eagle eye on the listings for either a public radio position relevant to my interests and where I wouldn’t have to move to someplace cold. Failing that, I can pursue a host of other jobs: raconteur, provocateur, tastemaker, enfant terrible, cultural icon. I have not, of course, ruled out a life of crime, or a life in the boxcars and on the rails — a form of a life of crime. E-mailing with a public radio insider about my prospects in the industry, I received this reply:

Learn hobo signs (soft touch here, bad dog, etc.) and how to play harmonica. You will find these skills invaluable as a gentleman of the iron highway.

What are the most prestigious grad programs for these

If there's one thing we Gen-Yers do, it's agonize over our choice of career. Having spent countless hours, nay, months, nay, years agonizing over my own, I have narrowed the field to this promising shortlist:

1. Raconteur
2. Provocateur
3. Polymath
4. Enfant terrible
5. Man of letters
6. Cultural titan
7. (or, failing that) cultural icon
8. Literatum
9. Intellectual impresario
10. Zelig

I wonder how the pension plans are for these? Luxurious, I assume.

Sausage casing inspector

Focus has produced a much-linked-around piece of information design purporting to chart the "Best Jobs in America". It's generally interesting in the same way all data like this are — not that its infosthetics are really up to snuff — but I find it personally resonant on another level. That level is how awesomely unappealing all these jobs sound.

Winning the baby-blue "future growth" award is "Product Management Director", offering a handsome $201,000 top salary. Handsomer still is the $239,000 annual compensation granted the "Sales Director", who's red for "most flexibility." But the apparent king of the hill, with 88,000 jobs in the sector paying a comparatively lean but hardly unlivable-on mean of $87,100 and max of $130,000, is the eerily unspecific "Systems Engineer".

I'm reminded of a David Sedaris line that comes to mind more and more often these days: "Show me the child who dreams of becoming a sausage casing inspector." I'm less troubled by the fact that I don't like the sound of these lines — that's just Why I Increasingly Mesh Poorly with Society, vol. n + 1 — but by the premises that implicitly underpin the presentation as a whole. It's as if the reader should take a look at this list of "best" jobs and think, "Welp, better become one of these."

But does anyone think this way? I've looked over hundreds of rankings of occupations, colleges, cities — oh, don't get me started on urban "livability" rankings — and what have you in my time, but they have zero potential effect on my actions. Even given unlimited time and resources to train and prepare, it's not as if one can simply pick and excel at a pursuit off a list, is it? Going down the line, scanning the pre-defined entries and thinking "I'll do whatever seems lucrative and secure" just seems so incomprehensibly backward that I can barely force my mind to engage with the idea.

(PROLEPSIS: The car, the wife, the house and the kids won't pay for themselves, so at some point you gotta do whatever gets you the scratch. True, but why do you think I actively avoid acquiring those things? It ain't just because they're scary. Though that's part of it.)

If one were trying to strategically spend their first life saving up money for their second, sure, that makes sense. But it's, uh, life — we don't get seconds. I would argue that, in decisions about what this only life will be, nobody's graphs, rankings or pyramids count for much. When you determine the work you're most jazzed about, here's not enough money in the world to deter you from it... right?

This is maybe just my tunnel vision talking, but systems engineering wouldn't seem to land in the most-jazzed-about square. Systems engineering no doubt has its perks. I'm sure a lot of fine, upstanding people are systems engineers. But there is nothing on Earth that could induce me to go into systems engineering, whatever it may entail: not jewel-encrusted chalices, (probably) not 77 virgins, not spices the likes of which i ha' ne'er before smelt. Quite frankly, it wouldn't make a difference to me if the graph's pay fields looked like this:

That sounds stupid, I realize, but I can't shake the memories of all the chilling times older friends/associates of associates/extended-family relatives have taken me aside and explained, the abyss of inner death in their eyes, that I shouldn't make the same mistake they made — the mistake of not doing something they actually wanted to do.

Perhaps my perception is just an expression of what Jordan Morris might call "pith and vinegar." But whereas an individual's pith and/or vinegar levels tend to drop with age, mine have only risen. I had neither pith nor vinegar at 16; at 25, the twin streams flow mightily. I recently tweeted about how I'm starting to think that the only life worth cultivating is the one other people think shouldn't be allowed. Maybe I'd do better to say I want to live a life that inspires resentment, not with the rewards it generates but with its very nature.

And speaking of, I twote a link to the graph that prompted this entry right after tweeting my excitement at discovering experimental noise cellist Okkyung Lee on Twitter. Maybe that, more effectively than anything, illustrates them problem here.