It Can't Hurt to Ask

In the early 90s, I began my campaign of asking. A small-town West Virginia girl, I wasn't born and bred for the worldly curiosities that consumed me, but it was a done deal. So I did what came naturally: I expressed myself. From letters to MTV, E!, and New York Fashion Week to pounding the pavement between modeling agencies in South Beach, I took shots in the dark better than a college kid in a basement bar. Those early asks came with a few wins. I got to volunteer at Fashion Week, and one of the biggest names in the 90s modeling world hired me as an assistant at first the South Beach and then the NYC office. After the city chewed me up, I landed like a spitball in Morgantown, West Virginia, to finish my degree: BA, English, creative writing minor. The next few years were exploratory, splitting hours between my job at the coffee shop, rock shows, art openings, and small writing and editing jobs. Where to now? asked The Salty Barista who spent her days behind the counter sparring with halitosis-wielding political junkies, coffee-guzzling tech nerds, Guiness-sipping professors, and lawyers lunching over egg salad bagels. So I closed my eyes and said a prayer. "For some strange reason it had to be. He guided me to Tennessee." - Arrested Development And so I landed in Memphis. A new friend hooked me up to interview with the president of a big theater, who was either a tyrant or a delight depending on who you ask. For me it was the latter. We respected each other’s fire. My fire for assistant work, however, fizzled out quickly. With no real experience, I applied to be a copywriter at a B2B agency. Aced the writing sample. Salary and benefits, signed on the dot. Shortly thereafter, I met my first rooftop lounge and my first Apple computer. Days in the office started to stretch long, too long. What now? asked the writer, the runner, the pitbull mom, the single woman creating a life far from home. Be your own boss. And so it was. With agency experience as a springboard, I began my campaign of asking, aka going freelance. One of those asks resulted in serving as managing editor of a health and fitness magazine. Our small team was led by two women channeling a combination of Thelma and Louise and Laverne and Shirley, and so I functioned as the voice of reason in the group. Which goes to show that everything is relative. Life was as close to routine as I'd ever come — until the stork made a surprise delivery. Since then, plus one more stint in the delivery room, I’ve been asking bigger and harder than ever before. The sheer number of letdowns — as unkept promises, un-implemented contracts, unanswered emails, unprofessional treatment — could crush the spirit of Thich That Nhan himself. Yet the wins keep coming. A new client here. A publication there. It's enough. It can’t hurt to ask. My mom’s favorite phrase of encouragement has held fast to my heart for many years. I ask because I’m my mother’s daughter. Because I’m my children’s mother. Like anyone who chooses the path to Fulfilment, I never stop asking. What's next? asks the 48-year-old woman who can’t help but believe.