In Search of Magic

Abra-Crap-Dabra

I would perform magic shows for my family when I was 10.

They were famously bad.

The shows, I mean. Not my family. They were indifferent.

Somehow, I roped my younger brother into being my assistant. We didn’t discuss a single trick beforehand and our patter (that’s industry slang for “stage conversation”) was poor.

I’m not a magician.

But I do try to be creative.

My childhood was spent looking for way to express that creativity. Magic shows in the living room. Scrapbooks full of newspaper clippings. Lip sync concerts to the Bee Gees.

Age 10(ish). I guess a camel was as close as I could find to a dinosaur

During the evenings I’d work on my Ad Tape, which is exactly what it sounds like. I’d park myself a few inches from the TV screen, wait for my favourite commercials to come on, and press record.

Being slow, I’d routinely miss the first few seconds of every commercial. The goal was to choose ads I thought were funny, even if I missed the start. Eventually, the Ad Tape evolved into a long string of karate videos after I landed on ESPN and became enthralled by the athleticism and sound of breaking wooden boards.

Occasionally, I’d ask my parents if they wanted to watch the ads I’d recorded that day. They’d politely decline with a convenient excuse, which is noble, because if my daughter asks me to watch ads, I’ll fail to hide my disgust.

Don’t let my Ad Tape fool you. I wasn’t a ten-year-old Don Draper, desperate to sip bourbon and seduce women, (though I would later find myself working in marketing and speed running Tinder Premium after a bad break up), it’s just that I wanted to do creative things and recording funny ads felt like creative self expression.

The Ad Tape was an idea. The joy was in the execution.

The passing of years afforded, thankfully, more creative freedom. Age meant I was no longer limited to sitting cross-legged in front of the VCR; index finger hovering excitedly over the record button. Independence, money, growing ambition all helped expand the canvas. Also, VCR technology was extinct, but that’s not the point.

My adulthood has been spent trying to replicate the joy of those youthful passion projects.

At one point, I plastered a series of ‘HAVE YOU SEEN MY DOG’ posters around Sydney. Spoiler alert: My dog was at home, with me. I still think that’s funny. I didn’t put my Instagram bio or name on the posters because I was afraid of getting in trouble.

Months later, I found the posters on Reddit, with a mixture of praise and disgust. People have strong opinions about dog breeds, but reactions weren’t the end goal. It didn’t matter if anyone saw the posters or a grumpy council worker pulled them down within minutes.

The poster was the idea. The joy was in the execution.

Along the way, I managed to stumble into a marketing role despite a complete lack of experience. The learning curve was steep but at least the pay was terrible.

I expected the role to help me do creative things, but it’s not always easy to put things out in public. Maybe that’s why I left my name off the ‘MISSING DOG’ posters. The older I got, the more self-conscious I was.

I think the internet has been a blessing and a curse for… everyone, really. Whatever you’re doing, someone else is doing too. Chances are, they’re doing it a little bit better.

You can set out with the best intentions and for a while, it’s possible. But being around other writers, artists, songwriters [insert your passion here], eventually you start comparing yourself to them. It’s only natural. As inevitable as a negative review from one of my childhood magic shows.

It shouldn’t have mattered, but the more I saw other people’s work, the less I felt like sharing my own. For a long time, everyone else seemed more creative and connected to some ethereal muse while I was staring at a brick wall.

I don’t think I’m alone here — whether it’s creativity or not. Maybe you wish you looked like someone else, or had the community of someone else, or could write like someone else (I’m guilty of all three, at times).

I don’t have a magic solution here, by the way. Only the benefit of time. Do I get in my own feelings? Sure. But the self-imposed pressure has faded. It’s not gone — I don’t think that’s possible — but self doubt doesn’t bite with the same venom.

When I second guess my work, I think about my childhood. The idiocy of an Ad Tape, the laughter of a trick gone wrong. I think about a city full of ‘MISSING DOG’ posters taped to power poles exclusively for my benefit.

The passing of time has taught me to let go of the idea that creativity is objective. It’s not about beating them, it’s about joining them.

I’m not sure I’ll ever reach the creative highs of recording commercials in real time, but there’s nothing like taking an idea and birthing it.

That’s the hard part, right?

Existence is a struggle. To bring something from nothing is a force of will worth celebrating — no matter what the final form looks like. So maybe be kinder to yourself, whatever you’re working on (even if it’s yourself).

That’s what I’m back to doing. It’s what I’m doing right now. I guess what I’m trying to say is… thank you. If you’re reading this, I love you for it. And if it’s collecting dust in your inbox — I love you all the same.

Because the words in my head are an idea. What exists on screen is the execution.

Whether my ideas are good, bad or somewhere in between doesn’t matter — not really. When the ideas start to exist, I feel like I exist too.

It’s a kind of magic. Not the type I’ll call my younger brother about so we can organise a run of shows at the family home.

But magic all the same.

With love,

New World Porter

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