I was recently invited to speak at a Colleyville Chamber of Commerce Networking meeting, which is a great honor and opportunity. The group normally draws about thirty to forty professionals from various fields. It's especially noteworthy given that I've only been back in business for about three months and have been a chamber member for less than two months.
When I joined this Chamber, my original goal was to become a more agreeable, mainstream version of myself—in other words, to fit in. However, that would not be possible if I had to stand in front of an audience and speak for twenty minutes straight.
I can't tell my story without telling my story. And my story is not a mainstream agreeable one.
I did not go to film school; I learned how to write, direct, edit, and photograph by working on indie horror films, filming haunted house commercials, and directing for rap groups and death metal bands.
My desire to become a director stems from reading the screenplay for A Nightmare On Elm Street when I was fourteen. I raised the money to buy it by selling stolen goods.
But at a recent meeting, a woman described herself as growing up "Hood adjacent." She explained that her father was in the military, so she had to move frequently. Everyone considered that inspiring and something to celebrate.
I figured well then, I will inspire the hell out of them with my story. I grew up straight, hood. A drug addict once tried to sell my brother a lizard that he had just snatched up off the ground. My mom once picked wild pears and boiled them into paste because it was the only thing we had to eat. Living in the Salvation Army, I was constantly moving, not because of my father's career choice but because we had nowhere to live long-term. Fried lunch meat sandwiches, getting school clothes from "The Getting Place," and teen pregnancies. That is my story.
I ran over what to say and ran it over again, visualizing myself in front of the crowd, trying to figure out how to summarize in twenty minutes how I grew up in "Straight Hood," which inspired me to want to become a director. But the thing that inspired me is what held me back.
Regardless, with the encouragement of my wife, I overcame my traumatic childhood and lived my dreams, but I gave them up to be a dad. Then, after taking the "safe route," I was still fired and forced to start over at forty.
Then it dawned on me that I could edit together a short-form documentary. That way, I could write it, time it, and stay on point. It would also be a good example of my writing, editing, and photography skills.
I got to work, had my sister send me photos from my childhood, dug out old footage of me on set directing, cloned Richard Dryfess's voice from Stand By Me, and used that as my narration.
The day came. I arrived early and sat up a presentation. I put out fliers for my books and copies of the books; I played a loop of my photography and videos on a monitor, and I was set to go.
The group went through its usual routine of introductions and hand-shaking. Then it came my time. The group's president graciously introduced me. The next thing I knew, I was standing in front of a restaurant full of business owners, all staring back at me with blank gazes.
They had no idea what I would present, and I forgot what I would say. At least I had videos. I recalled playing the commercial I did for the Fun On The Run mobile app.
That went over well. Some heads nodded, and a few people seemed impressed. My confidence was rising.
I even pointed out a crowd member and explained how I could do a thirty-second commercial for her, showcasing what she does and why she does it. She agreed that would be helpful. Things are going well; I am starting to feel good.
Next, I asked the audience if they would like to see a commercial for a country store or a promo spot for a series of parties. They picked parties. I then showed them the video I made for my old company promoting the slate of parties I used to host.
That went over well. I saw genuine smiles. However, I had run out of things to say to the crowd and was catching myself starting to stutter and stumble, so I decided to show them the documentary.
The documentary starts with my abusive childhood and drifts into my reliance on my imagination to get through hard times. It discusses the importance of music, movies, and books. It shows clips from 1989 Batman, Metallica playing live on TV in 1991, and a commercial for Goosebumps books from 1993.
It showcased my experience becoming an award-winning horror director and included a clip from one of my movies. That scene gave the crowd a genuine scare, and they did not enjoy it.
It included some of my photos and explained how I parlayed my skills as a movie director into photography. I kept out my more horror and steamy images, as I thought I had already shown more than I should have.
It explained why I gave it all up to raise my son and work a normal job, but even then, I could not give up my creative drive. I inserted the trailers for my two books and ended with how I was fired right before Christmas while on vacation. But how that led me to go full circle, and set me back on my creative journey.
I ended with my family theme song, Whitesnake, Here I Go Again, and my journey back to the creek bed, where I spent my childhood dreaming, and how my journey has led me full circle to where it started, and that is where my company's name comes from.
The documentary ended, and I received decent applause, followed by a long, awkward pause. The crowd did not ask questions, and the group's president seemed so hurried to end the meeting that they almost forgot to give out my door prizes.
Average speakers are insurance salespeople, real estate agents, and lawyers. They will pick a subject that reflects their market and explain how they can save you money on that particular product. They do not show documentaries that include zombies eating humans alive, which I did.
I stood awkwardly next to my booth. I expected someone to want to talk about my services; perhaps they knew someone who could use my talents to help them with a new commercial or images for their social media; I could even write a new bio for them. But nothing. I just stood there, feeling like I had let out a record-breaking fart, and now no one knew how to react.
I just stood there, waiting and watching everyone click up and talk to each other about past meetings, future meetings, and deals they were making. I looked at the stack of postcards I had made to promote my books and realized I would leave with every single one.
One man who is a professed career coach was nice enough to shake my hand and thank me for sharing my presentation. He assured me it was successful. I told him it was so successful that everyone avoided me like I was ground zero for the latest COVID variant.
He observed that I had hit them with so much, and everything was so unexpected that they needed time to process everything. He assured me that more people would approach me at future meetings as time passed.
At least he tried to be polite, but I was not in the mood for silver linings. I rudely told him he was a glass-half-full guy, and I was more of a half-empty, rusty bucket of muddy water with a hole in the bottom.
My negativity did not amuse him. He told me to trust him and walked away. I started packing my bags. A few other people walked over and congratulated me. Still, the general vibe was that I had just shown them a marathon of starving dog videos. The kind includes Sara McLougin's song, "In The Arms Of An Angel," while images of abused dogs are displayed.
My calculations were way off. "Hood Adjacent" was inspiring; the trailer park and homeless shelter hood were depressing.
Later in the day, a few more people texted or commented on my social media that they appreciated my story and were impressed with my skill set. Still, I felt awkward as f@ck and was sure that I had bombed.
Now, in hindsight, this was all for the best. It forced me to face a very uncomfortable subject: myself. If I am going to grow a business based on my talents, I have to be myself for no other reason than I don't know how to be anyone else.
Frankly, I am not the best fit, but that is the story of my life. If success means giving up on my creative inspirations or pretending I am not who I am, I would rather work a regular job. That is exactly what I would be doing.
If I am asked to share my story, be warned: It has some dark parts but always ends well.
I can serve watered-down apple juice if that is what you are in the market for. But I will still be an orange-flavored energy drink named after punk bands featuring horror-themed flavors.
There is a textbook road map that will lead you to a successful business. You copy and paste a corporate model and put a cute personal spin on it. I can't do that. My road map takes crazy detours through bodypaint shoots done in barroom bathrooms and winds through dark, depressing back roads, but it always finds its way to where I am supposed to be.
