In my last post, I told you about a cool event that I was getting ready to participate in called the 3-word challenge. As part of a full day of writing-related readings and workshops put on by the Ballard Writers Collective, 15 writers committed to writing a 3-minute piece containing the words “jingle,” “slump,” and “interlude.”
Honestly, I expected the results to be amusing, at best. I thought each writer would have a clever little story and that the audience members would clap or cheer – or maybe laugh – when they heard one of the words being used. Boy, was I in for a surprise. The pieces that everyone shared were incredibly diverse, and many of them were no less than amazing. In fact, the stories were so well written that I think everyone forgot to listen for the three words. Instead of being the central elements of the stories, “jingle,” “slump,” and “interlude” became jumping-off points for each talented writer’s imagination.
In case you’re curious what these three words triggered in me, here’s the piece I read last Saturday night, which is based on the true story of the origin of the “I Wish I Were an Oscar Meyer Weiner” song:
No doubt about it, I was in a slump. Sure, I’d come up with a couple of good ones in the past few years: I did some decent work for Coca Cola, and then there was the McDonalds account, but if you want to know the truth, I was thinking maybe I’d lost my touch.
Vivian – that’s my wife – she never lost faith in me. “Richard,” she’d say when I’d come home from the ad agency feeling beaten down and used up, “you’re the best they’ve got, and don’t you forget it.” And then she’d cook me up a nice dinner, and afterwards she’d get out her stand-up bass and I’d grab my banjo-ukelele, and we’d make music together. That always cheered me up. But then another morning would dawn, and I’d go to work, sure I’d finally run clean out of ideas.
And then, one day, my boss comes into the office. “The folks over at Oscar Meyer are running a contest,” he tells me.
“Oscar Meyer?”
“Yeah, you know,” he says, taking a puff off his cigar, “the wiener people. They’re looking for someone to help them sell hot dogs.”
I told him I’d get right on it. And I tried. I sat there at my desk, thinking about hot dogs and buns and relish till the sun set over the gray Chicago skyline, but nothing came.
By the time I got home I was in a foul mood. Thank God for Vivian. She fed me her famous pork chops and let me talk it out. Then she got out her bass and said, “Come on Richard. Let’s get your mind off this thing.”
So we start to play, and all of a sudden, it comes to me. “Listen to this, Viv,” I say, and I pluck out a little tune on my banjo-ukele.
She cocks her head and smiles. “I like it. Does it got words?”
And just like that, the words come to me, and I start to sing. “Oh, I wish I were an Oscar Meyer wiener…”
“Oh, that’s good, Richard,” she says. “That’s really good.”
I wish I could say it happened overnight, but actually, there was an interlude of about a year between the time I entered the contest and the day I got the letter telling me I was the winner. The rest, as they say, is history. My little tune made it into the homes of 49 million families in 19 countries, and the wife and I were finally able to pay off the mortgage and take that vacation we’d always wanted.
Every time that royalty check would come in, I’d shake my head. I still couldn’t believe it. But not Viv. She’d just kiss me on the cheek and say, “Honey, I always knew you were the best jingle man in the business.”
What ideas do the words “jingle,” “slump,” and “interlude” inspire in you?
