For thirty years, my job was to kick ass.

I worked in advertising, which meant I was in a constant state of competition. Every meeting, every pitch, every campaign was about being the sharpest, the fastest, the most convincing voice in the room. I had to serve up hot ideas on demand, solve problems overnight, and make my work eclipse whatever and whoever came before.

I was good at it. Good enough to win cash and prizes, and to stay in the ring for years.

Once, I was hired to freelance for just a single day at a new agency. I finished my assignment before lunch, and since they were paying me to stay till 5, I asked the creative director how else I could help. He told me they were working on a pitch for a massive new account and asked if I had any ideas.

I did. One came to me, quite literally, while standing at the urinal.

Somehow, that idea became the foundation of the pitch. The agency won the account—worth hundreds of millions—and they hired me full-time. I stayed there for a decade and eventually became Executive Creative Director and Partner. All sparked by a single idea that popped up at the right moment.

That’s the ad game. One idea can be a winning lottery ticket. The pressure is enormous, but the rewards are too.

And I loved that. For quite a while.
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These days, I do something completely different.

I help people draw.

Not so they can win anything. Not to get a job or break into a competitive field. Not to outshine anyone else.

Just to draw. To see more clearly. To feel something. To enjoy the quiet pleasure of lines on paper.

This has been more than just a job change. It’s a tectonic shift in how my brain works.

In my thirties, I could stay up all night rewriting headlines, walk into a room full of sharks, and sell the hell out of a half-baked idea. Now, in my sixties, I work slower, but I see more. Patterns click into place. Teaching feels like breathing. It’s not worse—it’s just… different.

Scientists have a name for this. Actually, they have two.

First, there’s fluid intelligence—the kind of thinking that helped me in advertising. It’s fast, flexible, and sharp. It lets you solve new problems, juggle ideas, stay nimble. It peaks in your thirties and slowly begins to decline after that. It’s how young geniuses rock the world in their twenties. Picasso, Mozart, Basquiat, Kurt Cobain.

But there’s another kind of thinking: crystallized intelligence. That’s the kind that deepens over time. Cezanne, Georgia O’Keefe, Ben Franklin, Colonel Sanders. It’s built on experience. It’s pattern recognition. It’s the ability to synthesize, to teach, to see what matters most. It’s not as flashy. But it lasts.

As it turns out, this transition is normal. Your brain is designed to trade speed for depth, and cleverness for wisdom. One modality isn’t better than the other—but they serve different seasons of life.

I’ve followed that cognitive curve.

I spent the first half of my life living in the fast lane of fluid intelligence—spewing out solutions, making pitches, playing lead guitar.

These days, I live to a different rhythm. I get to share and teach what I’ve learned. I help people overcome their fears and enjoy creating for its own sake. Instead of competing, I connect.

At Sketchbook Skool, I’ve never run art contests. I don’t want to judge and rank anyone’s work. I never claim there’s one correct way to draw.

So instead, I talk about process. Play. Discovery. Being here now.

When we create, we all win.

And that shift—from fighting to sharing—has been one of the most satisfying transformations of my life.

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Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like to come to this understanding earlier in my life. Would I have been happier with this slower, deeper, more generous way of thinking? Maybe, maybe not.

But the truth is, I couldn’t have skipped ahead.

I didn’t have the experience yet. Or the confidence. I hadn’t lived enough to teach anything. I needed those relentless years as a Mad Man. I needed the urinal idea. I needed to know what it felt like to win, and to lose yet survive.

Now, I know what it feels like to give it away.

I didn’t miss my moment.

I just didn’t know there’d be two.

Your pal,

Danny