Creatively Speaking is me in conversation with the people shaping the creative world from the inside.
I like newsletter writing because it lets me talk first — and decide what mattered later. No pretending the conversation was neater than it actually was.
I'm not super interested in extracting "lessons." I'm interested in how people move through the world — what they notice, what they ignore and what they do when no one's watching.
That's how this conversation with Andy Andersen started.
I told him immediately I didn't care about his title. I wanted to know who he was when he wasn't inside a logo.
He laughed.
"Titles are bullshit anyways."
But before we get into the rest of this, I'd like to tell you a story. The same story I told Andy to soften up the already soft atmosphere when we sat down last week.
I shit my pants at my first job.
It was an unpaid internship in an old Chicago high-rise. I had just graduated college. I still lived with my parents.
Every morning I wore a button-down shirt and tucked it in. Because I lived with my parents. Because I was the son of a CEO. Because parents make their kids tuck in their shirts. And because it was my dad's shirt. And dad shirts are way too big and way too long to not tuck in. Also, I wanted to be allowed to eat their food. And live in my childhood bedroom like every other 22-year-old boy.
One morning my boss called me out of my closet.
"Sit here," he said, pointing to his chair. "Take a look at this."
I sat down. He ran off to a meeting.
I felt what I thought was a fart. I gave it a quick little push.
A mistake that would stain my memory until the end of time.
When I told this story to Andy, he laughed. Not because it was shocking. Because it was familiar.
Before we talked about work, Andy talked about life.
"I am a dad. So I have five kids. Twelve, ten, eight, three, and two. Pure chaos."
"I think with each kid, you get a little less protective. Less protective in like, it needs to be done a certain way. And now it's just your job to figure out what that way is."
A Maker Before Anything Else.
Andy grew up moving up and down California. Santa Barbara. San Francisco. Everything in between.
He studied studio art. Got a master's in illustration. Thought about teaching.
Then didn't.
"I just wasn't ready to lock myself into anything structured yet."
So instead, he kept choosing proximity to the work.
Concert load-ins. Book restoration. Stained glass studios. Photography jobs.
None of it glamorous. All of it formative.
"All those little jobs — they teach you what you're good at. And what you hate."
"And if I didn't enjoy something, no one was going to fix that for me."
When Andy joined DUDE Wipes, there were eleven people total. Three founders. Everyone doing everything.
For a long time, the creative "department" was basically a group text.
"If it made us laugh, we paid attention."
If it didn't, they moved on.
Speed became this weird form of protection.
When you move fast, ideas don't get precious. And when ideas aren't precious, fear doesn't get a seat at the table.
More Swings, Not Bigger Ones.
They didn't have money early on. So they had to be sharp.
That constraint never left.
When the budget grew, Andy didn't want bigger bets.
"I don't want to sink everything into one thing. I want to make more things."
When one idea has to carry everything, fear starts to whisper. When you're making a lot of things, fear loses leverage — because you're already thinking about the next thing.
Andy isn't anti-agency. He's anti-drag.
"Our brains move really fast. And we can execute faster than an entire agency."
Not because agencies lack talent. Because layers kill momentum.
Scripts take weeks. Revisions stack. Decisions stretch.
"And even if you're changing one line, it takes two more weeks."
Time doesn't just slow work down. It sands it down.
Stepping Back From Making.
Andy didn't pretend leadership felt clean.
"The hardest thing is taking yourself away."
"I can do this. And I want to do this."
That part came out immediately.
Then he slowed down.
"I can also inspire people to do this. I can teach people how to do this."
He talked about how hard it is to watch work move forward without touching it. How tempting it is to jump in because you know you can.
Especially when you've been a maker your whole life.
"I get to work with creatives who are really good at this specific thing. And I get to see what they make."
"That is equally as fun to me."
That sentence didn't sound aspirational. It sounded learned.
Andy doesn't talk about hiring in neat boxes.
"We hire people who have a lot of different kinds of designers. They write copy, they do photography. That overlap is really good, because you have a similar language."
That shared language reduces friction. It also reduces fear.
People don't feel the need to defend their lane. They focus on the work.
When I asked Andy what frustrates him about the industry, he didn't hesitate.
"The old agency model is broken. The length of things is really frustrating to me. Things take a really long time that don't necessarily have to."
He talked about work getting bloated before it exists. Too many revisions. Too many layers. Too many people weighing in who aren't making anything.
"Creation and making art is such a freeing thing. A lot of times impulsive."
"The ability to adapt. The ability to make changes on the fly."
"That's where all the magic happens."
That kind of work requires restraint. Not process. Restraint.
Andy talked about leadership without dressing it up.
"Our leadership wants us to take big swings. If we're not missing sometimes, we're not swinging hard enough."
What mattered more was what didn't happen afterward.
Permission wasn't a speech. It was behavior.
DUDE Wipes sells through large retailers.
"You can't talk the same way everywhere. We're still being as funny as we can be at Walmart."
"Our Walmart voice is different than our Instagram voice. That's different than our TikTok voice. That's different than our Costco voice."
Same brand. Different rooms.
They didn't soften everything. They paid attention to the edges.
Andy never talked about fear directly. But he described it everywhere.
Work slowing down. Decisions stretching. Ideas losing energy the longer they sit.
I see this with clients all the time.
There's a story that feels real. Then everyone tries to protect it.
By the time it comes back, it still makes sense.
What happened in that chair belonged in one place — the toilet.
A sudden burst of hot, poopy liquid.
I froze.
I should have stood up before the chair got hit.
I didn't.
I sat there. In my mess. For a good thirty seconds.
Not moving. Not breathing. Just feeling.
I stood up. Disaster. A mark.
Somewhere between the size of a D battery and a harmonica.
About a half a juice box worth.
Why Humor Isn't the Point.
"We're not saying buy DUDE Wipes. We're just cracking jokes."
The point isn't the sale. It's memory.
People remember later. Usually when it matters.
If it made us laugh, we paid attention.
I remember the bathroom more clearly than the office.
It was tiny. One sink. One toilet. A trash can the size of a coffee mug.
There was poop on the bottom of my shirt.
I carefully peeled off my underwear. I had nowhere to put them.
So I crumpled my soiled underwear and shoved them under the sink, behind cleaning supplies.
I rinsed my shirt. It didn't matter.
I left. I went home.
No one ever said anything.
Except my mom. She did the laundry.
