The author of Where the Wild Things Are, Maurice Sendak, once related the following anecdote.
”A little boy sent me a charming card with a little drawing on it. I loved it. I answer all my children’s letters - sometimes very hastily - but this one I lingered over. I sent him a card and I drew a picture of a Wild Thing on it. I wrote, ‘Dear Jim: I loved your card.’ Then I got a letter back from his mother and she said: ‘Jim loved your card so much he ate it.’ That to me was one of the highest compliments I’ve ever received. He didn’t care that it was an original Maurice Sendak drawing or anything. He saw it, he loved it, he ate it.”
It took me a few days to realise it was all complete tripe. I sounded like an idiot. The metaphors. The semi-colons. The italics. What bullshit. Pretty hilarious though, when you think about it.
“I still don’t understand you. You keep justifying this shit to yourself.”
“What shit?”
“You’re doing it cause you need the money. You’re doing it cause that’s what you’re supposed to do. Who fucking cares?”
“Yeah I know, but… I. Arg… I need the money. I can’t do what I want without it.”
“Write. Everyday. Don’t worry about the money. It’ll come.”
“Godammit.”
“You’re an idiot. Clever, but an idiot.”
The easiest mistakes are the ones that come naturally. You try to catch your brain in the act; with its pants down. And you do. It’s always funny. Hilarious actually. Pretty hilarious.
When I was 16, I’d sit on the bus to school, staring out the window.
I’d imagine discussions with various people: girls I liked, idols to meet, teachers to prove wrong. The conversations would flow effortlessly, like bird formations in the sky. I’d say exactly what I felt; what I meant. I was the centre of the goddam universe and others listened to me. I was in control of everything.
But reality was the opposite. I was clunky and shy around girls, idols, teachers. When I spoke, conversations stumbled. Something was blocking the flow. I was a cliche of awkward youth. Just another one of those, I suppose.
Then I found a solution. A blank page.
With it, I’d fall into that mesmerising pool of window-flow, and document the journey. I’d write in my voice and find form for the discussions. Relief! Soon everyone would hear what I had to say. Girls would fall at my feet, idols would become friends, teachers would concede defeat, then resign.
But achieving window-flow was a boulder and a hill. I couldn’t hold it long enough to finish a story. Girls never fell at or near my feet.
So I forgot about it and did the stuff you should do: Left home. Worked. Saw the things to see.
Now, close to ten years later, I’ve almost got it. The flow stays long enough to write, consistently. I’m saying the things I want to say. Relief.
Today I moved into a new office space. I sat in my chair and stared at a vent in the wall until this came out. Flaburg! Just like that.
For those wondering what the hell a copywriter does, you’re not alone.
Almost everyone has a basic understanding, but generally, they’re unsure.
“Bios and websites, right?” My 25 year-old housemate
“So you do wordsmithing? Good people those. Valuable to our department.” A friend’s Dad
“Buy nows, join heres, the best most positively meaningful product description Xs, and zany puns, yeah?” Advertising Agency Producer
“Ohh, copywrite, not copyright. Cool.” A friend of a friend of a friend
All correct in their own little way. But too specific.
The simple version:
We absorb information, write it succinctly, make it a pleasure to read, then suggest the reader does something.
That’s it in a nutshell. It’s what a copywriter does. It’s what I do.
It can be applied to:
- Websites
- Biographies
- Blog posts
- Email Newsletters
- Product Pages
- App Copy
- Scriptwriting
- Catchy taglines!
- Interviews
- Copyediting
- Other things
It works for businesses who communicate with their customers. It works for people who want to say something to the world. And it works for anyone who wants to really say something, not just anything, if you know what I mean.
If your interest is piqued, and you think I can help you, send me an email. I reply to every single one, I promise.
I’ve got a neat little credentials document I’ll attach too.
I was the Creative Director at Native Digital–a neat little agency in a warehouse with a table tennis table. It took about a year to realise making arrangements and being an expert in technology wasn’t my bag. I’m a copywriter by trade. The skills just didn’t fit. So I left.
I thought my mum would hate me, but she didn’t.
“Oh, Tait, well, sounds like you made a good decision. Do you want lasagna? I can get Tim to drop some off.”
It’s easy to forget how much jobs don’t matter. No one cares what you do. Anyone who does is a doormat.
Now, I’m a writer. Wa-hoo.
It’s the best word I’ve found for what I’m good at. I’m gonna run with it while I can.
Each week, I’ll be splitting my time between copywriting for clients and writing features for magazines. I’ve been making arrangements for a year now (aka, writing emails, quickly) so I think I can do this (aka, making money, quickly).
You know, last Monday I climbed that giant hill of Hobart, Mt. Wellington. Armed with a pair of vans and a backpack containing a mandarine and a half-finished bag of nuts, myself and three others reached the peak. It was -4 and we were wearing tshirts. And that, dear friends, was all the advice I needed to pay rent as a writer.
End note: Native Digital are the very best digital agency in Melbourne. If you’re into start-ups, apps, websites, digital strategies, or making cool stuff, get in touch with ned@nativedigital.com.au, and tell him I sent you.
“McPike Mansion is a 135 year-old home (1865) located in Alton, IL. It has not been occupied for over 50 years and is in need of considerable restoration.”
“The mansion featured 11 marble fireplaces and beautifully carved stairway banisters, all of which have been stolen during its abandonment. Intricate carved trim still border the ceiling in one of the front rooms.”
“This Grand Ole House is thought to still house many of the spirits that once lived here. Many Psychics and Mediums have felt the presence of what they believe to be McPike family, servants, as well as some of those who resided in and owned the house since 1936.”
“Stay ahead of the curve!? How the hell does that even happen?”
“I don’t know. I guess you try new things.”
“I try new things all the time. I do.”
“You don’t try new things. You try other people’s new things.”
“Fuck you man.”
“Whatever dude. If anything, get off the stupid curve altogether–stop worrying so much. Make a nest of things that make you feel fuzzy. Curl up in your fuzz. Roll around. Make stupid noises. You’ll create a new curve. That’s how it works.”
