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.
“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.”
Sitting in the lounge of his two-bedroom flat, Cecil listened to the fire. The sound of metal expanding and wood turning to coal tinkered in the background. He breathed deeply and wiggled his bum, trying to relax in the brown leather chair. Today had been an important day. His only son Mark had just been married.
A voice pokes Cecil in the back.
“Cecil?”
“Yes?” He asks, turning around.
“Would you like a glass of gin?”
“That’d be great, thanks.”
As Cecil cupped the glass of gin, he wondered why he’d never imagined Mark might one-day be married. He had only ever thought about life within his own world. For whatever reason, Mark had never truly made it inside. You might think this would cause Cecil some stress, but he liked it that way. It made things simpler. And Cecil was a simple kind of guy. Mark on the other hand, was not so simple. He was a complex and embittered thinker. Mark also liked things this way. He saw no joy in simplifying the world. He liked Woody Allen films and books by Russian authors. It’s what made him, him.
Cecil sat some more, drumming his fingers against the glass of gin, attempting to turn off his brain. This is what Cecil calls ‘meditating’; a process he likes to practice often. After a moment, he closes his eyes, and opens his mouth to speak.
“June, why did we get a divorce?”
“Oh Cecil. You’re as stupid now as you were then.”
June is sitting on the couch with her legs crossed–her own glass of gin resting safely on the armrest.
“Thanks June. You’ve still got it, you know that?”
“You asked.”
“Yes, I did.”
Hesitating, slowly, June continued.
“You know exactly why we divorced.”
“I know why we divorced, but I still don’t understand why, you know?”
“No, I don’t know.”
“Forget about it.”
“This is why we divorced.”
Cecil and June had been separated five years before they signed those fateful papers. They told their closest friends they’d decided to wait until Mark had finished school but it was really because they couldn’t face the weight of failure.
“Mark doesn’t know what he’s in for.”
“Oh shut-up Cecil. He’ll be fine. Julie’s a lovely girl. She’s got her head screwed on.”
“What are you trying to say? That as long as Julie’s got her head screwed on they’ll be happy forever?” Cecil let out a forced half breath. “You might be right, seeing as we’re divorced and you’re as nutty as they come.”
Tom stood in a subway car. He was looking out the window at nothing while clutching onto a rail. There was a man sitting beside him looking distant. Tom imagined the man pulling a carving knife from his jacket pocket. Then he imagined that knife stabbing Tom twice, once in the heart. Then Tom imagined himself saying goodbye to everyone he ever knew. He imagined himself thinking that he should have written a note to all those people in case he was ever stabbed on a train. Then he rewound his thoughts. He began writing the letter in his head.
“This is a letter to everyone always.
I want you all to know that dying was an incredible experience. I was completely ready for it. It doesn’t hurt a bit and I feel great. If you’re fond of sleep then you’re gonna love this even more. My last moments were incredible and I said goodbye to you all. It was glorious. Just remember: If I can do it, you can too!
P.S. Heaven doesn’t exist, but wherever I am it’s really fun. They have jumping castles.”
He decided the sentiment was right but the words were not. He wanted everyone to know what will happen always would. He imagined everyone at his funeral enjoying themselves except for the people who didn’t get it. He imagined trees that had lived before anyone he might have known, and would live for longer than they ever could. He imagined the world decaying beyond repair. He imagined the universe expanding. He imagined lots of things. Then the train stopped and he left the subway car. Then he forgot to imagine. And lost it all forever.
Yesterday I met this guy in Union Square named Steve Anderson. I was sitting on a bench reading The Wall Street Journal when he asked me for a quarter. Being the non-New Yorker that I am, I was happy to oblige. But here’s the problem: My pants are too tight for homeless people. While I’m fishing about in that little pocket made for coins, he sidled down next to me and began one of those ‘homeless tirades’. “I don’t have anywhere to sleep,” he said. “My missus’ kicked me out when I trashed her apartment in Chinatown.” Yikes. You know the type - they get in your face and request a junior burger for lunch.
But alas! Steve is not your average junkie. He just happens to be a cool guy with a Meth addiction. Although his face was scabby, his heart was pure. I could tell. I just could. And isn’t that all we need to find meaning and be kindred souls in this life? Bless his sores.
So I said something like, “That sucks man. I hope things get better for you.” And get this! He says, “Hope is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man.” (Word for word, true story.)
I asked, “Who said that?”
He said, “Nietzsche.”
So I said, “Shit. OK, cool.”
When you break it down, we were just two bros sitting on a bench trying to find clarity on our separate journeys through time and space. Nietzsche was totally down with that existential hoo-hah. So there I am, sitting on a bench in Union Square, discussing Nietzsche with a homeless dude named Steve, digesting a giant pretzel, and wondering, “What should I do in this situation?” Well, I surmised, exactly what any loser with a blog might - peel back the layers of a homeless man, in the style of your favourite gonzo-de-jour, with the intent to publish my findings.
Turns out Steve knows these guys who live in Aberdeen, New Jersey, about an hour outside of New York City. He’s got a fistful of quarters for the train ride down but is ten dollars short of his target. It’s his only chance at shelter for the night.
“I’ll give you the ten bucks if you take me along with you now. I want to meet your mates.”
“Mates?”
“Yeah, your friends in Aberdeen. If you take me I’ll give you the ten dollars you need.”
“Sure man. Just gimmi a second. I’ve gotta take a shit.”
I’m not sure if he took that shit or not because he hid in a bush for hardly a second. Whatever transpired, he jumped the fence back to the bench, and we walked the thirty or so blocks to Penn Station for the train to Aberdeen. On the way Steve told me he’d been reading Nietzsche since he was thirteen. Apparently he became obsessed after both his parents died during a murder-suicide in ‘84. His late-uncle was the perpetrator, and in a strange twist of fate, had given him Thus Spake Zarathustra the previous Christmas. Fascinating, but weird.
We got to Penn, I bought our tickets, and we get on the 14.15 train. We must have looked like the freakin’ odd couple - the straight-edge Australian kid and the meth-junkie with a thing for Nietzsche, sitting together on a train, staring out the window. I didn’t talk much - really I didn’t have to - Steve relayed a whole host of theories he’d devised reading Nietzsche. Mainly shit about religion and how it’s ‘life’s nausea’ or some such. It was nuts.
We got out at Aberdeen station (there’s a photo at the top of this post) and walked to the main street. I bought a deck of cigarettes and a Seven-Up at a deli while Steve waited outside. I paid and joined him on the path. While we stood together smoking for a few minutes, he told me that his friends, Barney Dope and Eraser Dust, lived on top of a carpet clearance store on the next street. I was thinking of changing their names to make this sound a little more believable, but they are just too hilarious not to mention. I’m not lying! I’m serious! You can’t make this shit up! I knew you’d be like this. It happened, I swear. Fuck you.
So anyway, by this stage I realise I was a little eager to be the next Hunter McThompson, and today might be my last. Any sane person would have hailed the next cab back to the city and gotten the hell out of there. But not I! I’m a true blue idiot. Give me a break though, Steve was chill and I knew he wouldn’t do anything dodgy. In my mind I’m erring on the better side of caution - whichever side that is. Even still, I thought it’d be best if I devised a plan. This is where I don’t mention the plan and leave it as the cliff hanger to the story. Are you ready? It’s an ingenious plan requiring bravery. I’ll tell the story and you be the judge.
We walked to the next street and I could see the carpet clearance store at the opposite end of the block. Steve told me to chill out the back while he spoke to B & E inside. We followed a path around the side of the store and ended up in the yard. The place was a mess but it was empty. There were petrol cans and car parts scattered about randomly. At the back of the yard there was a shed that had a shopping trolley wedged in its door frame. Steve said, “I’ll be five minutes,” then walked up the stairs and entered the house on the next floor. I decided to go take a peak at the shed while I waited. I removed the trolley and check this out! Here’s the freakin’ evidence.
Meth Lab - Exhibit A:
Meth Lab - Exhibit B:
How fucked is that? So here’s where I unfurl my wonderful plan ahead of time. I hightail it out of there, run to the closest house and hide behind a fence. Like I said earlier, this plan required bravery and a set of Steve McQueen sized balls. I was going to meet the guys inside, say I needed to use the bathroom, and enact said plan. But this was all I needed! Photo evidence! So I’m hiding behind this fence, I wait about half an hour, during which time nothing happens, I finally gather the courage to make a dash to the train station and head back to New York City.
That’s it! That’s what happened when I met Steve Anderson. What a day! Believe what you want, whatever the case, I’m never following a Meth junkie anywhere again.
Not down with Meth Labs? Watch this informative video below.
