Click the image of me and my piece of shit to see the PDF. Otherwise just read the text below.

Guess what? I bought a car. It doesn’t have a roadworthy, isn’t registered and doesn’t reverse. There we are above. Me and my piece of shit—my new pal.

It’s a Mazda 1500; a classic car from 1969 designed by Italian Giorgetto Giugiaro for Bertone. Legend goes that Alfa Romeo rejected Bertone’s design, so Bertone sold it to Mazda. Old men get all excited when they hear “Italian designed, Japanese made”. Personally, I like the windows.

I met the owner late one night at his house in the suburbs. The car looked great and worked as well as all cars should, particularly the brakes. I slammed those puppies so hard the tyres quietly screeched to a stop, as if to say, “I’m in perfect working order, sucker!” We shook hands and the deal was done. I had a car.

Days later my stupidity slapped me square in the forehead, along with rust, leaking cylinders and an unending amount of worn parts. The structural rust of my own stupidity lay behind a flaky surface of unearned confidence and I was forced to face the consequence. Either I learn to fix my piece of shit or acknowledge my own stupidity.

I found a mechanic in Collingwood called Little Sam’s. The place belongs in an episode of Twin Peaks. Car parts are scattered about and guys with greasy hands walk from room to shed and back again. All these things make it live up to my idea of a good, noble mechanic, at least aesthetically.

Blue Overalls sits at the desk and asks if I’m in for a service. In my best deep voice I explain I’m not, that my 1969 Mazda is parked out front, that it doesn’t reverse, but could they please make it reverse, because that’s the most important thing to fix right now, wouldn’t you say?

As I walked to work my brain exploded in fear. How much will it cost? How long will it take? Am I really that stupid?
I’ve never been a car person. In school I’d feel left out when the other boys talked cars, but it didn’t bother me. Cars were for troublemakers and kids with learning difficulties. I didn’t need cars as much as I didn’t need to listen to NOFX, because those things were not “me” things, or for “me” people. Now my perspective has changed. Restoring a car represents values and lessons completely relevant to “me” people: lateral-thinking, patience, stamina, decision-making, learning a language, problem-solving, being frugal, working with others, confidence and identity. It’s a framework for learning about life. I’ve never read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, but I imagine it’s the same thing.

Two days later I found Blue Overalls sitting at the front desk, yet again. “It doesn’t look good. The gear shift linkage is worn. We’ve made some calls but there’s no replacement part.” I had a feeling this might happen. I opened the hood and saw for myself. The gear selector mechanism was held together with cable ties.

I consulted the Gregory’s workshop manual I’d bought from eBay. I studied the transmission and began to understand how the gear stick connected to the shift arm. At first it made no sense, but now I think I can fix it myself: a generic ball joint, a new bushing, a u-clip or two. There’s a YouTube tutorial for everything.

I’m not stupid. In fact, I’m clever enough to find the shift arm on a transmission, godammit. If anything, this fixing-a-car process has helped me understand my own self-doubt and find confidence to complete a project and complete it well. It’s taught me a lot of things, but most of all, how not to buy a piece of shit even when the windows are slanted in the most beautifully perfect 1960s Italian-designed angle possible.

”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.”

When you get letters from famous authors.

Below the concrete, under the waves of rolling automobiles, knowledge sways from mahogany bookshelves.

Schools of well-to-do librarians duck and weave, putting this there, that over here, and oops, up off the ground, and back on top.

They stop in the corridors to talk.

“Seen that gentleman devouring the knowledge at the large reading table?”

“Yes. Every week. Peculiar. What’s he read?”

“I never ask.”

Elevators transfer knowledge to the room above as it is called for. A bell rings. A door opens. And people are served.

They feast on the knowledge. Gobble it up. Smoosh their faces in its pages and swallow it whole.

“Delicious!” They say. “This knowledge is the very best. But where does it come from? I only ever hear that little bell ring, that little door open.”

“Ah! Under your feet is an elaborate eco-system. That’s what I’m told.”

“Fascinating. Just fascinating. There’s nothing better than this here knowledge. Nothing better at all.”

“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.

Image by Risa-i

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.

Vent-flow, I call it. Always have, always will.

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.

t@taitischia.com

Recently, I left my job.

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.”

McCreepy

“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.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Copywriting. Art Direction. Typesetting. Illustration.