Reason #4638 to hire a copywriter: Upcycling

My dear, adorable friend, Jenni Avins just astounds me. I may have mentioned her to you before. She has a blog called, Closettour, and she is, in the true flavor of a Gen Y’er (I think she’s in Gen Y—regardless, she’s younger than me), turning the world upside down and doing it her own way. She has boundless energy and she…well…she just makes the coolest shit happen.

Her ‘genre’, if you will, is a mash of fashion, sustainability, history/origin/storytelling and journalism (read: new media).

I wanted to share one of her webisodes with you so that 1) you could get a hit of her—the enthuse will stick with you all day, and b) because its concept, I think, is spillable to our focus here. (That would be, in case you got lost, ‘writing where you want to go’—’writing’ being code for ‘however you create’, of course.)

In this webisode, Jenni is trying to clean out her closet. Which is exactly like me trying to clean out my writingroads.com cache of posts and drafts. I mean, how can I throw any of it away? As for the completed posts, each word has meaning and memory. As for the hundreds of drafts I have, ummm…I might use them someday. Those of you wondering, ‘Why would you want to throw any of it away?’ I love you.

Alas, in the midst of her heart-wrenching struggle to closet-thin, Jenni heard about these extraordinarily magnificent English women that call themselves Junky Styling. Kerry and Annika take your old clothes, the ones that you just can’t let go of, the ones that might still serve some sort of critical purpose…and make them new again.

They don’t call it recycling, they call it—upcycling. Because they are making your items better. They are bringing them up—to now. To what you want now, to what you need now. And they do it in a way that lets you hang on to the past, the what if, the hope, the thread.

For all intents and purposes, if you are someone that likes to hold on to things, the women of Junky Styling are actualizing our deep belief that all of those items—be they skirts, one line random thoughts, sweaters, poems, scarves, postless titles or whatever—were purchased or devised and then held on to for a real reason.

So I started thinking about how amazing it would be to have Junky Styling for words and ideas. People that take ideas, scraps of words, worn out prose, random concepts, hopes, futures, bits of brilliance that just didn’t match the rest of your message or ad or article—and upcycle them. Turn them into clear, concise, wordy perfection–exactly what you need now.

And then I remembered that we already have people that do just that.

Oh, how I love my job.

Behold Jenni Avins below in all of her Closettour glory:

CLOSETTOUR: Wardrobe Surgery with Junky Styling from Jenni Avins on Vimeo.

Reason # 417 To Hire A Copywriter: You could be making our day

I’m not going to talk about their sales or anything like that – but I have to say something about this Old Spice campaign.

If you don’t know about it, go here, and then come back. We won’t wait, but this post is magically timed to be here for you when and as you need it…so don’t worry, you won’t miss a thing.

So, I’ve been imagining the scene. Here’s how it looked to me:

A comfy room with couches and such—and a huge table in the center. It’s piled high with all kinds of food…and likely booze, maybe even some pot brownies. And four bright and shiny MacBook Pros. And in front of them—fingers dashing across keyboards, eyes bright, mouths shouting out ideas—sit The Writers.

Yes, the football player/spokesdude is hot and his voice is perfection. But he wouldn’t be as charming or witty or funny or addictive if the right words weren’t coming out of his mouth.

And as far as I’m concerned, these Writers had just about the best gig ever with Old Spice.

“So basically,” the Marketing Director told them (in my imagination), “We want you to watch Twitter and all of the crazy things that famous and non-famous people are saying to the Old Spice Guy—and then write the most ridiculous, over-the-top, nutso responses. We’ll give you whatever props you want. Just don’t swear or offend anyone—especially the mothers. This is all about the mothers. Okay, go.”

In my dream, these writers were paid handsomely for their Word Juice. Man, I hope that part’s true. (…and the pot brownies, too…would explain so much…)

Image credit: Joe Shlabotnik

Sitting on rapture

I just had a good long talk with myself. Because I was driving myself crazy.

• Staring at the screen.
• The blank one, that is.
• Not allowing myself to type even one word.
• Until I was positive it was The Perfect Word.
• Therefore, me = paralyzed, inactive, stymied.
• Not writing.
• Worrying.
• Ridiculous.

Just start, I told myself. Maybe not at the beginning…but somewhere in between, at some point along the way.

Because even those car ads that boast ’0 to 60′ admit that it happens over the course of X number of seconds. It is not instantaneous, it is a progression.

Albeit from static and silence to rapture.

Image credit: valkyrieh116

Walking away

How do you know when something is no longer working? Could be a client relationship, a blog post, some marketing copy, your novel, a relationship, your life…take your pick. You know because:

• You no longer feel good when you’re doing it.
• Or after you’re done.
• It’s no longer offering solutions.
• It doesn’t give you what you need.
• The pervasive feelings are dark: sadness, worry, fear.

So…you should stop doing it right?

But still, even knowing all of those things, it’s hard to walk away.

Because you used to want it, more than anything else. Because it’s familiar. Because change is hard. Because trying new things can be terrifying—stepping into the unknown. Because if you just try a little harder, you can make it work. Dammit.

Yeah. But I also think it’s this:

Junior High Syndrome

(which is oddly synchronous with the Stockholm Syndrome, now that I think about it)

There are certain things I remember about junior high. My bad, bad, bad short and asymmetrical haircut. Mean teachers. Making out with my first true love. Painfully matching Esprit outfits.

And I also remember the feeling of needing to be everywhere at once—and this is the Syndrome. That if some of my friends were going to the mall and some were going to the pool—I was screwed because I felt a dizzying desire to be in both places at once. It was scary not to be ‘there’, not to have a presence.

Why? Because something might be missed! Back then it was being in on a private joke or meeting a cute boy or having your best friend bond with someone else.

Today, what could be missed seems more critical: the chance to work on an incredible project, writing the best thing you’ve ever written, connecting with someone who could network you into the stratosphere, the single most important dose of inspiration ever, the truest of loves, real happiness and fulfillment.

But, wait!

All evidence up to this point has shown you that your current situation is 99.99999% likely not to give you any of the things that you want it to give you.

So why? WHY WOULD YOU STAY? Will you miss the struggle that much?

Why in the world wouldn’t you decide there was something better over there—better words, better people, better opportunities, better betterness. Why in the world wouldn’t you get up and walk away. Why?

Image credit: Shannonyeh

Blogging: And why you should really read your own

You know that post I wrote yesterday? The one where I talked about how I’m training for everything? Well, all of your wonderful comments have made it impossible for me to stop thinking about it.

And then two other things happened:

1. I lost my internet connection at my studio yesterday (still don’t have it) and spent hours trying to make it work, getting a new modem, being rude to people and just being generally pissed off. Oh, and working on things that didn’t need the internet. (Yes. I found a couple. They were under some long forgotten rocks.)
2. I had to go to the doctor. In the manner of: ‘I need you to squeeze me in, Doc.’ ‘Okay, come at 10, but we won’t actually see you until 12—and you can’t complain because we’re squeezing you in, you’re in pain and you will wait—and we know it.’

Suffice it to say, I lost some time doing what I was ‘supposed’ to be doing. And I didn’t like it. But then I thought, if I’m training for everything, then these two things—being offline and sitting at the doctor’s office—were either part of the training or what I’m training for…or both.

My first instinct was to be entirely pissed off at everything and everybody. I yelled at the Comcast lady. Okay, that’s a lie. I yelled at three Comcast ladies.

But as I sit here, managing to get all of the work done that I needed to get done after all—maybe even more expeditiously since time seems so precious—I’m thinking about taking some of my own advice.

I mean, just an hour or so after publishing that post, I was in the throes of being taken totally off-track by ‘life’ (as it were) and I forgot about my training, forgot that I was prepared, forgot what ‘everything’ applied to.

And after a couple of your comments came in telling me that what I wrote was ‘exactly what I needed to hear’…I thought, Huh. Maybe I should read that post. Maybe I should, gasp, listen.

What a novel idea.

And so I did. And I realized I was much better prepared for things not going as I wanted them to than I was giving myself credit for, certainly much better than I was behaving.

Which only goes to show you, the power of blogs absolutely extends beyond the writer and to the readers—and I mean way beyond and way to.

And…it was really nice spending time on the other side of the screen with you all.

Image credit: websuccessdiva

Writing: The view from the ground

This past Saturday, I did something I swore I would never do again.

I ran more than 10 miles. In fact, I ran 11.2.

The swearing was because, nine years ago, I ran a 10 mile road race and hurt myself so badly that I couldn’t walk, let alone run, for several weeks.

But this morning, I ran and I ran and I ran. Nothing hurt, though it was so muggy it was hard to get a full breath, you know, the kind that catches deep in your lungs.

A few things we can deduce from the above: 1) clearly I hold grudges and I’m stubborn as hell about letting them go, when usually I’m the only one being hurt by them; 2) never say never—you just end up with egg on your face.

Running that far (or doing whatever your equivalent of running that far is) is as much a mental test as it is a physical one. I got through my run by balancing the fact that I could stop at any point, with my desire to reach my goal, with my pride, with my fierce competitiveness and with my insistence on winning.

I knew exactly where the 10 mile point would be, and told myself I could stop there. But, instead, I ran all the way home.

The view from the car.

The longest part of the run was around one of my favorite parts of the island, Lambert’s Cove Road. It’s a 4.5 mile, crescent shaped road that curves quickly around and through woods, meadows and old dirt roads that lead to the ocean. I’ve driven it in my car countless times over the last twelve or so years, so I knew it was fairly long and full of fast twists and turns.

But it wasn’t until this morning that I experienced it with my body. And I learned quickly that those curves don’t only go side to side, they also go up and down. None of it was flat.

It’s always nice to have some variation on a run, and none of the ‘ups’ were huge, so it was okay. But I was shocked that I’d never noticed. I was mind-blown by how easy it had been—from the fast, high-level view of the car—to miss the finer points, to miss what it was really like to travel on this road.

On the ground.

Writing a book sounds like fun. So does writing a blog. Or a crafting a speech for a client. Or making enough plates, bowls and mugs to fill your pottery shop. Or starting a webinar series on WordPress design. Or running 11 miles.

The high level view of the pitch (or what it looks like when your brain mulls through your project) is the same as being in the car. Yes, you notice the length of project, you see that there are loops and switch backs, that you have questions. Yes, you can troubleshoot—but it’s not until you start, ’til you get in there and get your fingers sticky and your brains dirty that you see the project for what it really is.

I invite you to really hear that. You won’t know what it really looks like and feels like, what it really takes, until you are knee-deep, neck-deep, (maybe even) in over your head.

And, as such, you must give yourself permission, once you’re in there, to go harder or softer, to stop or persevere, to ask for help.

And, as such, you must also give yourself permission, once you’re in there, to be proud. That even though you didn’t see some of it coming, you kept going.

And, whatever ‘kept going’ looked like for you, it had to have been good. Because it got you here.

Image credit: GElisbeth

So frickin’ predictable: The creative process

Let’s get it out on the table now. In this post, I talk about the female reproductive system. It’s an exquisite, natural and magical process that I beg you not to be squeamish about. That said, men, there are things here for you too, on several levels. Even if you spend most or all of your time on Man Island (which, from what I can tell, sounds very, very boring). If girly, reproductive things didn’t exist, you wouldn’t be here, after all. Word to your mother.

I generally consider myself to be a smart person. but every 28 days or so, something happens that makes me doubt this. And I mean really doubt this.

It starts physically.

I wake up one morning and I’ve apparently gained 20 lbs. while I was sleeping. It makes no sense. I haven‘t been eating more than usual. I have been sweating profusely for at least an hour every morning on running shoes, blades or bike wheels. But my clothes now resemble the casing of a sausage, several parts of my body suddenly favor the contents of an overstuffed sandwich.

About 30 seconds later, I come to the only logical answer: I’m old and I’ve reached that point in my life where no matter what I do, it’s a downhill slide to old, out-of-shape and ugly.

I get pissed. Why today? I ask, shaking my hands at the sky. It’s been going so well. I’m not ready! NOT YET!

The next thing that happens is equally as startling.

One minute I’m happily typing away thinking about how great life is and then—BOOM. It all sucks. And I mean to tell you that the suckage is hoover-sized, black and sticky. I can’t find one thing that’s good. I’m irrationally angry at everyone. It’s like road-rage without the road or the cars, but with everything else within spitting distance. And beyond.

I call my beloveds and cry and bemoan the fact that this is all for shit. That I don’t even think my dog loves me anymore. That I don’t even want to write. Just cry and sleep. And sit on someone’s big, warm, comforting lap.

It always ends the same way.

(By the way, if you didn’t see this coming and you’re a woman, then ‘I’ll have what she’s having.’ If you didn’t see this coming and you’re a man, you will never, ever be my boyfriend.)

Yes. A few days later, I inexplicably get my period. And it’s the ‘inexplicable’ part that really gets me and makes me doubt my intelligence. Because here’s the thing: this brilliant reproductive phenomenon has rained down upon me an estimated 301 times, thus far. THREE HUNDRED AND ONE TIMES.

That’s a lot, wouldn’t you say? And you would think, then, that I would get it, that when my entire body bloats up like a dead frog in a pond and I’m more irritated than a teenager at a family picnic, I would calmly think to myself, ‘Oh! It’s just my period, this too shall pass!’, take a deep breath and go about my day.

But nope. Every time, every single time, I’m shocked. And, because I love to be validated and surrounded, I will share that I’ve been told by several other brilliant women, that this happens to them too. I wonder if it’s because we’re so busy living fabulous lives, that we just don’t hold this nastiness front and center. Yes, yes—that must be it.

Happy endings

And this is the good news. Every month, after the disaster—comes a flood of relief. My body is beautiful and strong and my clothes do fit. My life is happy and sweet and I can see good coming at me from every view.

Just like the crap that hits with the certainty of taxes or, you know, death. So does the relief and reality of the fact that everything is really okay. That there was a reason. That it was just mother nature at work.

Now. How in the hell does this have anything to do with writing, arting and creating?

It applies to the moments when instead of your clothes not fitting, your chair doesn’t fit and neither do your fingers on your keyboard. The moments when you don’t know why you bother—because no one is reading, because you think your work sucks, because you won’t ever make a living from it.

I think there’s a writers equivalent of getting your period. It’s that aha! moment when we realize we were tired or needed an hour away from the computer or a good talk with a friend or a roll-around with a lover or a good meal or 12 hours of sleep. The writers’ equivalent is whatever it is that hits us with the realization that all is not lost, that this is the way it goes—that we stumble into holes on a regular basis and often sit at the bottom of them staring at the dark muck…before inevitably pulling ourselves up and out.

The writer’s equivalent of the period is that we always survive, we always find the strength to come back to center, back to good, back to okay. It may not be once a month, but it’s always there.

It’s that as uncomfortable and messy as it might be, it’s a vital part of the creation process. We have it in us. Period.

Even when we forget.

Image credit: dahlstroms

Reason 314 to hire a copywriter: We bring it

You know that I love my work. But some days, well, I love it an extra lot.

I got a rush assignment on Friday to write the opening speech for an annual company meeting. Does that sound boring to you? Okay, keep your pants on. It gets better.

During the prep meeting, I learned that the company is not thrilled with its team’s performance. The tone of these opening remarks was to be unapologetic, in your face, take no prisoners. Terms like, ‘there are no excuses’ were tossed around. And I couldn’t help jotting down in my notes, ‘there are no points for second place’ – just like Jester said.

Oh, and then I was told that the audience is primarily men. Smart, high-performing, extremely motivated, (cocky, arrogant bastard) men. The words in the parentheses are all mine. I’m a writer, I editorialize, I can’t help it—but believe me, that was the tone. (I editorialize, but I don’t make things up—I’m not a fiction writer, after all.)

“This thing needs testosterone,’ I was told.

Remember the Brady Bunch where Marcia gets through her speech-giving nerves by imagining the audience in their underwear? Well, I just imagined this audience full of my old boyfriends.

And I had so much fun bitch-slapping them around with my words, that it took me all of 45 minutes and one draft to nail it.

Which brings me back to Reason 314 to hire a copywriter. We really can bring it—whatever kind of it you happen to need…

Image credit: khowaga1 (and yes, that is a picture of my exes in their underwear)

Tripping us up: mistakes that knock us around, but not down.

Not so smart

You know how I love to rollerblade, right? Possibly more than running. I’m wondering if there’s a rollerblading marathon, because while I’m up to easily running 8 miles, I can’t imagine making it through 26.2. I can, however, see myself doing it on my blades, no problem.

But there’s this ‘thing’ that happens to me most every morning that I skate. And I’m just fascinated by what it all means. I’ll be skating along thinking about stuff, when I’ll ‘trip’. I don’t fall, I catch myself, but it scares the shit out of me. No big deal, right? It’s bound to happen, what with all the sticks and stones scattered in my path. But, I’m convinced that it’s karmic…or something.

Because I usually trip after having a particular sort of thought. Like a disparaging one about myself or a ‘not nice’ one about someone else. Or about an idea that might not serve me very well. Or one that I’m not paying nearly enough attention to.

You see, it feels like ‘something else’ is making me trip. Some force greater than me. Is it my fairy godmother? The guy with the falcon? My conscience? Or would that be my subconscious?

All I know is that it’s so deliberate (not to mention sequential and orderly, ie. thought —> trip), that I’ve now taken to exclaiming, ‘Okay! I got it! For god’s sake!’ after it happens.

Before the fall

I used to rollerblade with only a helmet and wrist/hand guards for protection. My reasoning was that I only need my head and my hands to write (which equals work). And while breaking a leg or shattering a knee cap would be damn inconvenient, it wouldn’t actually destroy me.

And so

One freezing cold morning a few days after this past Christmas, just before dawn – I got a nice big dose of, ‘maybe that wasn’t the best reasoning’. In other words, I fell. Hard.

And it hurt…and my left knee was in bad shape. And while my head and hands still worked, I couldn’t run or rollerblade or bike for a bit, I could hardly walk. And I don’t really do so well when I can’t start my day off with a good sweat.

Much smarter

I immediately learned my lesson. The right knee got all gussied up in a knee-pad the very next time I got on my blades. And I concentrated on my plan of throwing myself in that direction if I fell again – until my left knee had healed enough for me to put its knee-pad on. (It took a good month and luckily I didn’t fall in the interim.)

But still…

I make work mistakes. I’ve underbid, I publish and then find typos, I’ve forgotten to change names in contracts. These things happen to the best of us (particularly when we’re moving very, very fast and multi-tasking on steroids, cough, cough). And they bug me.  A lot.

I also make life mistakes. I’ve hurt people that I love. I’ve let fear win. I’ve made bad choices. I’ve ignored my heart and disregarded my gut. These things also happen to the best of us. And they also bug me. A lot.

Feeling it everywhere

This morning, I was on my rollerblades, zooming along, perfectly happy…when all of a sudden I remembered, out of the blue, a mistake I made a couple of months ago. Instantly, I’m filled with self-revulsion and what I can only imagine is shame. I start whipping myself as I relive the gaff in my mind and body. It’s a very physical experience, akin to ice water filled with tiny needles running through my body, my chest in particular for some reason.

And then, like clockwork, my left skate hits something (allegedly) and I flail for a few moments. Enough to get me to pay attention. To the fact that, ‘IT’S OVER’ and time to move on. To the fact that if I had fallen, I’d be okay because I’m now fully padded. To the fact that the fact that I’m fully padded means I’m capable of learning my lessons and NOT repeating them. To the fact that it’s time to move ON. To the fact that something wonderful’s taking care of me – that falcon dude, or some goddess…

Or more likely, it’s just me. Laden with forgiveness and determined to walk right to that edge, but never fall all the way down.

Image credit: NikoKunze

The Third Choice: I had no idea there was one

This (image to the left) is a tile that I have in my home. It sings the praises of the Cancerian. I know that because I used to have the one that, in equal measure, called out the, how do I put this nicely, the ‘non-desirable characteristics’ of the Cancerian. (I say ‘used to have’ because I chucked it after realizing I didn’t want to spend my days – or time in the bathroom as interior design would have it – staring at the things about myself that I’m not particularly proud of.)

Interestingly, however, the ‘bad’ tile didn’t just take these ‘good’ characteristics and flip them around – the artist came up with new downsides like: ‘selfish’ and ‘demanding’. (As if) But they could have just done the flip, really.

For instance, where the good tile says, ‘home loving’, the bad tile could say, ‘hides in her bed when she’s sad’. And ‘devoted’ would be ‘tends to fall in love with a ferocious, all in, passion’. And ‘encouraging’ would be ‘gets really pissed off when people don’t see that if they just listened to her advice and DO IT already, they would find massive success in a matter of minutes – so sometimes she yells at them to encourage them’. ‘Compassionate’ equals ‘can’t see, hear or think about another creature (human or animal) being harmed without unbearably feeling every ounce of their pain’.

And, then, of course, there’s ‘tenacious’. On the good tile this is meant to impart a steadfastness, a strong will, fortitude, power.

The good side of tenacity

Six years ago, I was ten years into a horrible, seemingly irreversible case of IBS or spastic colon or shitty digestive system (depending on which doctor you spoke to), when I happened upon a book called The Body Ecology Diet. I took the test at the beginning of the book and I scored off the charts. And I was thrilled (because I like to win) – but what I scored high on was candida, the bad yeast that causes a lot of dis-ease, including all of my horrid symptoms.

So, being the tenacious crab that I am, I dove in at mach 3. I followed that book to the letter. No wavering, no cheating. I was the Gestapo of the candida cleanse. And it worked. After seven weeks and then some ongoing diet changes, I was (and have been for six plus years now) symptom, pain and hell free (where my stomach is involved, of course).

But the bad side, have mercy, the bad side.

This hardwired unflagging, indefatigable, immovable force demands a sturdy, decisive path – one that can hold up under its drive. Like that book and the diet: there was no wavering, there was no kinda, no sorta. You did it or you didn’t. Yes or No. Go or Stop.

I don’t like yellow lights. They make me nervous, with all their indecision. ‘Maybe’ makes me want to rip out my hair. Shit or get off the pot? Yes! I mean, what am I supposed to do with ‘maybe’? You know how when you say you’re afraid of heights and people ask if you’re afraid of jumping or falling? Well, I’m afraid of the part in between the high spot and the ground.

Why is this bad?

As it turns out, the world is full of this free floating place. Because of a maddening lack of control over the universe. Because some decisions aren’t up to us. And because, sometimes, neither choice (yes/no, up/down, go/stop) will give us what we want.

And, so as uncomfortable as it is, ‘neither’ is the answer sometimes. Grey is the place to be, today. Can one be tenaciously grey? I’m bound and determined to find out.