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

Transferable

I hope you can really see this picture. It’s the work of my little man, Jack (aka, the Snack Pack). This is his signature image. You’ve got the backhoe and the guy with his helmet inside. Jack doesn’t go anywhere without his guys and their helmets.

Typically, Jack works with paper and pen. Sometimes crayon, the occasional pencil. Watercolors and a brush also serve him well. But this was his first foray into sand.

Note: The first group is relatively similar—they offer a smooth, plain surface on which you draw with a handheld tool. But, the sand and no tool—this is a new world.

With just his finger, he created an exact replica of his picture. He’s gotten so good at this image, that he can produce it, apparently, wherever and whenever. He navigated shells and seaweed, the downward slope of the beach to the water, passersby, seagulls, differing degrees of sand wetness and firmness, not to mention encroaching waves with great aplomb.

He stood back and surveyed his magic like a seasoned artist. His bright, blue eyes narrowed. His white blond hair crazed on head.

__________________________

I was talking to a friend and colleague last night, as she prepares for an interview for a new gig. And we were talking about resumes. They seem so passé at this point, but they’re still necessary as they document where you’ve been and what you’ve done. Even though, likely and hopefully, the details/juice/meat of that work will get pulled out during the interview.

My suggestion was to lead with what she can do and how she does it, let the ‘where’s and ‘with whom’s fall to the bottom of the list. Because, while they prove you’re legit, they’re just labels,  just platforms. Like paper, pen, brush, paint, canvas.

What we really want to know is, can you take your skills, your know-how, your perspective, your signature—and make the leap onto the sand?

Is your blog a waste of time?

Blogs have been categorized as:

• Pointless
• Ego-capsules
• Not read by anyone
• Overdone
• Underpaid
• Time wasters
• Not real marketing tools
• Should I go on?

That’s great. Go ahead with your bad self and believe that hooey. But it just occurred to me that my two main writing gigs right now (you know, the ones that are feeding and housing and otherwise gainfully supporting my family) are mine because of this blog.

After seeing/hearing one of the co-founders of gig #1, I wrote a post about my experience sitting in the audience and moving about my life in relation to what she’d spoken about that morning. I emailed her and thanked her and shared the link. The rest, as they say, is in the bank and on my resume.

When I began writing for company #2, the boss checked me out online—which led him here. Which led him to the realization that if I wrote for them the way I write on this blog, they would have writing and content creation and creative vision that completely broke out of the industry standard (in a good way).

What I get from these stories is this: people/companies/industries want to do it differently (or the good ones that are worth working for do anyway). They want to stand out. And they’re looking for something real, that resonates.

In both cases, I didn’t follow some weird, get rich quick gizmo. I was just myself. I was writing the way I wanted to write. The way that I love to write. The way that lights me up. I followed my own trail of happy. Hit my own personal sweet spot. And, kapow, it lit some other people up, too.

Remember when people sent wild and crazy resumes—in video, in varying shapes and sizes, in the guise of a gimmick? (That seems like it was the 80′s, maybe early 90′s? Because in the 80′s I was still a kid…so why would I have known that? Anyway, I digress.)

This is like that-ish. Only better. I say: create a space where you can be YOU. And don’t make it a one time deal like the resume. Keep it going, let it move and ricochet and travel with you. Let them see you write, sing, sculpt, build, sell, help, cook, run—whatever it is that you do in just that you-like way. Let yourself out. Fully.

Wonder if you’re wasting your time.

And then rev up your vacuum—first on the ‘blow out’ setting…until you’re ready to start pulling it all in.

Image credit: pittcaleb

Nota Bene: Lucky points

My lucky points have gone up recently. I’m not sure why and I’m not asking. As someone recently said to me, “Don’t worry about why someone likes your work, don’t ask why, just take it all in.” I’m applying that philosophy to my luckiness.

This particular streak is supported, buttressed and inspired by kindness. Kindness in the form of a mentor. An angel, if you will, who literally pointed his finger at me and said, “You are magnificent…wanna see how far we can take it?” The first stop has been into a realm of work that I had never done before. (Well, not literally because it is content creation and writing, but just in terms of the medium of video/directing/editing….)

Of course, I did what any normal person would do when faced with such praise and with such an offer. I stopped breathing. Then I panicked. Then I called an emergency meeting with my Brain Trust. Then I dove in and started doing the actual work and realized that I LOVE it…and, miraculously, I can do it, too.

But I can’t possibly gloss over the amazingness of having someone, who is brilliantly good at doing this work and more, standing behind me telling me that I CAN do it, that I AM doing it and, then, fiercely taking every little success and thrusting me into the next stage of NEW.

It’s been a thrill and fire in my brain and belly. And it’s been a win/win. I’m helping his company and he’s helping mine. And, the joy we’re both taking from the match is just, well, sublime.

And who doesn’t want more joy? And who doesn’t want to challenge themselves to be bigger, better and badder? And who would turn their nose up at lucky?

The answers to those questions are definitively: ‘lotsa people’. I should know—’cause for a while, I didn’t, I didn’t and I would. But survey says that it seems I’ve released a healthy portion of those nasty behaviors. How lovely.

So, no questions asked, just working my ass off and soaking it in, this lucky…(and maybe refusing to change my socks—you know, so I don’t break my streak.)

Image credit: Rob Warde

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

How to move when you’re motionless

One year ago today, I stepped out of my front door to call the dogs in for the night and landed exactly the wrong way on exactly the wrong part of my doormat on exactly the wrong part of my foot and broke my 5th metatarsal.

I was devastated. I’d only a month or two before refound my love of working out hard—after several years of wimpy yoga and woods-walking with my dogs, that came after several years of working out like a maniac and hurting myself badly. And then, WHAM—or rather SNAP, BREAK, Sidelined.

Because I’m often a black and white thinker, my initial freak out (made worse by the ER doctor’s prognosis that I’d be in a cast for 12 weeks) sounded like this:

1. I’m going to be obese….probably within a couple of days.
2. I won’t be able to be a mom…if I can’t pick up the children, they will write me off.
3. My writing will suffer…because this whole thing reeks of sufferment.
4. The world will end…see #s 1 thru 3.

There were tears. There was a massive amount of feeling sorry for myself. I wrote about it, of course.

And then…

I had this friend who said, “I wonder why you did something to yourself that would make you sit still for awhile?”

At first, I guffawed. “I didn’t do this on purpose!” I sneered. “I’m miserable, I hate this and I don’t want it. There is no LESSON. There was NO doing this to myself!!! The doormat did it to me.”

And, then, forced to sit on the porch all by myself—while my family went 4th of July parading and pond swimming and all kinds of other things that I really detest—I read 3 fantastic big books in a row. (Something I hadn’t had the space to do in a looooong time.)

And I thought…hmmmm. This might not be quite so bad. Then I started looking around for other worthwhile things I could do from my ass down, foot up position…and there turned out to be quite a few.

• I could ride a stationary bike and get my sweat on.
• I could get out of many distasteful chores like laundry since I couldn’t carry the basket.
• I could work more hours than before…because I couldn’t do much of anything else.

And, as it seems to always do, time passed and my foot healed. Life went on.

Questions and Answers

But it wasn’t until this morning, when I realized that it had been an entire year, that I remembered my friend’s question…and saw how brilliant it had been. And how loving. And I was finally able to hear it as she meant it—not as an accusation, but as a thing of curiosity and excitement.

And, thus, I was finally able to answer it.

I broke my foot so that I could hit a wall at the end of a path of blind, mindless motion that was so mechanical and cloudy and trafficked that it allowed no room for new or pure or insightful thought. And I hit the wall, so that I could stop doing what I’d been doing and doing and doing…and create the ‘action’ of something else. Entirely.

I think it was something about the bounce. You know, off the wall.

Image credit: karenwithak

It’s the cushioning that kills

As I told you the other day, I just devoured and obsessively loved Born to Run by Christopher McDougall.

I loved everything about it. I love that it literally pulled me out my door to run on a Saturday night at 7pm—when I’m a certified, card-carrying, morning runner. I love that I think I’m going to go again tonight. I love that it has made me feel like anything is possible. (When you read what these runners have done (eg. running 100 miles straight across mountains in the dark), you suddenly know that you can make it for a measly ten.)

Most notably, I love that I learned this: cushioning is bad for us. Sounds weird, right? Many instances spring to mind where I would literally beg for a little cushioning—feedback on my writing, the end of a relationship, a pillow when you’re trying to sleep on a plane…I could go on and on.

Killer cushioning…since 1972

Did you know that running shoes, as we know them, were created as recently as 1972. 1972. Remember Chariots of Fire? It looked like those dudes were running in jazz shoes. Go back farther and farther until you get to the people who didn’t even have shoes (or go to remote places today where they still don’t)—they were still running. For sport, for survival, for food and because it feels really, really good. Many of them ran 50, 75, 100′s of miles at a time. Barefoot.

Duh. Of course they did. But in our westernized minds, we think we need fancy cushioned shoes to run. Because that’s what we’ve been told. By these guys:

Phil Knight and Bill Bowerman, Nike’s founders, created the concept of ‘jogging’ and they created a running style that had you reach forward with your leg and hit the ground with your heel first (up to that point, everyone ran by landing on the fat of the midfoot pad with shorter strides). Because there is no natural padding on the heel, you simply couldn’t land on it unless you suddenly had a shoe with a cushioned heel. [Note: read that last sentence again.]

In an astounding marketing move, these two men created a new sport (jogging) that depended on a new way to run (the heel strike), neither of which could exist without their brand new, never before seen, bright and shiny, product.

Excuse my French, but, holy shit.

I read this part of the book five times in a row, my mind churning. How many other ‘cushioned shoes’ have we been sold? And what have they done to our bodies, our minds, our crafts? How else have we cushioned ourselves and therefore deprived ourselves of our true connection to the art and pure love of what it is that we do?

• With the advent of cushioned shoes, running injuries skyrocketed. While they promised to make us go faster.
• With the advent of processed and fast food, obesity and degenerative disease skyrocketed. While it promised to make our lives simpler.
• With the advent of marketing schemes, bad writing that is unconnected to heart or soul skyrocketed. While it promised to make our lives successful overnight.
• And with the advent of _______ , _______ skyrocketed. While it promised to make our lives ______.

Go ahead, fill in the blank. And then kick off those shoes, bring your feet back to your ground…and see what happens.

Image credit: R. Motti

The opposite of mashed potatoes

There is this oddity that happens (my dad would categorize it under the ‘reversal theory’) with growing children. It goes like this: when they are extremely young (as in 4-6 months) they feel heavier when you carry them than they do when they’re a just a bit older (say 6-8 months). Even though they’re bigger and weigh more.

The reason is simple, it’s because these older babes are carrying their own weight. Their muscles are strong enough now to do so, whereas when they were smaller and lighter, they just hung in your arms. Like lumps of mashed potatoes. (minus the butter and sea salt, which is a tragic shame).

Making adjustments

This thought occurred to me when I was running this morning. I was trying to run my eight mile loop in my new cushionless shoes. But I ended up running 10. I couldn’t stop. And besides the shoes, I was trying out a new arm position because my pipes had been flying around by my chest pushing my shoulders up to my ears, causing some bad muscle cramps in my neck.

And the weirdest thing happened. When I lowered my arms, I became lighter and tighter. As if that one shift had pulled my body together in a way that lightened me perceptibly. And, as I said, I couldn’t stop running.

The self carry

I’ve been thinking about it all day, and I realized it was the same as the baby phenomenon. I certainly didn’t lose weight over the course of 10 miles, but I got lighter—because I was holding myself more efficiently and totally together, making me much easier to carry.

A simple shift—of the body, of the mind, on the mapped route. And suddenly, the ability to go farther, faster, stronger, easier. Holding my own self up. Look ma, no hands.

Image credit: dullhunk

What’s right with Jenni.

I waitressed for several years. Through college, through grad school. And I enjoyed it thoroughly. I loved how the time went by so fast, no watch-looking necessary. I loved how it was always new. I loved the free food. I loved the little family the staff created. I loved that I never, ever had to take this uncomplicated work home with me. I chatting away with all of my customers. I loved the flirt of it. (I was voted biggest flirt in high school, you know.)

À la Bull Durham: You seat the people, you feed the people, you get paid by the people. Sometimes they’re easy, sometimes they’re assholes, sometimes they sexually harass you. It’s really just like baseball.

Wearing the hideous uniform of the three restaurants I slung food at, I showed up all bright and shiny and new on my first day—wishing and praying for it to be my 30th.

The road to weakness

You see, I don’t like not knowing. It’s extraordinarily uncomfortable for me. The minute I’m somewhere new, I long for familiarity. I want to know where the coffee lives, how the chef likes you to place special orders, what time you can finally eat or sit down, how to use the archaic cash register.

In my mind, sadly, the ‘not knowing’ equals stupidity which then brings me quickly to weakness. And I don’t like weakness. (Mind you, I don’t feel this way about You not knowing something—this is personal cruelty only.)

But, what can you do? There is literally no way around the not knowing. So…I would:

• Watch, listen and learn with a vengeance.
• Hide my self-dismay.
• Crack jokes about how the door into the kitchen bashed me on the ass at least 12 times.
• Find the things I knew how to do and do those.
• Ask questions to get essential info.
• Just get through it, nose down and eyes high—knowing it won’t last forever. Nothing does.

This week

I just started a new project (as in a whole new, insanely exciting medium). And it hit me, square in that vulgar place in my brain that hates starting something new, that I somehow put myself into a career where I have new moments constantly. CONSTANTLY! CONSTANTLY!

New clients, new projects, new deadlines, new terminologies, new industries, new technologies, new writing styles. New, new, new, new, new, new, new. (BTW, that was said as only Anthony can say things, for all of you SATC (TV, not movie) fans.)

Fascinating. Like someone terrified of blood deciding to go to med school. (And then being shocked to find that there’s talk or sight of blood most days.)

So…what, exactly, is wrong with me? Does it seem odd? Or does it make total sense.

There’s this quote in my new favorite book ever, Born to Run. Background: McDougall is talking about a woman who discovered that literally all she wanted to do was run (naked, mind you, in just her shoes, through the backcountry of Idaho the summer she came to volunteer, mid-college and mid-eating disorder). Here’s the quote:

…Jenni has been hard-core ever since, running long miles even when Idaho is blanketed by snow. Maybe she’s self-medicating against deep-seated problems, but maybe (to paraphrase Bill Clinton) there was never anything wrong with Jenni that couldn’t be fixed by what’s right with Jenni…

I pile on more work than one human should be able to do because I actually can do it. I abhor weakness because I have a deep well of strength. I put myself into discomfort because I’m very good at finding my way out.

Huh. Yeah. Maybe we are all our own antidotes.

Image credit: Steve Snodgrass