The Copywriter’s Notebook

Photo by John-Mark Kuznietsov

The goal of my life, as I thought a few weeks ago, was to become a hell of a good copywriter. One that will never have to search for a job, because that job is seeking for him or her all the freaking time. One that will have the freedom of travelling for his or her whole life while writing the necessary amount of words for various web and creative projects. One that will have an entertaining way of working, as he or she will be always requested to run textual activities on stuff that will be fully creative and colorful. One that will always be accepted for his or her inventive and innovative ways or writing.

And you know what? This is fucking stupid. I cannot be even a good copywriter, as long as I refuse to write my own thoughts on paper and trying constantly to ignore them, as you know — thinking too much might kill your inside writer, they say.

Also, how can you become a good copywriter, when you read so many blogs to inspire your inner thinker, note many catchy phrases in your notebook, then lose it. How can you learn simple things, when one as simple as your fucking notebook gets lost in the amount of sadness that persists in your home.

How can you be a good storyteller, because, basically, this is what you get to do, when you refuse writing your own stories, or if you do, you show them to… no one. This is the wrong approach of building your future. This is, most likely, the right way of tearing yourself down.

Though, I get lost in other amounts of pages on peyote or Thought Police, studying the artistic views of Sagmeister in the projects of his agency and childishly waiting for the book about Maynard and for those freaking artsy socks to be delivered to my country. But I do nothing with that. I was supposed to write down other words that I like in my beloved English language, which I have been studying for years but I am afraid to use it, because I lost that notebook, whose pages are filled with extreme intelligence and fancy expressions. I have taken the task of making a collage out of Walsh and Sagmeister’s pop-art projects. And I am still supposed on waiting for the book and for those artsy socks. Because you know — I care too much about the people I consider my family and I bought them artsy socks.

And now, I quit. I quit everything, because I get losing things I need and, you know, myself. My emotions. I don’t quite lose them, I think I have to many of them and they mix up with my everyday routine and I hate it when it happens and I can’t focus on finding my notebook. And I can’t focus on saying people how I feel about them. And things like these get me sooooo depressed.

So, yes. Becoming a copywriter is not about that freaking notebook. And not about swearing, even though it might get you a certain interesting and catchy style, but no. It’s about get-your-shit-together-and-start-work-harder thing. And tell people how you feel about them, so your messed-up brain gets rid of certain problems.

The End