“I need to show you something.”

He led me through the screen door, around the barn, down a slope with slabs of limestone set into the hill, and along a narrow path winding through a thick stand of beech.

When we finally broke through the last of the trees I felt the wind, saw the circling sea hawk, and tasted the fear of the sudden drop as the ground disappeared before us.

A hollow feeling shot through my stomach and legs.

We stood on a cliff overlooking a bay of dark water surrounded by steep cliffs slanting toward the afternoon sun.

“Do you see that little fishing hut down there?”

When I strained I could make out a little two-door, two-window house with a light blue roof, possibly metal.

“Yes.”

“You can live in that hut. Fish from the shore. Drink water from the spring behind the hut. Build a garden. Everything you need to get away … to rest … to live a simple life.”

Something in me stirred.

“Any visitors?”

“A few. A fisherman may come into this bay. Trappers may come down to fish. But people just like you. People who understand you and where you came from.”

I was hooked.

I imagined climbing cliffs every morning, writing in the afternoon. During the summer I could swim in the bay and sleep under a blanket of bright stars at night. In the winter I could trap beaver and dog sled through the forest.

“What’s the cost?”

He smiled. “A dollar a day?”

I let out a deep breath. “So, what’s the hitch?”

He shrugged. “It’s haunted.”

This short story illustrates two important copywriting concepts. What are they? Leave your thoughts in the comments. 

If you love what you just read, then subscribe to CopyBot. And follow me on Twitter or Google+.

Image source: Fishing hut on Isla Del Sol in Lake Titicaca

The first office I had was the size of a hot tub.

To be honest, it was more foyer than office since I sat by the front door and you had to walk by my desk to get to the boss’ office. So I guess I should say my first foyer was the size of a hot tub.

The offices were in a shoddy building constructed by a company notorious for being drunk and building homes over known sink holes …

But because they owned the market they could get away with antics like this: when I tried to plug my printer in I discovered the outlets down an entire wall —  the wall extending across two offices — weren’t even wired …

The construction crew simply screwed the face plates on and called it a day.

My boss called to complain. Four days later a guy with saw dust for hair and Wild Turkey for deodorant poked around the outlets, complained about the work involved, then offered us extension cords and a reduction in rent.

We took the cords and reduction.

There was something casual about this time. Pastoral. Just my boss and me in the office. Surfing the web, making a phone call here, writing a piece of copy there, reading a book just about anywhere. A fat lamb or two would’ve made it perfect.

Around lunch time my boss left to hang out with his business partner. I then had the place to myself for about two hours. Just me and the thin plaster walls, the hollow doors, the tiny windows with foam insulation spilling out of the synthetic plastic frames.

I got to work.

This was the time I devoured countless direct-response copywriting books.

This was the time I negotiated a killer deal with Homestore on banner ads … when impressions were everything … and a good banner ad clickthrough rate was two percent.

I was nailing close to twenty-seven.

This was the time I managed an annual $250,000 Google AdWords budget. (One year we got a beach towel from Google. The next year a thumb drive. I still have the beach towel. It has a hole in it and is covered in grease. Not sure where the thumb drive is.)

This was the time I tested text ads, tested email subject lines.

And this was the time I thought I was the next Robert Collier.

Towards evening, when the sun was setting, my boss went home and so it was just me and the fluorescent lights. When I shut down the computer, stacked my papers, and locked the door behind me, the parking lot was always empty since none of the other offices was occupied. A quiet cul-de-sac off a busy road …

The perfect place to think I was a genius. Or a genius on the brink of discovery.

I felt powerful. Light. But I’d lose that feeling soon enough.

My boss had fifteen years on me. Thousands of pages of written copy. But I was convinced I could write better than him, and we would often butt heads on copy ideas …

He would ask me to write a sales letter. I would write it. He would read it, and then suggest he write something else. I’d fight back, urge that we test the copy. He suggested we didn’t, but relented when he saw I was serious (we’d certainly lost that pastoral quality of our relationship).

We slid it out to 5,000 people on our list. Twenty-five hundred got his letter, the other half got mine.

His copy crushed mine.

Something was wrong. The test didn’t go right. He gave me the fatigued half of the list or didn’t send my email out at all.

Eventually we tested more. Each time I lost. I couldn’t understand what was happening. Nothing made sense. I was a serious student. What could be the matter?

Here’s the thing … my boss did two things exceptionally well: he gave me room to learn, to study, to pursue trails of research and thought. He taught me to find out what a person loves … and then get out of their way.

He also taught me the humbling impact direct response testing could have on a writer. Slowly I stopped being so cocky. So … Robert Collier. I wasn’t Collier. I was Demian Farnworth. Some punk poet who let his mind write checks his writing skills couldn’t cash.

It was a brutal time of learning. Growing. I was at it for years and it went like this. Even my wife said my boss usually wrote better than me. That didn’t devastate me as much as frustrate me …

How could I be such a student and not get this right? When would I turn the corner? How many years would this apprenticeship take? Would I ever turn the corner? Was I fated to live under the shadow of someone better than me?

After three years it was beginning to look that way.

Then I wrote a fateful email to a living copywriting legend. Someone I’d studied and respected. I asked him for advice. I was desperate. He replied — quickly — but harshly. And his reply devastated me. I actually laid my head down on my desk, closed my eyes, and groaned.

I wanted to give up. But I couldn’t. It wasn’t possible. Because his reply did something to me. Something unpredictable.

The tenth post in The Education of a Writer (TEW) series. A Monday feature. Next up: “This Writing Lesson Destroyed Me.”

If you love what you just read, then subscribe to CopyBot. And follow me on Twitter or Google+.

How often are these little tragedies repeated in your life?

• You write something clever, but everyone ignores it.
• You hear about a new opportunity, but don’t pursue it because you don’t have the skills or confidence to attempt it.
• You get overlooked by everybody – including your boss – because the guy in the next cubicle seems to know everything about SEO, email marketing, or copywriting.
• You hear about all the new clients your peers are picking up … but none are showing up at your door.

My guess is if you were a content marketing expert these little tragedies probably wouldn’t happen all that often … if at all.

Instead, as a content marketing expert people would …

• Call you for advice.
• Invite you to sit on expert panels.
• Knock down your inbox begging you to work on their best projects.
• And not even bat an eye when you trot out your exorbitant (but entirely justified) fee.

People would let you call the shots. Big players would invite you into their inner circles. And your boss would drag you into every meeting because he wants you — the resident content marketing expert — in on important decisions.

As an authority you would be more influential, get a lot more attention, gain better recognition, and easily earn more money.

That’s what authority can get you.

Getting there, however, isn’t duck soup, which is why I want to invite you to join Copyblogger Media’s most comprehensive content marketing training ever …

Introducing Authority

Authority is a content marketing training and networking community designed to accelerate your skills and success.

Even beyond your instant access to over 40 hours of high-impact education – plus many additional hours of advanced training every month – there’s something much more valuable happening …

Getting your specific questions answers. Networking and sharing ideas with like-minded professionals. Forming new alliances and partnerships.

Copyblogger will take you behind the scenes for a closer look and a deeper education that gets you on the fast track. One that will pull back the curtain on the topics, tactics, and strategies that don’t show up in public blog posts.

All of this, plus much more – without breaking the bank. In fact, you can work toward becoming a content marketing expert and make those game-changing connections for less than a dollar a day.

In addition, you can grab an even better deal as a Charter Member of Authority by joining before Friday, May 17th at 5 pm Pacific time. As always, it’s risk free with our 30-day money back guarantee.

Get started today.

Disclaimer: I work for Copyblogger Media … and I will be part of that behind the scenes training. That’s a good thing. I promise.

You get content marketing …

Crank out some blog posts. Gush out some guest posts. Build links. Share content on Google+ or Twitter. Pin images to Pinterest. Hot dog it in a LinkedIn Group Discussion.

But your greatest problem isn’t creating enough content because we’ve been taught how to make content fast six ways to Sunday …

But since when was efficiency a mark of good content? Or that speed was even desirable? What’s the pay off? Most likely a fatigued, alienated audience (so don’t be afraid to break your content schedule).

This is where I agree with Mars Dorian on the notion of substance over style. But I’d qualify it to be substance with style.

Yes, Your Content Needs Substance …

Substance is a Wikipedia article on the American Civil War. Vienna, Austria. Virgil. People love Wikipedia. So does Google. So it pays to imitate Wikipedia … to an extent.

Wikipedia favors the anonymous. The article without the style. But we are not into the anonymous any more. We are into the thumbprint that says “I’ve been here.” We are into color and texture.

We are into the author. The author who stands out.

But Your Substance Also Needs Style

It begins with a healthy scepticism of the status quo … a healthy curiosity for the strange. It survives on a fear of the mediocre … of disappearing into the crowd. Of blending in with the thousands.

That scepticism, curiosity, and fear, however, is a part of my nature. My makeup. And it’s got an obsessive quality to it. One you might not be able to imitate.

Can you do anything to nurture this same obsession?

Possibly.

Here’s the deal. Our scepticism, curiosity, and fear won’t ever be the same since we have different childhoods, parents, brain and body make up … but I do think you can nurture a sense of the unique and create original content (that you hope will get copied, which is not bad — I’ll explain in a future post).

Here’s how.

1. Read wide. Read new books and old books. Read books on economics and history … read biographies and memoirs … read text books and magazines. Read. Read. Read.
2. Build a wicked vocabulary. Highlight words you don’t understand … and then look them up.
3. Talk to people who don’t think like you. Spend a half hour listening to them, asking them questions. Do this at coffeehouses, lounges. On Skype or Google+ Hangouts. Seek first to understand. And then end the conversation. You can seek to be understood through your content.
4. Seek iconoclastic images.
5. Experiment. Process through all you’ve learned by writing. Test new things, new words, new headlines and images. Play with other mediums like photography and music.
6. Dig into the thesaurus. But before you use a word, understand what it means.
7. Follow rabbit trails. Give yourself the freedom to chase stories that don’t matter … to pursue irrelevant ideas … because, in the end, they do matter. You are building a reservoir.
8. Develop a sense of humor.

Let’s break the first one down (read wide) to give you an idea of what to do. Here’s what I’ve read in the last 24 hours:

• Psalm 33 from the King James Bible
• Three poems by Ezra Pound
• “Glory,” an essay by 16th Century essayist Michel de Montaigne
• Four poems from the current edition of the Paris Review
• An article about a neighbor from hell in the Tampa Bay Review
• Chapter from Daniel Dennett’s Freedom Evolves

Remember, you could read the exact same things I read … and we will walk away with different ideas. It’s okay. Your originality — not mine — is what we are after.

See, the problem with giving advice and formulas is your mileage will vary. The best I can do is give you a framework. You have to do the rest.

But here’s the deal …

You can do it. Don’t be afraid. Create. We are waiting for you.

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The ninth post in The Education of a Writer (TEW) series. A Monday feature. Next up: “I Thought I Was the Next Robert Collier.”

Call me lazy. I go where the jobs are. I go where the path offers least resistance. I go where the data indicates. That data being my feelings of wanting to land a job, and then get back to life …

To what I love (poetry). That was my attitude back then. Towards career. Towards life.

Here is how I left the job with the television evangelist: I asked a close friend to review my resume. I said I needed to find greener pastures. My last raise — after 18 months — was for 17 cents an hour. That’s like I earned less than a penny an hour for each month I was there. If I was going to provide for my family, I was going to need more than that.

My friend accepted the invitation to review my resume. Then he invited me out for dinner. At dinner he told me that he and his partner were doing quite well after five years of near poverty-level living. The real estate market had taken off … and their company with it. And to enjoy some of the fruits of their labor (and actually take a vacation), they were in a hiring spree. And they were looking for a writer. Was I interested?

Was I interested? The job was two miles down the road. I would be writing vast amounts … but a particular kind of writing. Direct response writing. I shrugged, “Yeah, baby, sign me up.”

“Then we need you to write us a sales letter — selling you.”

“Consider it done, baby,” I said, slamming my ice water down. “Consider it done.”

I got up and left.

When I got in my car, I nearly panicked. Up until this point I’d never written a sales letter. I wasn’t even sure what a sales letter was. So when I got home I jumped online and started to study. I immediately felt a little icky.

“Sales letter,” turns out, was another word for “infomercial.” At least that’s what I ran into online. Whatever. I wanted away from the 40-minute commute one way to the television evangelist, days of empty-handed production, and copy-cat product descriptions.

So I wrote the sales letter.

It wasn’t that great, but had potential. That’s what I was told when they hired me. I didn’t care. I’d learn how to be great.

My first day on the job I met my boss. He was a kind man, tall, studious in his glasses, but casual in his faded orange polo and cargo shorts. I was in love with his office … a bookshelf-lined room punctuated with giant windows.

I was thinking, “Excuse yourself and let me dig through those books, baby.”

We chatted, I shared my experiences, he shared his vision. And then he handed me a book.

THE book.

I turned it over in my hands. The book jacket was white with chunky blue and gold letters declaring the title and author. On the back I scrutinized the photo of the writer.

“How do you pronounce his name?”

He pronounced it. I winced.

“When you finish that book, I’ve got more from where that came from.”

“Okay. I look to read, baby. I look to read. I’ll be back.” I winked and zipped out of his office. When I reached my desk I set the book down and hovered over it. I curled my lip and my stomach churned.

“What a loutish, brain-boiled excuse for a book,” I snarled. “Influence: the Psychology of Persuasion … a tome for idiot-worshippers.”

But because I was a loyal and dedicated employee — and because I’d committed myself to being done soon — I sat down to read it. From page one I fell in love with it.

Who couldn’t love a  chapter called “Weapons of Influence”?

… and the opening story about a jewellery store owner (trying to unload a stubborn shipment of turquoise pieces) orders her sales lady (in a note) to “sell everything at 1/2″ then heads out for a short vacation …

Only to come back to learn the entire turquoise inventory sold out in a matter of days because, instead of discounting everything by half, the sales lady, misreading the note from her boss, doubles the prices.

O my, I thought, what is this mysterious power that influences people to pay more for items they ignored at a lower price? What is going on here? I blew through that book in an afternoon. And then read it again.

A few days later I returned to my bosses office, handed the book back, and asked for another. He gave me Joe Sugarman’s Advertising Secrets of the Written Word. My reaction to the book was less violent than before, but I could still feel the book snob was still alive in me.

Wounded, but still alive.

After Sugarman I read The Robert Collier’s Letter Book, Ogilvy on Advertising, Tested Advertising Methods by Caples.

I then read the books, sales letters, and blogs of living copy legends like Dan Kennedy (The Ultimate Sales Letter), John Carlton (Copywriting Secrets of a Marketing Rebel), and Gary Halbert (the “most valuable website on the internet“).

I then dove into the ancient works of dead legends. The guy who made Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends and Influence People a best seller in the 1930s (Victor Schwab). The father of scientific advertising and ceaseless promoter of “reason why” copy (Claude Hopkins, circa 1904). And the copywriter who Rodale press supposedly paid $54,000 for four hours of work in the 1950s, and … has the most stolen book from the library (Eugene Schwartz).

The impact on my own writing was massive.

Over time I learned how to write clearly. No more obscure meaning, clunky sentence structure, or dense copy. No more flowery detail or five-syllable words. Out with the conflicted, constipated, meandering professor … in with the relaxed, liberated, gun-slinging outlaw.

A few months went by and, by chance, I looked at my old poems. The ones I was so proud of. I furrowed my brow, flipped them to the side, and shook my head. I stared at the volumes of Wallace Stevens and Ezra Pound on the bookshelf. It was obvious: I could no longer write like that … I could no longer depend on being obscure, ambiguous, or circular … making the reader work for the meaning … earning the right to read me … a languid genius the world didn’t deserve …

What happened was I finally left that cave, walked down the mountain, and into the village below to join the rank and file. To live amongst their sweat, their dirt. The carts spilling corn cobs as it wobbles down the road, the sulphur odor spilling from the smith shop, the shouting of the leather merchants, the gossip of the cotton seamstresses, the swarthy taste of figs and pork dishes.

I drank coffee with the accountants, the electricians, the veterinarians. I hung out in Las Vegas with soldiers and real estate developers. I grilled coders and dentists in Miami. I watched screaming children play in a fire hydrant gushing water. Jobless youths smoke and skateboard. The elderly sneeze and break their hips on the edge of a table.

I wanted to be plain spoken. Simple. And persuasive as all get out. Then it happened.

After several months at the new job I swore that I would never return to poetry. To complexity for complexity’s sake. I couldn’t see how it could happen. I’d been awakened to a realm of writing that demanded clarity and potency. That forced me to look at people and figure out their hopes, dreams, and fears. I would board up that old place. Allow it to grow over with weeds. And hitch a ride to new spaces full of people and warm-blooded relationships.

If only it was that easy.

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Image source: Four-Color Process

Success as a writer boils down to three things … reading, writing, and feedback.

Absorbing books and blogs. Barreling through a hundred a year. Both old and new. Knowing when to blow through a book in 2 hours  … or abandon it. Developing a wicked vocabulary. The rebellious bent that will elevate you above the noise.

Writing yourself silly. Writing more, then writing less. Mastering the deliberate practice.

And then getting feedback from a professional.

Those three things … that  is exactly what I told Ryan Hanley last week during his Content Warfare podcast in response to a reader question.

The first two are pretty much in your power. The third one isn’t … unless you’ve got the money. But I’m about to show you how to get a mentor without spending a dime.

Ryan Hanley’s Little Podcasting Secret

After the call was done, Ryan and I chatted for a bit. He confessed he started the podcast because he wanted to get to know and learn from some of the best in the field. Then it hit me: he’s getting advice from the best in the field … free.

He’s gotten free advice from …

• Standford Smith
• Mars Dorian
• Gregory Ciotti
• Marcus Sheridan
• Jeff Goins

… then some.

Everyone he’s interviewed — at one point or another — has depended upon consultation as income. But Ryan didn’t once (to my knowledge) have to open his wallet.

Why? Ego.

Who doesn’t like talking about themselves? Who doesn’t like being looked up to? It’s human nature.

Even big shots like Brian Clark, Seth Godin, and Guy Kawasaki are happy to do interviews. They know it adds to their exposure … it opens them up to a new audience … fresh ears to share their message with.

And because of today’s technology, we don’t have to leave the comfort of our offices or living rooms to give an interview. We could give five interviews a day and not pack one single bag.

I did an interview with Max Minzer who lives in Seattle. Pio dal Cin who lives in Italy. Today I did one with Don Sturgill who lives in Idaho.

So, for the writer out there … the content creator … graphic designer … athlete … entrepreneur … anyone who has a tight budget but incorrigible desire to learn, make a list of people you admire … and go interview them.

It’s an education you won’t have to pay for.

By the way, you don’t always have to do a podcast or Google+ Hangouts. You could do an email interview … something you share in a post on your blog.

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We are all taught to post on a consistent schedule. We’ve also been taught about the benefits (more traffic) frequent posting brings.

But eventually the barrel runs dry … and we, because our posting schedule demands it, publish monstrously ho-hum ideas.

Why? We are afraid of obscurity.

Don’t be.

Don’t allow your content schedule to master you. Instead, master it.

There’s another reason why you should do this. An important reason … your reader has a list of demands. And it looks like this:

• It must be meaningful.
• It must be unique.
• It must be original. In style. In research. In interview. Never duplicate or steal. 
• It must be free of spelling and grammar mistakes.
• It must be ruthlessly edited.
• It must be written for me, the reader, not it, the machine.
• It must be more than just a humdinger of a headline. It must be a humdinger of a post.
• It must NOT be mass-produced.
• It must give trustworthy advice.
• It must be published on an authoritative site.
• It must be comprehensive. Not shallow.
• It must be clear.
• It must be concise.
• It must be compelling.
• It must go beyond the obvious and into the realm of the insightful and interesting.
• It must be worthy of a bookmark, a social share.
• It must NOT be overwhelmed by ads or call to actions.
• It must be useful, factual, entertaining — or all of the above.

Yes, consistency in distribution is important, but it is more important when it comes to what you produce.

Don’t be afraid to sacrifice consistency of distribution for excellence in production. Your reader will thank you.

Besides, meet the demands of your readers, and you’ll meet the demands of Google, too.

If you love what you just read, then subscribe to CopyBot. And follow me on Twitter or Google+.

Image source: News from Afar

The eight post in The Education of a Writer (TEW) series. A Monday feature. Next up: “How I Was Cured of Ever Wanting to Write Poetry Again.”

You’re not going to get her name out of me. Only her dress. The prom dress. And the big hair. The powder-white columns on the stage. The elaborate arrangement of purple and pink fabric flowers. The see-through plexiglass pulpit — all dragged around the country in a caravan of trailers twenty-four times a year to cities like Allegheny and Gallup.

That’s all you’re going to get out of me.

That and the topics she taught on — positive self talk, addictions, how to hear from God. Over the five sessions spread over a three-day conference she would work through a topic with a heavy dose of personal story, life application, and Bible verse.

She’s a magnetic speaker. Animate expositor. Profound master of the human condition. She had suffered a lot in her life.

Every conference was recorded and then shipped back to headquarters where they were edited for radio, TV, and digital products. I was hired straight out of college to proof the copy on these shows.

I wanted a job. My wife already worked there. It seemed like an easy in … as long as they would promote me when a writing position opened. They promised as much.

As video proofreader I zipped through videos to proof the ads, critical points, Bible verses that went across the screen.

Stuff like:

“You don’t stop being God’s child when you mess up. God knows your heart and He loves you.”

“Anger and unforgiveness can ruin lives, but you don’t have to let them ruin yours.”

I was stuck in a dark back room of a warehouse with five other guys who did basically the same thing. Jack Wheyface, the lumbering, suspender-wearing snorer to my left. Evan Pumpion and his shiny shoes sat behind me. So did Raymond Cur, one of the musicians in her travelling band. Raymond carried his flute in an alligator skin backpack everywhere he went. Evan worked on the road, too, which meant he and Raymond were out of the office approximately half the year. That left me with Jack and Manfred Ballsbane, the greatest individual who ever lived.

Manfred wore designer sweaters, pressed corduroy pants, and a collection of cadet caps. He claimed he could levitate and eat apples whole. Best of all, he greeted you with both hands, a grin and nod, but cursed you in some pleasant turn of language, “Thou fusty boil-brained scut,” under his breath as he turned away.

I introduced myself immediately.

“Your reputation precedes you,” I hissed.

He grinned, grabbed both my hands, and snarled, “You unmuzzled beast.”

He taught me his foul language — perfectly within the boundaries of religious behavior since it originated from Old English. I felt loose, alive.

“Sell your face you degenerate and base gudgeon!” I shouted into the hall.

“Shh, my man,” Manfred said, “It must be under your breath. Under your breath.”

Eventually I took to calling him “Manfred the Mole” because he looked like one (but dressed much better than one), but, more importantly, behaved liked one. He was always ducking under his desk when a superior walked in the door, or slipping into the bathroom. He worked hard not to have to work.

At any given moment you could catch Manfred wrapping Christmas gifts at his desk, fitting together a flower arrangement for his wife, or writing birthday cards. He was generous to a fault with his affections and money, as long as it was at a distance. We got along great, and I even wrote a poem about him being a mole. I read it aloud to Manfred, in front of Jack, Evan, and Raymond. During the course of the reading Manfred’s face turned black, and he curled his lip when I finished, stomped to his desk, and muttered something under his breath.

I had beaten him at his own game.

For the most part I spent my time in the dark back room blowing through the videos, writing poems, and cleaning off old radio cassette tapes we had to send to the radio and television stations. It was solitude work, so I enjoyed it, by myself, away from everyone else, like my time in the warehouse.

Eventually we moved to the new building — a massive three wing, three-story glass building on a sprawling campus with a long road snaking up a manicured hill lined with flags from every nation she supported with some kind of humanitarian aid effort — replete with a brick-and-mortar guard station and wrought iron fence surrounding the grounds. It had been under construction for three-and-a-half years. All of us were stupid happy to get out of the cramped quarters and explore the decadent delight of 121 Mercy Way.

And explore we did. The halls were decorated with period furniture and paintings with catchy phrases and uplifting Bible verses. You could admire everything — as long as you didn’t get caught. Security questioned every aimless person. Those quick on their feet would point to the department they were headed, and scamper away, the guard jotting something in his notebook. Harmless really. It was management you had to fear. Management of any level — from supervisor to her. Caught alone in the hallway, marvelling over the Charles Lock Eastlake settee, on a floor that wasn’t yours, would get you a rigid smile, and a word from your manager not to waste time in the halls.

Just a few weeks of being at the new building I was finally promoted to a position as a copywriter. I waved good-bye to Manfred, who bid me off with a flick of his fingers, and a curse under his breath. I got my own cubicle in a wing with its own bathroom, meaning I could go without asking.

My job was to write product descriptions for her tapes, CDs, and VCR products. Simple enough. But there was a hitch: it couldn’t be original. I had to use her words.

Here’s how it worked. You first find the transcript of the conference (usually hidden away in a storage room lined with file cabinets), read it (about 74 pages), and yellow highlight interesting (entirely arbitrary) parts. Then you would take those highlighted parts, drop them into Word, and tinker with it until you got some coherent message out of it.

Do you feel like you like confidence? Do you hate yourself for something you did in the past? Well God has forgiven you. And now she is going to show you how to forgive yourself in this series on regret.

You’ll learn:

What SHE does to combat anxiety

How SHE controls her moods

Why you shouldn’t listen to the devil

And then close it out with a Bible verse or catchy saying. Routine stuff.

Each product description needed three things: Bible verse (you had to choose one she used in the transcript — no going out and getting your own), introduction,  and three paragraphs.  No more, no less. And like I said, you had to use only what you were given.

Of course you could modify words here or insert a transitional sentence there … but nothing more. And don’t think they didn’t check.

It would take me about four to six hours over a couple of days to read the transcript. Then about an hour to jiggle her sentences together. After that I printed it out, labeled a folder (which would grow in size and get defaced during the approval process … you’ll see why in a minute), and hand it in to my supervisor, the editor.

He would review it alone, and then call me in to his office. The first words out of his mouth were always, “These are all her words, right? And this Bible verse … she does actually say this in the transcript?”

Don’t get me wrong: he was very nice about it, and handsome. Except for his skinny neck and sprawling fingers (like he were the love child of an ostrich or something), he looked gentle, agreeable, in his black jacket and flower tie that worked well with his tan, requirements for all men (the jacket and tie, not the tan).

“Yes,” was always my response, whether it was true or not.

However, sometimes, because I felt guilty, I would point out sentences I made up even though I could easily get away with it.

“Now, I did have to make this sentence up … otherwise it just wouldn’t make sense.”

This always stumped Will. He would rub his chin, and work his teeth side to side, holding the copy in front of his eyes. His jaw would grind away as he thought. Sometimes he would pick up a pen and chew it. Sweat broke out under his nose.

Finally, after a few moments, he would sigh, and say, “Let me see what the manager thinks.”

And then I wouldn’t hear from him for days.

Once he came back, he handed the folder to me and said, “Jamilah wants to know if you can re-work this sentence so it’s more like something she would say.” It wasn’t a request. It was a command.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

A few hours later, agonizing through the transcript again, my hands dry and lips chapped from the dusty pages, to find something she said fit into what I wrote, I would eventually land on something awkward, but did the trick. I would hand it in, and Will would go through the mental deliberations again, announcing several minutes later in his agreeable voice, “I think it will work.”

I was flabbergasted. It was the most deformed transition sentence in the world. Better make her happy at the expense of clarity, I guess. I got up to leave.

“So who does this go to now?” I asked at his door. “Do we run it up the chain?” I did the little quote mark gesture with my fingers, raised my eyebrows.

“Well, drop it into Jamilah’s box. He will have to initial it, and then we’ll send it up to the executive office for approval.”

“Hamilah has to see it again? Why? And the executive office? W-w-ho has to see it from there?”

“It’s Jamilah, with a ‘J’. And then executive. Margaret, Marvin, Iris, their oldest son, their youngest son, Pagen, and her.”

“What do you mean they have to see it?”

“They have to read it and initial it.”

“Oh. And how long will that take?”

He bites his lip. “That’s a good question. Two or three days.” Keep in mind Jamilah spent four days looking at it. “But we need to get it in before they leave for the conference. If not, then it could be late next week. Or longer.”

I then sat at my desk and waited. I wouldn’t have another product description to write for another two weeks. I bit my fingers. Looked through more transcripts. Stared at the ceiling. Read a book about healing. Read a book about prayer. Read a book about anger. Lingered in the bathroom, looked at myself in the green marble tiles in the kitchen, taunted Manfred. Talked to other writers. Watched the sun set through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Ate lunch in the cafeteria. Walked through the garden path in the heat of summer.

When the copy returned four days later I was giddy. But then I learned “they” asked to change the very sentence I’d changed in the first place. The one Will asked me to change, the one Jamilah approved. They said it didn’t make sense.

I raised my eyebrows. “Oh, didn’t make sense? But she said it. I mean she said it one of her conferences … it’s in the transcript. I can show you now.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t make sense.”

I slumped in my chair, stared at Will. “What should I do now?”

He shrugged. “Find another quote?”

“Really? Find another quote? Like something she said?”

He nodded, and shrugged.

So, I went in an inserted the sentence I used the first time around — the one I made up so it would make sense — and said, “Here you go.”

I should’ve known better. He came back and said, “Isn’t this the one you changed? It works. But why did we change it in the first place?”

“I think you said something about … oh, oh … you said it … it ….”

He bit his lip.

“I think, uhm. I think you said something about it has to be her words. I think that,” I pointed to the folder he was holding, “I think that wasn’t her words … for the most part.”

“For the most part?” He raised the folder up to his eyes, pulled out the page. “For the most part?”

I stood up and shoved my hands in my pocket. My eyes were wide and my hair follicles were hot. “Let me point something out to you: she used those words. I can guarantee you she used those words. Maybe not in that order … but with the over 60,000 words she speaks in a weekend … I bet you she used those words.”

He bit his lip.

I grabbed the folder and said, “I’ll find a new one.”

Several hours later I came up with another try. It was hopeless. It was another awkward transition, something you might get out of someone second grader.

“I think I got it.” I tossed it on his desk, and slumped in his chair.

He read it a couple of times and said, “I think it will work.”

“What? Really? Okay, so what next?”

“We send it back up to executive.”

“What?” I stood up. I had a feeling I was going to have to fight him. My hair follicles were hot again.

“We have to get approval on it before we give it to the designer.”

I threw up my hands. I was exhausted. I was exhausted from just thinking about this process. I was even too exhausted to fight. I grinned, waved half-way, but smiled like an idiot. I shuffled over to the window, shoved my hands in my  pockets, and stared up at the monstrous left wing and groaned, “Somebody shoot me.”

“What did you say?” Will said.

I smiled, and walked out of his office. Then an idea struck me.

I snuck over to the designer, the one in the yellow poodle dress. I eyed Jamilah’s door, making sure he stayed behind his desk as I walked to her desk. I leaned inside her cubicle, a signed photograph of the televangelist hanging over her laptop, and said, “Psst.”

She jumped, hurriedly reaching down to put her pumps back on. “I’m so sorry. I need to take them off to rest my feet.”

“It’s okay. I won’t tell. Listen, Flower … ”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Listen, so I’m working on some copy for a product description … once you designed the cover for the product, do you have to send it up for approval? And how long does that take?”

She looked up, and then whispered, “Yeah, yeah. It,  uh, can take a while.”

“Like how long, Flower?”

“It can take three weeks … or longer.”

“My gosh,” I squealed.

She put her finger over her lips.

“Sorry.” I stood on my tiptoes to see if Jimilah heard me, but it looked like he was busy staring out the window. I turned back to Flower. “So, what do they do with it?”

“Well, they will want the whole designed reworked the first time, the font changed the second time, the color changed the third round, and probably the copy changed on the fourth.”

“The copy? They’ll want to change the copy?”

“Oh yeah. If they get another shot at it, they’ll change it.”

I dragged myself back to my desk dispirited. Will this approval process never end? I was a young writer without confidence, and I hung on every moment I waited to hear back from the executives. But it was crazy long, and not unlike dying from the nibbles of a thousand ducks.

What was I going to do?

I got up, walked to the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror. I wondered how long I could endure this. Once, twice? This would surely prematurely age me. I locked myself in a stall, and cried.

Turns out I’d endure it about seventeen times. I’m a slow learner.

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Image credit: Roy Lichtenstein

I say misfit because I’m not exactly orthodox when it comes to the images I publish. It’s complicated, so I’ll need to explain.

But first a word about the headline.

I mulled over several headlines for this post. Nothing new. But this one gave me particular trouble because I came up with three that I really liked. But each one forced the content in interesting, but different directions.

Which one would prevail? Here’s a sampling of my thought process.

Where the “At Last” Part Comes In

First off, I say “At Last” because Henneke asked me to tell her where I find all my images.

That was weeks (maybe even months) ago. And she hasn’t been the only one that’s asked. There have been others.

I’m slow off the cuff because magicians don’t give up their secrets, right?

The Insider’s Guide to Unorthodox Images for Your Blog Posts

Above was another headline I thought about using.

It establishes the same context as the headline above with an emphasis on the “old man on the mountain is about to speak” slant. But I pulled away from this headline because I don’t feel like the emphasis should be placed on the insider portion of finding images.

You’re not stupid, and you could find these images yourself if you tried hard enough. I guess the value I could contribute to your life — your career — is to show you the path. Give you the short cut. Make your life easier.

Fair enough.

The important thing is not that this is a secret I keep close to the vest. The important thing is that these images run across the grain because of their quality and presentation — making me an iconoclast.

A misfit.

Stock art makes most people choke, including me.

Business art, on the other hand (you know, the smartly dressed woman with her briefcase, the foreboding bank building, or the white genderless Gumby puppet … the stuff you might see on Open Forum or Viper Chill),  makes me choke, and not everyone else, it seems.

I don’t want to be like that. It’s not my personality. And I think I should rather die than use it.

Why Iconoclastic Images Are Important

We live in an image based culture. We have since the late 18th century with the invention of the daguerreotype (early camera), which loosened the grip the printed word had held on us since the invention of the press (early 1600s).

You can see this history played out on a small time scale with the invention of the web. Words were the dominate form of communication in the early days. Over time technology changed so images and video became the main vehicles of information.

Yet, the web is still for words, as 37 Signals pointed out with their “Hug Your Copywriter” post.

So, even though its obvious we want to hear stories (obvious from the outpouring of support I got for sharing my writing story), why waste the high resolution, large screens, and pixels on just black lines on white space?

Give me something to look at. And make it double.

Besides, you and I are still competing for attention online, and this lesson was impressed upon me by Robert Scoble years ago. He confessed when blazing through a thousand blog posts a day on his Google Reader the post with the compelling image stopped him in his tracks (and it helped if the posts were brief).

I’ve taken that advice ever since. And gave it my own spin. It’s worked for me.

This Is Where I Let You Down

Now, my sources of images aren’t well-guarded secrets. Like I said above you could do this on your own. Everywhere I find images you have equal access to. The web is an egalitarian vehicle, is it not?

So, let’s pull back the curtain.

• Tumblr – Search via tags, or better yet, follow some of the cream of the crop. Magnificent Ruin, LIFE.
• Society6 - Allows artists, graphic designers and illustrators to display their work and sell it. The search is robust and with a lot of depth.
• Reddit - I won’t find a lot here, but occasionally there is a cream shot that I can’t pass up.
• Google+ – Like Reddit, not a plentiful source, but a good place to search. And I trust that as Google+ grows, it’s stock of images grows, too.
• Instagram - Follow some popular photographers, illustrators and designers. This is one network that you need to ask for permission. Or just use your own.
• Google Images – No brainer here. Use “Advanced Search,” then “usage rights” to find duty-free photos.
• Flickr - Search the Creative Commons bank of photos. Or find a great photo that’s copyrighted, and ask the creator if you can use it. With link back, of course.
• Quipsologie – I’ll quote the site: “Chronicling the most curious, creative, and notable projects, stories, and events of the graphic design industry on a daily basis.”

Naturally your style won’t match my style, so you may need to follow different people. But they are out there. Just takes time to find them.

And by the way, ask permission if you are not sure if you can use an image … and don’t forget to give attribution (with a link leading back to the right web page).

I Almost Forgot — Other Tools You’ll Need

You need to doctor the image. Sometimes you’ll find an image that is too small, or you need to crop out everything but the face. Here are the tools I use.

• Faststone - I’ve yet to break the surface of what Faststone can do–it can do a lot–but I use it mainly to make images bigger.
• Picasa - Picassa allows you to crop shots and apply filters (my favorite is 1960).
• Jing - Grab an image of your screen, apply some arrows, boxes, or text, and then save.

All these tools are free. I like free.

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Last week I did a Google+ Hangout with Max Minzer. During the interview I argued that everyone — especially experts — could benefit from learning how to write direct response copywriting.

Of course I first defined what direct-response copywriting is: the ability to write something to get action, and then measure that action. That feedback will tell you what is working … and what is not … helping you write in such a way that your best ideas get noticed, shared, and acted upon.

During the interview I mentioned a popular formula I use for creating persuasive copy: the four Ps. If I had more time I would have shared even more. Well, I can do that now on my own blog.

Ready? Let’s go. 

Four Cs

Everything You Need to Know About Creating Killer Content in 3 Simple Words

This was only the second post I’d written for Copyblogger. But it summed up what I’d learned in the preceding eights years of studying copywriting, web marketing, usability, and SEO.

In the following three posts I expanded on each on of the Cs.

Writing Clear Copy: The Only Rule You Need to Worry About

The number one rule when it comes to web writing is this: what you write must be clear. So how do you write copy that makes sense? Fortunately the answer is simple.

The Art of Writing Concise Copy

This is my process for editing web copy — from omitting useless words to abandoning a post. This is where you make your money.

How Cancer and Death Can Make a Dull Product Irresistible (Compelling)

We have to get to the heart if we want people to care. If we want people to respond. Here is how one company did that with their query-free insight discovery tool (I know, right, so exciting!).

Four Ps

Gimpy Web Copy? Use This 4-Step Formula to Make It Killer

Your prospect doesn’t care about your product. He just wants to know how he can solve his problem and turn his life around. He’ll worry about the actual product once he’s picked up the phone and called you. Great object lesson using ugly men.

Four Us

The Art of Writing Great Twitter Headlines (using the 4 Us)

Sure, this post is geared to Twitter headlines, but it’s a great introduction to the four Us approach to writing headlines.

Two Ways to Add Urgency to Your Headlines Right Now

The question I most often get asked when it comes to the four Us is this: “Can you explain what you mean by urgency?” I finally set this in print.

Problem-Agitate-Formula

Problem-Agitate-Solve: Best Formula for Writing Potent Web Ads

Absolutely love this formula across the board … but found it particularly useful when writing short content like product or meta descriptions.

A Formula for Controversy

5 Ways to Write Something That Catches Hell

Kicking up controversy is something every writer should know how to do. I don’t recommend you build your bedrock content on controversy, but once in a while it won’t hurt.

Over to You

The most notably missing formula is AIDA (Attention, Interest, Desire, and Action). I find that one confusing because I always get the interest and desire parts mixed up. Besides, the four Ps says the same thing … but better.

Got any formulas you use? Please share in the comments.

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