Rite of passage

Sawyer tried console himself as he looked around his home. Scattered all around were leaves, twigs, and damp sand. Avoiding his eyes, his wife swept the trash away, mumbling to herself as she did so.

She was too afraid of saying anything that’d ruffle him. He’d had a rough time as it is, and coming from her, even the undeniable truth would only irritate him further.

Unable to bear the ringing silence, “I’m so sorry!” he cried breaking down. “I thought it was time.”

His wife sighed in silence. “Maybe it’s a rite of passage to farming. Cultivating premature crop.”


Drink to me only…

The best thing about dining out—apart from the fancy interior and fine food—is the classy glasses. Add a straw and it makes me feel extra pampered—like a child.

My fellow diner was a colleague I didn’t know much about. We’d travelled together for a work event and had to share a meal one evening. And our choice of beverage, much like us, was so different. It was a nice moment of contrasting liquids.


Evolution of a copywriter

All the world’s a stage
And all the men and women corporate players
They have their exits and their entrances
And one copywriter in their time plays many parts,
Their acts being many stages. At first, landing page writer,
Whining and sucking up to search engine’s demands.
Then the musing copywriter, with a wonder
And unsure morning face, creeping like snail
battling the block. And then the reviewer,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful look
of enduring unendearing copy. Then a soldier,
The editor—full of strange rules, wired like a DJ,
Unperturbed, irritable, excited all in quick succession,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the manager’s good books. And then a senior,
In fair round belly with experience underneath,
With eyes bloodshot trying shoes of formal cut,
Full of wise wit and modern puns;
And so they play their part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and pushback chair,
With spectacles on nose and munchies on side;
The youthful curiosity well satisfied, in a world growing
bigger than ad copy, evolving into testing,
Turning toward marketing, managing social
media and listening. Last scene of all,
That topples this strange eventful history,
Is second copywriting and mere simplicity,
Sans typos, sans click-baits, sans vanity metrics—well, almost.

It’s been almost five years since I started working as a copywriter. And during that period, I’ve had to play many different roles within my team. I was wondering how a copywriter is also a content marketer, a social media manager, advertising writer, script writer, technical writer, creative writer, and so much more, when I remembered one of my all-time favourite poems. The connection seemed only too obvious.


Pride of the nation

a pedigree of soldiers

presented with death


“Large. Extra frothy almond milk with cocoa, cinnamon, and brown sugar.”

It wasn’t the first time that Ben bought, and Jenny handed him his boss’s beverage. In her four years as barista, countless Bens had rushed in with profuse requests.

As the afternoon rolled in, their bosses called them aside.

“What’s up?”

“You need to work harder. Unless you show some real progress, I may have to cut down on your pay.”

She’d missed her break, and he his. It wasn’t new—they’d skip meals just to ensure others didn’t. And they knew better than to slight each other’s work.