You know who you are.
You are a copywriter.
Preferably one who can write.
About anything - and I do mean anything.
The writer is a squirrelly breed. The true copywriter is a moody, Holden-Caulfield-esque, pencil behind the ear, dram of whiskey in hand type who eviscerates you with a razor-sharp wit, and then carefully sculpts three perfect lines of body copy about the tampon he'd use to stop the bleeding.
I've known a few good ones. Few enough that I know they are rare.
I knew a copywriter who could write a squirrel into a medical brochure.
I knew another who got me to sing "Somewhere" to a bunch of dudes at a sales meeting in Vegas.
These guys don't want to write novels.
They want to achieve greatness. Laughs. Admiration. They want empathy. They want to be understood. Trusted. By their partners, their bosses and by african american women ages 35-55.
Where are they now?
This guy is.