That headline sounds way more salacious than it is. I’m not talking about anything erotic here—just a powerful, persistent wish of mine.

Here it is: I want to time travel, but in a very specific way. I want to

• Easily go to any place and time I fancy (only in the past; the future spooks me)
• Remain invisible, unnoticed, and entirely safe while I’m there
• Retain the use of all five of my senses
• Be dressed comfortably—I want to experience the weather, but I don't want to suffer from it
• Have my husband accompany me, and be able to converse with him without anyone or anything around us noticing

I want to hear what English sounded like in Jamestown in 1607. Hear Old English in 1000 AD and Latin in 1000 BC. I want to hang out among Neanderthals. Visit 9000 BC and see what life was like at Göbekli Tepe (maybe sneak a taste of whatever they’re eating). I want to walk in the filthy streets of the world’s biggest cities when they’re packed with horses and humanity. Experience the odors, the cacophony, and the social behavior. I want to smell the exhaust and hear the engines of the earliest Model T Fords. I want to observe the night sky from a lightbulb-free planet.

More than anything else, I want to rewind time more than 66 million years so I can get up close and personal with DINOSAURS. Can you even imagine? Hearing them roar ... feeling the ground vibrate from their footsteps ... watching a Tyrannosaurus murdering its next meal. I want to inhale that extra oxygen and marvel at all the bizarre flora and fauna. (Being imperceptible means that no mosquitos or other creatures would ever bite me.)

Similarly, in a more recent era, I’d love to get close to some wooly mammoths,* saber-toothed cats, and—above all—giant sloths. Actually, I might go on an extinction world tour and check out some dodos, elephant birds, and maybe the Titanoboa (a snake that was something like forty feet long and 2,500 pounds). 

It’s all a nice dream. But alas, it ain’t gonna happen.

So instead, I indulge in the next best thing: old stuff. I’m not talking about visiting grand cathedrals and monuments—rather, I crave anything that reveals the experience of day-to-day life. I want to know where people slept and what they ate. What did they wear? Where did they eliminate their bodily waste? How’d they attempt to care for their teeth and trim their toenails? What songs did they sing? What games did they play? How did they treat one another? What did they smell like? ​

I stare at daguerrotypes, including post-mortem photographs (👈 don't click on that if corpses upset you). When I discovered the early-20th-century color photos of Sergey Prokudin-Gorsky, I absolutely swooned. They show the actual vibrant hues of people’s clothing, and for me, they serve as a magical portal to a much earlier time.

​I follow social media accounts with names like “Abandoned Places” and “Ancient Marvels of Mankind.” I can’t get enough images of Pompeii—the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 AD is the tragedy that keeps on giving.

I delight in a well-stocked antiques store, but I especially appreciate those antiques that still remain in their original locations—things like hitching posts, milk boxes, boot scrapers, and, of course, cobblestones. I adore ghost signs and other types of old signage.

One of my favorite ways of slipping into the past is through old print advertising. A visit to the Internet Archive or Duke University’s John W. Hartman Center for Sales, Advertising and Marketing History can entertain me for hours. Old ads show us a lot about the hucksters of the era, sure, but they also hint at what the general public struggled with and cared about. Here are three ads I found this week, captioned with what they tell me.

Oh, advertising! There’s so much about you that’s disturbing, but you do such a wonderful job of helping me step back in time (and appreciate my ability to return to the current day).

*Did you know there’s a project to bring back the wooly mammoth? Horror movies just write themselves, don’t they?
​

When I was in college, I took an archeology class. Archeology is the study of human beings through the artifacts they leave behind, so when I was assigned a paper on the topic of my choosing, I decided that the “artifacts” I wanted to examine were full-page ads in Life magazine. I’d analyze them to see what they told me about the society that shaped them (or vice versa). I can’t remember the exact date range I focused on, but it was wide enough and far back enough that I got to delve into all sorts of wonderful old ads in the college library, all in the name of archeology. Those were good times.

I still love looking at old ads. They’re such fascinating time capsules. I enjoy seeing bygone products and strange social conventions; plus, I’m captivated by the ads’ art direction, imagery, typography, and copywriting. 

Today, we have the beautiful convenience of the Internet Archive. So let’s look at some of its treasure, shall we?

Now, using Santa and Christmas to hawk cigarettes is nothing new—advertisers did it for many decades. But this particular ad makes me wonder. Why did they go for such a fiendish-looking Santa? He looks ... depraved. Drunk. Sinister. No child of mine would be allowed to sit on this creep’s lap. 

I’m intrigued by Murad’s mysterious tagline, which delivers its social-proof allure in just two words: Everywhere—Why? I believe it’s shorthand for, “These Turkish cigarettes are smoked around the globe. Why do you suppose so?” Answering the “Why?” is really beside the point—Murad’s alleged popularity was the enticement.

As for the quotation marks around the word GREETINGS: Do they mean that Santa is muttering that word through his smirking lips clamped around his Murad? Or are those scare quotes?

Finally, notice that 15¢ price. You won’t be surprised to learn that this ad ran more than a century ago, in 1915. 

Oof. Where to begin? The ludicrous mechanism and straps? The preposterous before-and-after fakery? The aggressive stoking of insecurity? Or the way this huckster shamelessly dubbed himself a “face specialist”?

This 1915 ad features an electric product it calls “Nature’s own remedy for muscle-fatigue and wornout nerves.” I didn’t think that Nature used a plug or batteries, but what do I know?

Nowhere is the price of this product mentioned. We only know that it “[c]osts little and quickly pays for itself in INCREASED PHYSICAL AND MENTAL POWER.” The Monarch Vibrator Company would mail you their product for nothing. Presumably, once you knew the benefits, once you’d learned “the real joy of living,” you wouldn’t be willing to part with it. 

Exhibit D—beer for the whole family:

You know what you don’t see anymore (at least in the US)? Small children in beer ads. You don’t see beer described as “honest” or “wholesome” or “for the whole family,” as in this 1911 ad from Blatz Brewing Company.

You also don’t see hand-lettering like that anymore. Just look at those B’s!

In 1903, to send off for this “absolutely harmless” soap that “never fails to reduce flesh,” you didn’t need a street address. You just mailed your $2.00 to “Norwood Chemical Co., St. James Bldg., N.Y.,” and you’d receive your two cakes (not bars, but cakes!) of La Parle Obesity Soap. If we’re to believe the internet, that price tag would be more than $70.00 in 2024.

Seems preposterous, right? Who would ever fall for such a thing, right? Until you discover that people are still making the same nonsensical claims even  as I type this. 👇 🙄

This is only a small sampling of the advertising delicacies available on the Internet Archive. I suspect I’ll be back with more soon. Stay tuned!

Ohhhhhhh. Now everything began to make sense. (Why did it take me so long to figure this out?)

I decided to go right to the horse’s robotic mouth:

There you have it. AI says that “price-slashin’” is “just a fun and informal way to describe” something.

No, it’s not. It’s weird and awkward and distractingly hokey. It took up a lot of my brain-space today.

So let me say this to Priceline and others of their ilk. Please listen to this living, breathing, HUMAN copywriter. Your brand matters. It is the lifeblood, the heartbeat, the personality of your company. With just a pinch of exaggeration and poetic license I’ll say that it’s the very soul of your company. It’s what makes human beings (read: customers, potential customers, partners, etc.) remember you. Understand you. And ideally, LIKE you. Take care of your brand, for crying out loud!

Penny and the rest of her AI brethren do not care about your brand. The question is, do you?

This ridiculous ad 👆 just popped up while I was working on the job I’m now procrastinating.

I saw those awful overblown smiles in that preposterously contrived pose, and I was reminded of my mother.

Not because she made those freaky fake facial expressions. (She did not.) No, it was because of a onetime experience we had together. 

I was a teenager, and my mother and I were in a mall together in Oklahoma City, walking around, looking at this and that. We stopped in front of a jewelry store where an enormous photograph featured a woman radiating the ecstatic delight that only a diamond can deliver.

Like in the photo above, this model had her mouth wide open, showing the world her irrepressible glee and her years of orthodontia. My mother and I could see that the situation demanded derision.

So we approached the picture and marveled at the outsized absurdity together. And that’s when we saw it. A line of saliva stretching between the model’s upper and lower teeth. Because the photo was so huge, so was this string of spit. Probably not quite the size of a baseball bat, but it may as well have been.

The laughter that ensued was truly maniacal. Physically taxing. Possibly dangerous. You know what I’m talking about—wheezing, crying, clutching our stomachs.

No mortgage, no diamond, no product or service can deliver the raw, wild, fabulous joy that my mother and I experienced on that day—or the memory that remains with me all these years later.

Thanks for letting me share. Time for me to get back to work.

I spend a whole lot of time on LinkedIn. It’s the place where I can procrastinate by building my business and vice versa. It’s a win-win, whenever I want.

Initially, I was careful to follow the conventional wisdom of only connecting with people on LinkedIn I knew in real life. But I quickly realized that such “wisdom” is poppycock, and you have much more to gain by consenting to connections somewhat indiscriminately—at least if you post daily, like I do. More connections means more eyeballs means more people understanding what I have to offer. Thus far, I have not been lured into a cult or lost all my savings to an overseas prince—or whatever the purported risks are of being like me—a self-proclaimed LinkedIn slut.

Anyway, every now and then, I receive messages from new LinkedIn connections that begin with some form of the question, “How are you?”

In real life, I know that such a question can be something of a throwaway line. You might walk past Dolores from accounting, smile, nod, and say, “How’s it going?” You don't really expect Dolores to answer. You two know one another, so it’s appropriate to sling and accept such niceties. Questions like “How ya doin’” are understood to be merely phatic. (👈 Great word alert!)

But when a complete stranger on LinkedIn asks me how I am, it feels both preposterous and off-putting. It’s like they’ve just asked me when I lost my virginity or had my last bowel movement. All I can think is, “Why on earth are you asking me that, and why would I ever answer you?”

Then part of me fantasizes about answering their question with the singleminded goal of rendering them speechless. I could say something like:

“So glad you asked! Are you familiar with scurvy? And scabies? And gingivitis? I have those. Plus two flat tires and a warrant for my arrest. On the plus side, a DNA test has revealed that I’m two-thirds Australian cattle dog, so I’ve filed for dual citizenship. Oh, and I’ve discovered an amazing opportunity I’d love to tell you about, and all I need is $999.99 for your first information session. No time like the present, I always say—would you rather use a credit card or PayPal?”

Alas, I never do this. Out of a mixture of self-preservation, laziness, and probably a soupçon of hostility, I simply never respond. I ghost them. So I will call this my ghost story, and with it, I will wish you a Happy Halloween—whether I know you or not.

I recently discovered that if you’re an Audible member (as I have been for more than 20 years), you can get a whole bunch of Lorrie Moore audiobooks for free.

Whee! I love Lorrie Moore.

I’m listening to her story collection called Self-Help right now, and I’m thoroughly enjoying and admiring it.

Most of the stories put the reader in the center of the action. (That’s de rigueur for copywriting, but an unconventional approach for fiction.) The author will tell you “How to Be an Other Woman” or give you “The Kid's Guide to Divorce,” colorfully spelling out what actions you might go through, what observations you might make, what emotions you might feel. It’s so intriguing, so effective, and so creative.

Also creative is the way the story “How to Talk to Your Mother (Notes)” moves backward, one year at a time. That sounds like it might feel annoying or confusing, but it works beautifully and really tugged my heart every which way.

Here’s a tidbit from it:

The hum, rush, clack of things in the kitchen. These are some of the sounds that organize your life. The clink of the silverware inside the drawer, piled like bones in a mass grave. Your similes grow grim, grow tired.

I could hear, see, and feel that kitchen drawer. And I appreciated how Moore poked fun of her own description.

There’s humor sprinkled throughout these tales. Here’s a cat cleaning herself in “Amahl and the Night Visitors: A Guide to the Tenor of Love”:

She sees you watching, freezes, blinks at you, then busies herself again, her face in her belly, one leg up at a time, an intent ballerina in a hairy body stocking.

Amidst all this entertaining, evocative writing, the thing that really stopped me in my tracks, that made me want to blog about this author and this book, is a device called a zeugma. (Great to know for Words with Friends or Scrabble. That Z alone is worth 10 points!)

A zeugma, as Merriam-Webster explains, is

the use of a word to modify or govern two or more words usually in such a manner that it applies to each in a different sense or makes sense with only one (as in “opened the door and her heart to the homeless boy”).

So. In the story entitled “How,” Moore writes:
​
But I love you, he will say in his soft, bewildered way, stirring the spaghetti sauce but not you, staring into the pan as if waiting for something, a magic fish, to rise from it…

Stirring the spaghetti sauce but not you. I love it.

If you look up “zeugma” on Wikipedia, you will find yourself in a complex hamster Habitrail® of rhetorical devices. But for regular people like me, zeugmas are typically just unexpected, playful, and fun. Wordplay, as they say.

(Side note: The etymology of zeugma has to do with connecting, linking, or yoking. The ancient city of Zeugma is so called because of a local bridge of connected boats that crossed the Euphrates.)
​
Here are some literary zeugma examples that I found on this Your Dictionary page:

Yet time and her aunt moved slowly—and her patience and her ideas were nearly worn out before the tête-à-tête was over. – Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

He was alternately cudgeling his brains and his donkey. – Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist

They tugged and tore at each other's hair and clothes, punched and scratched each other’s nose, and covered themselves with dust and glory. – Mark Twain, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
​
I’ll tell you this much: Zeugmas are tricky to write. I don’t even want to admit how much time I spent on the title of this blog.

Give it a try. Write a zeugma. See how it goes—and why these things aren’t more common.

​
PS: The book link above is an affiliate link. So I can keep rolling in the pennies.

I find the idea of AI-assisted copywriting pretty terrifying. Every time I use Google Docs to write something, a voice in my head says, “They’re recording all of this. Every keystroke. Every hesitation. Every correction. Soon, they (whoever that is) will be able to replicate your voice exactly. You will be rendered obsolete. You will become impoverished. Worthless. Ruined. And you’ll have no one to blame but yourself. You will have handed them the keys to your copy kingdom, all for the sake of convenience.”

I admitted as much to a small networking group last week. But one of the participants assured me that Jarvis.ai, the self-proclaimed “future of writing” was a wonderful tool. Hmmm, I thought. Hmmm.

A few days later, when I shared my AI anxiety with a group of copywriters, my friend Bill assuaged it a bit, reminding me that new tools are frequently scary at first, but then they come to be ordinary.

And so, dear reader, I am dictating this text into Jarvis right now. I had surgery on my hand yesterday, and the aforementioned Jarvis enthusiast has given me a free five–day trial at the highest subscription tier, so I’m using my post-op recovery time to play around with what could well be my replacement. (Jarvis will never require hand surgery. Or hands.)

I’m going to conduct a little experiment. I’ve written everything above this point myself. But now I’m going to give Jarvis the command, “Use the text above to finish this blog.” Let’s see what happens.

Oops. Take two.

OK. That was an unfair test, evidently. Jarvis just repeated what I’d written, word for word.

Now I’ll instead ask it to write three paragraphs answering the question, “Should copywriters feel threatened by Jarvis and other AI?” (Edit—I directed it to go beyond three paragraphs.)

Here’s what Jarvis wrote.

As a copywriter, I'm very curious about how AI can be used to create content. And as a writer, who knows how intimidating the blank page can be, I've been exploring this myself for some months now. But what seems scary to many writers is that AI will take over the profession—or at least large parts of it.

In short: No need to fear! Certainly, copywriters should use every tool at their disposal--whether it's motivational apps or mindmapping techniques or just dousing oneself with coffee and getting started on that white paper--but they shouldn't worry too much about artificial intelligence taking over their livelihoods anytime soon (if ever). 

Copywriting has developed into an artistic discipline like anything else; there are still rules that can be followed, but the best writing is often creative and innovative. And AI isn't intelligent enough to do that yet.

However, all this doesn't mean copywriters shouldn't explore the possibilities of new tools like Jarvis—the future of writing--in their own work. For example, it can help marketers create more targeted content using natural language generation (NLG) to increase their lead generation.

So relax, copywriters. You may be able to stop obsessively checking your email for that message from Google telling you that it's "improved" your writing style and now it won't need you anymore. Relax and enjoy the ride!

Well, well, well. That was a pleasant surprise! Jarvis worked out some complete thoughts, and apparently wasn't intimidated by the idea of writing a blog post on AI's impact on copywriting.

I don't know if it's any good, but I have to admit that it sounds pretty professional—much more so than anything I've been able to produce.

Conclusion (and a question).
​
It’s me again. Sara. The one with the hands and the heartbeat.

So Jarvis is telling me to relax and enjoy the ride; and also, that it can write much more professionally than I can. It says that it probably won’t be taking over my livelihood soon. I'm left feeling both uneasy and insulted. This little Jarvis guest post is part gaslighting, part death threat.

What do you think? Should I spend between $29 and $119 a month to keep my enemy close?​

Gravel. Goose down. Sawdust. Hay. These are just a few of the generic commodities you could stuff into a pillowcase, if you were so inclined. Any of it would become the pillowcase’s content.

When someone asks for “content” for a website or social media post, they’re essentially saying, “I don’t care what you put in there, just fill it up.” The gist is, “I need this empty space to stop being empty.”

Whoever came up with the term content sure didn’t appreciate the power of language. They didn’t recognize its ability to grab attention, stoke emotions, change minds, and incite action. The coiner of content wasn’t a writer—and probably not much of a reader. They surely won’t read this particular, erm…“content,” so I could probably take this opportunity to call them a troglodyte or doo-doo head.

But I’d never.
​
Now, as a copywriter, I should point out that originally, the term “copy” wasn’t all that great, either. The word hearkens back to the poor hunched, eye-strained scribes who spent their days and candlelit nights meticulously copying documents and books by hand. They had to write a copious amount of text. The root of both copy and copious is the Latin word copia, meaning abundance. It’s the same copia we see in our Thanksgiving-centric cornucopia—“horn of plenty.” (See below.)

But copywriters don’t copy. (The ethical ones don’t, anyway.) We write the words that get reproduced by printing presses or computer monitors. We create original text that’s worthy of wide distribution.

What we don’t write—or certainly shouldn’t—is mere fluff and filler. That would be no better than the common placeholder text “Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet….” (That wording is called “Greek,” but it isn’t Greek. It’s some slightly mangled Latin from a treatise published by Cicero in 45 BC.)

Whether copywriters are writing ads or emails, posters or packaging, blogs or scripts or tweets, our words are meant to have impact. The sentences we so carefully craft are not inert stuffing; they accomplish goals. They tell stories. Gain interest. Build trust. Make sales.

Good writing does not, as the name content implies, merely fill a void.

Almost any name would have been better than content. Fuel, maybe. Magic, or gold. Honestly, I’d settle for the simple term that evokes all of that power and value to me: just words.

But we could have come up with something else. Splendor? Sparkle? Voltage? Vim? How about lexi, which sounds like sexy but is rooted in the Greek lexikos, “pertaining to words”?

No matter what, whoever came up with content should have hired a writer.
​
What would you have called “content,” given the chance?

​

I've said before that I am not a grammar Nazi. I have no interest in shaming anyone or trying to prove any kind of superiority. I promise.

I do believe, however, that many people—particularly businesspeople—want to write clearly and correctly, and I'm happy to help them achieve that goal.

So a while back, when a customer service rep typed "your welcome" to me, I shared the above screenshot on LinkedIn. I pointed out that it's an extremely common error and explained ​that when you say "you're welcome," you're creating a contraction of "you are welcome." I thought it might help some people better understand and remember the correct spelling.

(I did not​ write, or even imply, "Look how stupid this person is." I simply explained the correct spelling.)

I was surprised when I got this response from a "senior business development manager":

Huh.

I had to think about that just a bit.

While I was thinking, I did a bit of "research" (read: Googling) about this conviction that so long as we can understand each other, we shouldn't be fussing about apostrophes and spelling.

And I discovered that this senior business development manager's opinion was not unique. I found a meme that echoed his sentiment with just a touch more vulgarity:

I won't even comment on that missing apostrophe. I'll just address the question.

First—in my defense, I never correct people directly unless I know they want me to, and then I only do so privately.

But as for the "correctness" thing, I'll explain "why the fuck" it matters.

It matters because we live in a society. With conventions and expectations. And—occasionally—manners. We abide by certain rules to get along harmoniously. To establish credibility. To gain trust and respect. This is why you don't typically show up for a job interview barefoot or pick your nose when you're meeting your new neighbors. It's why you stand in line and wear pants in Starbucks. It's why your doctor doesn't buff his fingernails while he's listing your treatment options.

Also, writing is about connecting and communicating with our readers. We owe them the kindness of making our message as clear as possible. It's like holding a door open for them. It's polite. We're helping them along. We're putting in a good effort to save them trouble. We're showing them respect.

I admit that writing is a series of judgment calls, and I might write more casually on Twitter than I would on behalf of a higher education client. But fundamentally, I always try to think about the people reading my writing, and I try to treat them well.

So that's "the issue," and that's my position, for anyone who's wondering.

You're welcome.

Congratulate me. Seriously. I deserve it.

This week, I finally gave a client a logo I started working on—yes—one year ago.

Want to know why? Because I am not a professional designer.

Why, you may ask, would I create a logo for a client if I am not a designer?

Excellent question.

The answer can be found somewhere in the neighborhood of “enthusiasm” and “curiosity.” Cross street: “naïveté.”

When I began freelancing (as a copywriter, not a designer) in 2016, I quickly decided that I wanted to learn how to use Adobe Illustrator (and maybe a few other applications in Adobe Suite). I started watching instructional videos and practicing and slowly, slowly acquiring knowledge.

But I realized I needed a professional to occasionally lean over my shoulder and give me some guidance. So when a “branding design” class opened up nearby—taught by a creative director I really admire—I paid for it within approximately two minutes and eagerly awaited the first class.

I was going to get to work on logos! Color palettes! Typography! With professional guidance!

The class convened. And it wasn’t quite what I was expecting. We focused a lot on positioning and strategic branding. We worked on articulating brands with words much more than with design. 

But at a certain point, I was given the assignment to develop a brand, complete with logo.

Rather than work for an imaginary client, I thought I’d try to help out a nonprofit. I found one right in my town, met with the managing director, and got going. After some preliminary work, it came time to create … the logo.

The creative director/teacher of my branding class gave me very friendly feedback on the designs I shared, but I could tell he was being way too forgiving. I knew I wasn’t finished with the logo by the time the class concluded.

I kept working. I got help from several designer friends. And eventually, with MUCH assistance, I came up with half a dozen logos. The client chose one, and just this week, I finished creating all the requisite formats, zipped the file, and sent it off. Ta-da!

Now, let me say that part of this year-long logo turnaround has to do with the nonprofit I worked with—how infrequently their board meets, and a definite lack of urgency on their end. But a big part of it has to do with how freaking difficult it is for a non-designer to create a logo.

Yes, I’ve worked closely with professional designers for 30 years. I’ve attended countless design conferences and events. I’m a member of AIGA. I know *something* about design. But I did not earn a degree in design. And this became painfully obvious. Because designing a logo is challenging in about a dozen different ways. And every challenge was amplified by my ignorance.

I learned a lot from this adventure, to be sure. But I won’t enumerate all the lessons I absorbed about typography alignment and CMYK values and Pantone workarounds and EPS files. Instead, I want to tell you my most important takeaways from my Very Challenging Logo Project.

My Three Commandments for Hiring Designers

I’ve felt all of these things throughout my career. But never so strongly as I do now. 

1) Give designers plenty of time.

​Most non-designers have a drastically skewed view of how long it takes to do anything design-wise. The advent of Photoshop contributed to this misperception. Non-designers think everything should take just a few keystrokes to accomplish. Never assume any such thing. Every aspect of design—researching, concepting, creating, tweaking, reviewing, etc.—takes time. Practice saying this with me now so you can say it to your designer later: “How much time do you need?”

2) Give designers plenty of money.

If you are a non-designer, I promise you this: Your designer knows more than you do about design. Designers have worked hard to become educated and savvy professionals. They are artists. They are technicians. They are problem-solvers and problem-preventers. They know how to help you. They are worth every penny. Pay them. Pay them well. Pay them on time.

3) Give designers plenty of respect.

I’ve been in the advertising/marketing business long enough to know that this needs saying. Repeating. Yelling. It’s closely tied with items #1 and #2 above. Don’t impose ridiculous deadlines. Don’t ignore invoices. Don’t wait until the last minute to answer questions. Don’t request changes because your wife doesn’t care for the color green. In fact, if you’re going to request any changes, preface them with this: “Let me know if you think this will compromise what you’re trying to accomplish with your design. If so, let me know. Please tell me what you think.”

Now. Does anyone need a logo? Because I know quite a few designers I’d be happy to recommend.