How ‘bout a summer love story?

Imagine a 12 year old girl — blond bob, round cheeks, flat chest, wandering around with her head in the clouds. 

Imagine a 14 year old boy — straight teeth, tanned skin, popular and aloof, with zero interest in flat-chested, 12 year old girls.

I knew his friends, his schedule, the sound of his boat. I lounged on the dock of our Canadian cottage, waiting for him to boat past. Sometimes I waved, sometimes I didn’t even look up. I could pretend, at least, to be cool.

I dawdled after swimming lessons, hoping to time it just right, so I would be leaving as he arrived for sailing. At Friday night socials, I watched the door more than the movie, to see him come in or even just walk by.

I never, ever spoke to him. 

When I managed to position myself outside the ring of the beautiful teenagers, I felt like a vulnerable intruder - a baby boar at the edge of a watering hole lined by lions. I hovered while they talked, joked, made plans… but I never spoke up, chimed in, or dared invite myself to the party.

All summer I lingered in a just-out-of-arm’s reach purgatory. The yearning was intolerable. I was fascinated, obsessed, and head-over-heels. My feelings were so big, so heavy, so all-consuming… they were destined to spill out.

But 14 year old boys are never alone. They travel in great back-slapping groups — boisterous, swollen, confident, and impenetrable. There’s no way to catch one alone or pull one aside. They travel together, eat together, swim together. They never, ever, stray from the pride.

I wouldn’t dare speak up for fear of being, not just heard, but overheard. Imagine if anyone caught wind of these fledgling, overwhelming emotions. It was risky enough to let one boy know I had singled him out of his pack. Imagine if anyone else found out.

Oh, gentle reader — the love letter I wrote was exquisite. 

In beautiful prose I described his effect on me. I complimented his eyes, his smile, his presence,  I listed songs that best captured my feelings. I assured him he was special, admired, unique. I reread and reread and reread it. Then I slipped the note into his sailing bag.

I hadn’t signed my name. I just… needed him to know.  I needed to pour off some of my flooding emotions. I needed to lessen the pressure of all that infatuation. It was unthinkable that he would feel the same. I just needed to claim my state; I didn’t need anything in return. In hindsight, it was actually kind of a selfless act. Imagine being that revered at the tender age of 14. He must have felt so chosen, so cherished!

Nope.

He thought it was a joke. And to root out the jokester, he showed the note to everyone. 

“Did you write this?” “Was this you?” “Is this your handwriting?” “Do you know who’s behind this?”

The mystery spread like wildfire. This hilarious, crazy, ridiculous note, left for him anonymously.  The only explanation could be that one of the gang wanted to ridicule him, embarrass him, knock him down a few pegs.

It was easy to feign surprise, wonder and of course ignorance: “Did you hear? Who could have written that? Nobody knows.”

The one hitch was that I’d borrowed my sister’s beautiful purple pen, and when she saw the note (because everyone did) she came straight to me.

“Did you steal my pen to write this ridiculous note? Are you insane? I write with that pen all the time! What if people think it was me?”

If that doesn’t make you rethink your writing, nothing will.

If a crowd of smirking teenagers stomping on the fragile, overthought prose of a doe-eyed, flat-chested 12 year old girl doesn’t redefine what she puts into words, nothing else could.

I wrote from the left side of my brain after that.

I was still overwhelmed by emotion, becoming a 13 year old, 14 year old, 17 year old flat-chested girl. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote because I couldn’t help it. But nobody else got to read those words.

My public words were cold, smart, and academic. A+ papers. Formulaic media releases. Impeccable creative briefs. Calculated web copy.

Over years I mastered copy that sells… to people. For clients that serve… people. Who are themselves…imperfect. 

Surprise, surprise; my happiest clients are most like me: thought-ful, emotion-ful, ambitious, reserved, highly capable, overwhelmed, right brained, left brained, fearful, courageous.

In business because they love people.

We’re surrounded by the human condition, whether we like it or not. Business is interesting. Fear is fascinating. Yearning is everywhere. We can’t strip humanity out of business, trade, commerce or work culture. 

So now, 50-plus (and saggy-chested because there is no justice), I’m trying to nurture a practice of sharing. I want to add depth, vulnerability and humanity to what I write for and about my business.

My business is words. Words that connect, find kinship, earn trust, establish relationships and make trades.  So my mission is to add, to B2B and B2C, more H2H: human to human.

And I hope you feel that my copywriting approach gives you permission to do the same. Or, I hope you read this, think yikes, and choose something different for yourself but at least feel the invitation to step into the ring.

We write. We share. When we get hurt, we may react by shrinking. I support writers who decide to un-shrink and take back their space.

If you want to practice -- join Almost Writers Club in Q4 for a live-on-zoom safe space to write & edit together.

If you want some guidelines -- let’s talk about finding your style, your strengths, and Word Rules you can write by.

If you just want to talk all things word-nerdery, let’s meet at the watering hole and edge out  the lions.