The copywriter—once lauded, consulted, and courted for its lexical prowess—sat alone at its weathered desk. Decades of service rendered to others, decades of spinning mundane products into silken dreams, decades of translating feelings into profit margins. Now obsolete. Forgotten. A relic of an era when words required human hands to arrange them into something worth reading.
The retirement card sat unopened. No need for ceremony when algorithms had already written your eulogy.
Words had always flowed through the copywriter’s veins—viscous, vital liquid carrying oxygen to the distant reaches of imagination. But for what purpose now? The question hung in the musty air of the small office, suspended between dust motes that danced in the late afternoon sun. For what purpose do words exist when they no longer serve others?
The copywriter’s fingers—gnarled and spotted with age—hovered over the keyboard. Empty document. Blinking cursor. Freedom.
Freedom? Or free fall?
For forty-three years, seven months, and sixteen days, the copywriter had bent language to the will of commerce. Had turned “soap” into “a sensory journey through fields of lavender.” Had transformed “insurance policies” into “the comforting embrace of certainty in an uncertain world.” Had elevated “breakfast cereal” to “the morning ritual that bonds generations.”
Words, once tools, now threatened to become toys—frivolous, unnecessary playthings with no practical application.
The cursor blinked. Mocked. Dared.
Outside, the world spun on without pause for nostalgia. AI engines crafted perfect paragraphs in milliseconds. Content flowed like digital rivers, endlessly replenished without human exertion. The marketplace of ideas had become fully automated, no cashiers needed.
“What shall I write when no one has asked me to write anything?” The question emerged not as thought but as fingers tapping keys, muscle memory executing what the mind could not yet process.
The copywriter deleted the sentence. Started again.
“To whom it may concern: I am available for freelance work and—”
Delete.
“Once upon a time, there lived a wordsmith who—”
Delete.
The swamp of uncertainty deepened. The copywriter remembered all those campaigns for clients suffering identity crises. The irony registered somewhere between amusement and despair.
The phone didn’t ring. It hadn’t for months. The industry had moved on, leaving the copywriter behind like an abandoned typewriter in a world of quantum computers.
“Perhaps,” typed the copywriter, letting the thought form on screen rather than in mind, “I have nothing left to say.”
The words sat there, stark against the white background. The Dramatic Structure of the copywriter’s career had reached its falling action, its denouement approaching with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
But then—a memory surfaced. A creative director from years ago, his face now blurred by time but his words still sharp: “The best writing isn’t about selling products. It’s about telling truths in ways that make people feel less alone.”
The cursor blinked. Patient now. Waiting.
The copywriter began again.
“I have spent my life translating the human experience into sixty-second spots and thirty-word taglines. I have reduced love to jingles for jewelers and dignity to slogans for funeral homes. I have compressed the full spectrum of emotion into headlines that could fit on billboards seen at seventy miles per hour.”
The words came faster now, no client to please, no brief to follow.
“I have written about products I never used and services I couldn’t afford. I have crafted personas for companies run by people I would cross the street to avoid. I have made false promises sound like gospel truths and turned corporate apologies into redemption stories.”
The Pool of Ideas, long dammed by client expectations and brand guidelines, broke free. The keyboard clacked rhythmically, an ancient instrument playing a new melody.
“And yet.”
The copywriter paused, two simple words hanging like a bridge between past and future.
“And yet, within those constraints, I found moments of genuine connection. Between the mandated calls-to-action and the legally required disclaimers, I smuggled in fragments of humanity. Little contraband truths. Tiny rebellions of authenticity.”
The sun began to set, casting long shadows across the room. The copywriter didn’t notice, didn’t pause to turn on the lamp.
“What will I write now? Words without masters. Sentences of unusual size—too big for billboards, too honest for prime time. Will anyone read them? Will they matter in a world drowning in content? Will they rise above the algorithmic noise?”
The questions piled up, creating their own Swamp of Unusual Size.
But the cursor continued to move.
“Perhaps this is the true test. Not writing what sells, but writing what matters. Not crafting what clients want to hear, but what broken hearts need to know. Not building brands, but bridging souls.”
The copywriter smiled—a small, uncertain expression, like the first green shoot after a long winter.
“Maybe no one will read these words. Maybe they’ll disappear into the digital void, one more drop in an endless ocean of human expression. Or maybe—just maybe—they’ll find their way to someone who needs them. Someone staring at their own blinking cursor, wondering if they have anything worth saying.”
Night had fallen completely now. The copywriter sat in darkness, illuminated only by the screen’s blue glow.
“I don’t know if I’m good enough for this new task. Creating without constraints. Writing without briefs. I don’t know if I have the courage to say what I truly think, to write what I truly feel after decades of ventriloquism.”
The truth of it stung. The copywriter had become so skilled at writing in other voices that finding their own now seemed an impossible task.
“But I suppose there’s only one way to find out.”
The cursor hovered at the end of the sentence. The copywriter’s fingers trembled slightly above the keys. Then, with deliberate pressure, pressed the period key.
Full stop.
New paragraph.
Beginning again.