Somewhere deep in the basement of every office building which houses an advertising department or agency, is a janitor's room -- and one floor below this cheery chamber, in the darkest, dankest, dampest corner of the sub basement, you will find a not-too-spacious, poorly-lit area in which a musty, dusty odor abounds. This is the natural habitat of the copywriter The copywriter can usually be found whittling on, chewing into, cutting up, sleeping across, or chained to a scratched up lean-to which, in his more creative moments, he uses as a desk. At his left there is usually found an old beat-up word processor, and at his right a waste basket stacked high to overflowing with crumpled bond -- a monument to words which (in the copy chief's opinion) might have missed the sale. A copywriter is a story of contrasts. He has the temper of a panther, is as sensitive as a pregnant woman, as sarcastic as a salesgirl, as unmanageable as a movie star. One day he may be as loud as an atomic bomb, and the next as quiet as a mouse. One minute he's as healthy as a horse and calm as a cucumber, and the next as sick as a dog and nervous as a cat. Copywriters like weekends, sporty cars, gambling, airplanes, all hobbies, cigarettes, and pipes, secretaries, paychecks, long vacations with pay, short vacations for coffee, pats on the back, his own copy, music, office parties, long lunches, and bourbon in its bonded form. He is not much for copy chiefs, layouts, speeches, art directors, accounting, advertising awards, and people who talk about the "glamour" of the advertising profession. Nobody else is so late to come in or so early to leave. Nobody else has more imagination or less self assurance. Nobody else sees more (when a secretary walks by) or hears less (when the boss explains a campaign). Nobody else can cram into one lap drawer five carbons of his latest copy, eighteen assorted issues of Advertising Age and Printer's Ink, four old-type novels, seventy-two broken pieces of a gum eraser, one hundred and eleven pencils of assorted sizes and colors, and a three-year-old wedding invitation. No one else has started to write so many novels, or stopped to talk to so many women. A copywriter is the oddest of creatures -- by nature he is normal but, by heaven, he's a screwball. He can sell half the people in the country a jar of pickles but he's afraid to ask a friend to buy a ticket to a church supper. Unfortunately, sales managers must live with him, for he can take the stilted, awkward words they use to tell him what they want and turn them into the warm language of the living room. Yes, without knowing even the rudiments of economics and with all his idiosyncrasies, the copy writer can start more people thinking more thoughts about spending more money and buying more goods than an army of Fuller Brush men or the masters of the planned economy. |