Stimulating!

Yes Yes Yes Yes YES YESS YYESSSSS!

A man's voice shrieks orgasmically on the radio.

I cringe.

My first thought is that someone's neck is going to be on the block for allowing this spot on the radio. (4 1/2 years of doing Sharia-compliant advertising, and your internal censor is always alert).

My mind races to deduce the product being advertised.

Condoms? (No WAY!)

Fine dining? (Nah... Too Harry met Sally-ish.)

Some get-rich scheme? Hmm.

The spot ends soon enough...

I would never have guessed.

It's for a men's magazine.

Ironically, titled 'iQ'

The spot signs off with the line, 'Because men need mental stimulation'.

So that explains why men have sex on the mind.

It doesn't quite ad up

"UAE ads lack originality," screams a headline in Arabian Business.

Appearing as it does, a week or so before Ramadan, this headline isn't so far from the truth. I have a small collection of 'Ramadan' ads from last year - in categories ranging from real estate to cars, and appliances to supermarkets - which feature the 'mandatory' crescent moon in a way that just begs you to hastily turn the page and ignore the ad. Yes, it's a sad reflection on one's chosen profession.

Back to the survey, there were some grim figures thrown in:

55% say advertising is not original

71% believe only a small percentage of advertising is relevant to them

68% believe the advertising does not predispose them favourably towards the brand

Apparently, the survey has "revealed for the first time the size of the gap between what advertisers are trying to achieve and the actual impact of advertising."

So what will bridge this cavernous gap?

Research, apparently. Companies are 'urged to spend their advertising dollars better by testing creative concepts at the start.'

Great idea.

Is it a coincidence then that the company that has conducted this very revelatory survey and recommended research also happens to be a "market research company working all over the Arab world and specialising in qualitative research and online polling"?

Smokescreen

The Annual Cannes Advertising Festival results are out. The creative department in the agency is agog. There’s a huddle around the computer downloading the winners’ list. It’s a great year for Indian advertising – 58 nominations, of which 12 have turned into gold, silver and bronze.

The brilliance is sizzling; humbling even. Some ideas leap off the screen and strike you between the eyes. Some creep up slowly and punch you in the gut. A whistle of appreciation. A dismissive snort. A reverential silence.

There’s this winning entry in the Outdoor/Poster category from Everest Advertising, Mumbai, that demands a closer look. There are two pictures. The first picture depicts an unusual vantage point – a view from the bottom of a freshly dug grave. A square patch of sunlight is visible; around the edge of the ‘grave’ stand mournful relatives and a priest ministering the final blessing.

The second picture shows the first picture stuck on a ceiling of a Smoking Zone. Two people standing under the poster with cigarettes dangling from their fingers look up at it with tremulous expressions.

The penny drops. It’s a poster for the Cancer Patients Aid Association. By putting it on a ceiling, it gives those smoking below the impression that they’re being readied for burial.

A bold new way to convey an age-old, almost clichéd message. The murmurs of approval from those huddled around the computer reaches a crescendo. Even the cynics among the lot hail it. The finger on the mouse pauses before moving on to the next entry. Two questions hover in most minds - How did they think of this? Why didn’t I think of this? This is the best Indian entry, one person declares. What a killer idea, another repeats for the fourth time, shaking his head in awe.

They troop out one by one and meet again in the passage outside the office. The sole lighter is passed around. Amid puffs of smoke, the killer idea is once again given the thumbs up.


P.S. I doubt if my description of the poster did enough justice. Here it is

Another silver lining

One year ago, Monisha and I, went up on the stage, and with trembling hands, lifted the silver Abby. Our first Abby. I thought my tryst with the Abbies had come to an end. Until I received the sms on Saturday evening: “Lee, I got a silver Abby.”

That was my younger brother. I had once tried to dissuade him from joining Advertising because I didn’t think he could handle the pressure. In a typical big-sisterly voice, I told him, “You’re too laidback, too sensitive, not at all focused.”

I’ve never been more thrilled to be proved wrong. Very proud of you, bro.

Sad but true

You know people have been spending way too much time in the office, when they look out of the window at dusk, spot the dull red orb in the sky and ask, “Hey, what’s that light?”

Cinderella at the Ball

I’m a bit of a disgrace to the media fraternity (and sorority). 7 years of working in high profile advertising agencies and a media behemoth, and yet I cannot claim first name familiarity with any ‘celebrity’. Some of the biggest pashas of print sit less than 20 feet away from my work desk. From time to time, friends in other news agencies update me on gossip about them. My customary excuse to pass up most late night schmoosing is that it conflicts with my bedtime.

As it happens, in media, all virtue is a vice. Proclaiming utter disinterest in the Who’s Who, Who’s with Who and Who did What Last Summer can be bad for business. If not for these tantalising details, what are people going to buy your newspaper for? The news? Uh-uh, it’s no good being high brow with high society.

Luckily for me, redemption came in the form of a wicked looking black envelope. Two passes to THE ultimate crash course for social ignoramuses – The Bombay Times 10th Anniversary Bash. Months of gaucherie could be purged in single night, I thought gleefully as I set off with a photographer friend.

I came away suitably enlightened. Presenting the 10 invaluable lessons gleaned from the Bombay Times 10th Anniversary Bash:

Lesson No. 1
High fashion is remarkably low cost. All you need are sequins worth Rs. 20 from Crawford Market. Tack them onto a lacy bedcover or curtain or laundry bag, and voila, you’re haute tamale!

Fashion for men: Anything tight and tacky. Allowing Calvin Klein to peer over the top of your trousers is vital. If you’re really cool, sport a thong and show it off prominently.

Lesson No. 2
Never ever question people’s fashion sense. If the high priestess of fashion, Rekha and the ultimate gay style icon, Imam, sashay in wearing tent like robes, well tent-like robes are in.

Lesson No. 3
Be careful, be very careful at the food courts. Ask detailed questions about each item even if it makes you look foolish. After all, it’s better to eat crow figuratively than to come away with a mouthful of raw oyster.

When it comes to cheese, follow a sniff and nibble routine. Do not pop a sizeable chunk like the woman next to you, especially if the cheese is ‘Gorgonzola’, unless of course you like the taste of rotting flesh. (Still gagging)

Lesson No. 4
It’s possible to have 5 margaritas, 2 tequila shots and one Vodka with tonic and still be unnaturally sober. It boils down to a simple technique: Lift long-stemmed, wide-mouthed margarita glass from counter, steer yourself across narrow corridor teeming with sozzled, flying limbs, reach your corner, spot one remaining sip of margarita, down it. After 20 minutes, repeat the process.

Lesson No. 5
When Abhishek Bachchan, up in the DJ console, suddenly points at you with a look of recognition, do not instinctively entertain hopes of being the Next Big Thing. He’s merely waving to your photographer friend. Make a mental note however to keep in touch with photographer friend more.

Lesson No. 6
Tall, dark and handsome is soooo out, so last decade. Old, bald and iconic is in.

If you are a male model, learn to deal with loneliness or hang out with other model buddies. And watch as guys blessed with a face that only a mother can love, dance with a bevy of bootylicious beauties.

Lesson No. 6
Hah, to all you atheists! There is a God and his name is Alyque Padamsee. Else explain how a 75-plus, concave-postured relic can part crowds on a packed dance floor with a statuesque teenager clutching onto him like he was a Baywatch lifeguard? Oh no, there is a God and I’m a believer.

Lesson No. 7
You can be Andre Nair, chairman and CEO of the most powerful media network in South East Asia and still cut a ludicrous figure on the dance floor, especially when you dance with actions to ‘Yeh Wada Raha’. Note to self: If you intend to stay in media it’s a good idea not to let him catch you laughing.

Lesson No. 8
You don’t need cricket records to tell you Michael Slater is a gifted player. He’s a natural when it comes to scoring.

Lesson No. 9
A family that parties together stays together. Take for instance, the Vengsarkar family. Perhaps the current day team picked up the famous ‘huddle’ from this foursome.

Lesson No. 10
There is a certain advantage in being a Who’s Not. Nobody notices that your blue handbag and black shoes don’t quite match…

Absolute Lee 2.0

With sincere apologies to Client Servicing


There was one question that remained unanswered during all my years in advertising – why would anyone, in their sane mind, join an ad agency in Client Servicing?

It was undoubtedly the shittiest job in the agency – liaising between bull-headed clients, creative prima donnas, cold number-crunchers in media, impudent cut paste artists and incompetent bosses. The balancing act turned them into vacillating, conniving, annoying dimwits, who were equally loathed and laughed at. They were derided as ‘postmen’ and ‘flunkeys’ and those were the printable terms. To insult a copywriter or art director, you spat out, ‘@$# Servicing!!’ It was hard to like yourself when you were Client Servicing.

The point of this ramble is that in the last month, I’ve come to empathize with this reviled bunch, having unwittingly slipped into their shoes myself.

It started when I decided to revamp the blog.

Nothing too fancy, I said to myself. (All bull-headed clients start out that way.) The intrepid yet unsuspecting Spaceman Spiff volunteered to do the programming, and tossed in a few ideas. Yes, no, yes, no, no, no, no, went ‘client servicing’ (at the behest of the ‘client’).

The old Art Partner called to say, ‘It’s a boy!’

Congratulations, congratulations… psstcanyoudesignmyblog… congratulations. When you’re Client Servicing, scruples mean nothing.

An illustrator friend was similarly arm-twisted for an illustration ‘…which should be distinctive to the blog and also epitomize the essence of it…’ Illustrator friend pulled out his dictionary, forgetting for a moment that Client Servicing uses words to detract from one immutable fact – ‘I don’t know what in hell’s name I’m talking about’.

Thankfully (for still-nonplussed Illustrator friend) one of the illustrations worked in a ‘dipstick survey’.

Next, Art Partner with baby in one hand and mouse in the other, produced two simple, scintillating designs. Spaceman was informed thus:

Day 1: Design 1 is final!
Day 2: Design 2 is final!
Day 3 (a.m): Um.. let’s go with Design 1.
Day 3 (p.m.): Make that Design 2…

It’s not hard to lose friends when you’re Client Servicing.

Spaceman mailed requirements, Art Partner went to work. Art Partner mailed requirements, Spaceman went to work. Client Servicing with a feigned casualness (and having plied them with gmail accounts) huffed and puffed down their necks.

Full circle, it is. From looking down my Copywriter-nose at them to joining their oily ilk. But there’s one thing Client Servicing does quite generously. And that is, allow the names of the Creative team to precede their own on the award form. So here goes:

Design: Monisha K.

Illustration: Avinash V.

Programming: Spaceman Spiff

@$# Servicing: Leela A.


P.S. It’s been a year (already!) on the blog. Thank you all for your encouragement.

Out of college… Into the fire

Last week, I had an appointment with a certain Mr. B in an ad agency. While the receptionist paged him, I went and sat in the lounge area.

“Are you here for an interview too?” asked the girl waiting there.

No, I reassured her quickly, and then asked, “Are you?”

“I’ve come for a summer job,” she said. "But the person in HR is in a meeting. And I’ve been here since 10.30”

I looked at my watch incredulously. It was 2 p.m!

“Does he even know you’re here?” I asked aghast.

In a choked voice, she replied, “He met me for 5 minutes but had to go back into the meeting. He said he’ll be back in 1 ½ hour, but it’s 2 hours now.”

I felt really sorry for her. I knew exactly how endless the meetings were. It was more than likely though, that the HR dude was either trying to avoid her or had forgotten about her.

So I gently suggested, “Look, why don’t you go home? Make an appointment and come on another day?”

Her face twisted with bitterness and fury. “How do I know he won’t do this again? No, I’m going to wait and give him a piece of my mind. Is this how they treat people who come for internships?”

While I admired her attempt to stand up for herself, I also thought she was being very naïve. What would HR dude do? Apologise profusely? Hire her on the spot? Give her cab fare home? In fact, the longer she waited, the closer she’d come to dissolving into a mass of tears.

Her rant continued, “He didn’t even do a formal interview with this other girl who was here in the morning. And poor thing, she’d come ALL the way from the suburbs!” (Hmm… I thought South Bombay types!)

“I mean how important can these meetings be,” she asked with a sneer. “Can’t they just take a break and attend to people who’ve come to meet them?”

I was truly dumbfounded. Did she even know what she was getting into then? Summer interns were a whole rung below the dregs known as trainees, in agency hierarchy! In all probability, if she got the job, she’d spend her summer photocopying documents, running errands and getting shooed away by busy execs. But here she was fresh out of college, thinking the world was her oyster and that the corporate world was waiting with open arms.

I remember being a victim of that fallacious thinking myself. I was a heady mix of naiveté and idealism. I’d met a Creative Director who liked my work and told me that the Vice President wanted to meet me. I was over the moon. The VP made appreciative sounds while going over my work and then seemed lost in thought. I hardly dared to breathe. Finally, he said, ‘You know I’d like to hire you as a Senior Copywriter. I’m trying to think how to fit you in.” From a nobody in Advertising to a Senior Copywriter! My eyes were as large as saucers and I remember thinking, ‘This is a g-o-d. When I become a famous copywriter, I’ll definitely remember to credit him.’ (Ok, so I was naïve, not humble ;) He asked for a couple of days to work it out. I could have skipped the 30 kilometres home.

Coincidentally, I met someone from that agency in the next few days. And I seized the opportunity to extol the virtues of ‘God’. He gave me a look usually reserved for those in padded cells. “X?! He’s the sleaziest guy in the industry. Steer clear of him.”

Kerr-RASH! Lesson learned.

Around the same time, I had an appointment with a super-hot CD in a super hot agency.

“Why do you want to join Advertising?”, was his first question. I stammered out my reasons.

“It’s an agonizing vocation. I still spend nights cursing myself for joining Advertising.” This from someone who’s a sought-after writer. He continued, “The high you get from cracking a good idea is so incredible, that you’ll sell your mother for it. But when your ideas get shot down, it’s like having a baby and watching it get butchered.” He was scaring me not just off advertising but childbirth as well!

He didn’t give me a job but put me onto a friend who did. So that scarefest was probably worth it.

Coming back to the poor summer intern, I found her still sitting forlorn in the reception an hour later. She was scribbling something, sad poetry perhaps, in her diary. Go home, I urged her again.

No, he can’t do this to me. I’m going to blah blah blah.

Ok honey, good luck! Happy learning…

A night at the Abbies

March 1998:
I wasn't even in advertising when I attended my first ABBY AWARDS. An aspiring, starry-eyed copywriter, I watched as hotshot creative teams strode up on stage to claim their awards, even as their agencies lustily cheered them on. At that time, I swore that I would be part of this industry too and maybe, just maybe, do the dream walk up to the stage.

March 2004:
6 years and 3 agencies later, a good bit of stardust had flown out of my eyes. I had realized my dream of being part of the industry. Two international awards made my resume look respectable. But then, for various reasons, I took the side exit. The Abbies weren't the annual high point that they once used to be. In fact, in the last year or two, they'd become only an excuse to catch up with friends and with the going-ons in advertising.

Still, there was a wee bit of anticipation when I headed for ABBY 2004. An ad that Art Partner and I had worked on 1 ½ year ago had been nominated. Thinking about it made me nervous, so I focused on all the familiar faces around. "Hiiii Albert… Hey Padhi…. Sangs, we must catch up… Rads, how've you beeeen!…" My head swiveled furiously as I spotted old colleagues and friends.

At the entrance, the sponsors handed us goodie bags with colourful cushions. "How thoughtful of them to think of my hemorrhoids!", someone quipped and we cracked up. Well, after all these were people who wrote one-liners for a living!

My friends and I bagged seats right in front of one of the giant screens. The comperes, Rakshanda Khan and Kunal Vijaykar, started off with some terribly lame jokes. A cardinal rule for comperes at ad shows - unless it's superlative, never never attempt humour. The cynical, jaded, chip-on-shoulder ad folk are especially unforgiving of forced humour. Two years ago when Shobha De breezily drawled, "Print advertising is seriousssssly sexy," the wags at the back hollered, "Shobha maushi, gappa bas." (loose translation: Shuddup auntie!) No sacred cows in advertising, for sure!

Another hilarious candid camera moment: Before the awards, the camera zoomed in on the current poster-boy (man?) of Indian Advertising, Piyush Pandey. Unaware of being in the crosshairs, he thrust a finger into the side of his mouth and tried to wrest that elusive bit of spinach from his teeth. Here was THE face of Indian advertising, the President of the 2004 Cannes Jury, scooping out his cavities with obvious relish. The audience watched in horror and disgust and then broke into hysterical laughter. Eeeew!

The evening was filled with a few other mirthful moments. Each time the agency, RMG David, went up to collect an award, they handed a foil-wrapped gift to the bemused presenter. By the end of the evening, everyone wanted to know exactly what was inside!

Some of the early winners - Axe, Cadbury's, Colgate, and…. Our Lady of Fatima's Church! An indication that ad folk might run out of brands, but never out of ideas!

And then the compere announced the award category that I'd been trying not to think of all evening. A loud pounding began in the region of my chest as the compere boomed, "And the nominees are…" There were six nominees including our ad. The voice in my head said, NOT A CHANCE. And I squeezed my eyes shut.

"There's a joint silver in this category. And the first joint silver goes to…"

My eyes flashed open and I gawked at the screen. OH-MY-GOD! Up on the screen was my name along with Art Partner's. And with a shock I realized we had to go up and collect OUR ABBY! That was the last thought before my mind went blank.

Like a bunch of bumbling robots, Art Partner and I did the dream walk in slow motion. Slow, because of her 7-month pregnancy and my knocking knees. Gosh, it was bright when we reached the stage. I was only dimly aware that EVERYONE was watching us. I can't remember who handed us the award, but he smiled very warmly and congratulated us. We weren't sure what to do next. Thankfully, there are no acceptance speeches at the Abbies, or else we'd have looked like blithering idiots. We walked off in a daze with goofy grins.

"Lee please hold the trophy," Art Partner requested weakly. I belatedly realized that she was finding it difficult to hold the trophy and negotiate the steps. The 'man with outstretched arms' was surprisingly heavy, but very very huggable!

For a while after that, I couldn't concentrate on the ceremony. People all around were shaking my hand or calling up or sending sms. The nicest one from Art Partner herself, "I always knew we were good together." In fact, the award couldn't have come at a better time. With me unsure about getting back into mainstream advertising and she, with Baby No. 1 on the way, it would be a while until Abby No. 2.

It was an O&M show all through, just like it's been for the last few years. Somebody SHOULD bottle their incredible success formula!

Post-awards, there were more congratulations in store. There was no need to visit the overcrowded bar, we were on a high all through. My friends laughed when they saw me with an armful of the Abby brochures. One, for each member of the family, I joked. Actually that brochure contained our only proof of winning, since the trophy would go to the agency, and the Ad Club didn't give out certificates.

I went home reliving every moment of the evening. For just a few hours, I was once again that starry eyed copywriter of 6 years ago.

A Star is (Still)Born!

There was something familiar about the scene at Phoenix Mills when I walked in the other day.

A generator van with its sonorous drone. Thick black wires crisscrossing the path. Huge metal plates mounted on stands. An untidy perimeter of people with craned necks and identical zombie-like gaze. It HAD to be a film shoot in progress.

As I walked past the outdoor café set that had been erected, there was a sudden trickle of old memories. Not of the shoots I’d worked on in my ad agency days. But of my first tryst with filmdom.

* Flashback *

Scene 1: The Olde College

I’d just walked into College when my friends, F and G, ran up with the news…

F: ‘There’s an ad film shoot'…

G: '...and they want college students'…

F: ‘650 bucks for the day.’

650 bucks meant a lot of books at the Second Hand Bookstore. But even better, it meant seeing oneself on TV! Of being recognized on the road! Of perhaps even signing autographs… I made a U-turn and with my friends in tow, headed for Film City.


Scene 2: Film City

We tried not to look too awed as we told the guard ‘Studio 2’. It was like stepping into another world. We passed by the cast of a mythological serial who looked decidedly unreal with soft drink bottles and cigarettes, we spotted models and bit actors, costumed dancers and technicians and even the actress Tabu, as she whizzed by in her car.

At some point, the starry aura pervaded our feather heads. We became hopeful that after seeing our ‘acting talent’ in the ad film, we would be besieged with roles. Unknowingly, our walk developed a certain sway. And with a coy toss of the head, we sashayed all the way to Studio 2. (We were impressionable 17-year olds, after all!)


Scene 3: Studio 2

There was no fawning crew to receive us. In fact, except for a group of labourers and a production assistant barking at them, there was no one around. Perhaps, the production assistant would be the person to ask about the ‘script’, we decided. But he took one look at us and said tersely, ‘Extras, wait on the lawn outside!’

From celebrities-in-waiting to extras! We mustered the tattered remnants of our pride and joined the dozen or so forlorn looking ‘extras’ on the lawn.

We waited for 5 unbelievably long hours for the set to be erected; the lights to be set up; the director to decide camera angles; for the ‘real’ model to emerge from the make up van… And in the course of that wait, a good deal of stardust flew out of our eyes.

We’d almost dozed off when an excited buzz began. The ‘model’ (better known today as Mahima Chowdhary) had emerged. We couldn’t help noticing how pretty she looked even with her hair in curlers. What followed was three hours of relentless takes where we had to fake cheesy expressions when the director called ‘Action!’

At one point the director called out, ‘Move out the background’. And the production assistant waved us away! From ‘extras’ to ‘background’, could they rub it in any further? I couldn’t wait to leave.

As we queued up for payment, the producer called the three of us aside and said, ‘Look, we have more shots tomorrow and we need a few girls. It’s just a half day shoot. Can you make it?

We looked at each other, the travails of the day mirrored on our faces. But suddenly there was a leap of hope from an almost dry wellspring. Perhaps tomorrow would be the day when we would be ‘discovered’.

We nodded unanimously and walked back with a sway in our step.


P.S. I caught the ad ONCE on TV and spotted the pink blur that was me!
P.P.S. As for the product itself, I found out that it failed in the test markets!

The Revolving Doors

A couple of days ago I was bobbing along with the surge of humanity at Churchgate station, when something caught my eye. The drab railway office opposite the ticket window looked uncommonly bright and colourful. Streamers and fairy lights bedecked the entrance. A bright blue curtain served as the backdrop for a glitter-etched placard which read, ‘Mr. M.G. ROY RETIRES TODAY AFTER 37 YEARS SERVICE.’

I climbed out of the subway with the number 37 still on my mind. 37 years! I tried to imagine what it would be like coming to the same desk each day and seeing the same faces, perhaps with new wrinkles as the years went by. And finally signing out with fairy lights, cheery placards and teary speeches. Perhaps, even a gold watch.

Well, one thing’s certain. No one’s handing me a gold watch. My peripatetic career graph has covered 5 jobs in 8 years. No moss on me, for sure. And while I’ve no regrets about each move, I’ve begun to feel a wee bit guilty lately. ‘Work Experience’ has far too many bullet points on my bio-data. Friends and acquaintances ask me, ‘Now where are you working?,’ heavily emphasising the ‘now’. And if my answer hasn’t varied, they feign shock with, “Still there???”

On the other hand, ‘Still there?’ has a different ring in Advertising circles. It’s like asking Liz Taylor, ‘Still Married?’ The shock accompanying the question is real. That’s because at any given time, most people are either switching jobs or planning to switch. My ex-boss evenly admits that she’s worked in 7 out of the top 10 agencies in a span of 12 years. My ex-art partner sheepishly confesses she’s been in the same agency for 6 years and promptly suffixes that with, ‘But I’m planning to move now.’

My new workplace is an eye-opener. My boss recently spoke of someone who worked in the company ‘for a short while’. The short while, I discovered, was 8 years! My boss completes 19 years next month. Most people around tell me they’ve ‘been here for donkey’s years’. (Wonder if there’s something in that phrase now!)

Recently, an old colleague from Advertising joined the team. In the course of our conversation she said, ‘You’ve been here for a while, haven’t you?’

I replied, ‘I’m nearing the one-year mark.’

Without missing a beat, she queried, ‘Ok, so what are your plans now?”

Do you copy?

What’s the toughest part about being a copywriter?

Is it churning out fresh, original ideas day after day? Is it deadlines called ‘yesterday’? Is it defending your ideas from cretins sometimes masquerading as clients?

None of that. In my experience, the toughest part has been answering the question: What do you do?

Sample conversation:

Neighbour: So what do you do?

Me: I’m a copywriter

Neighbour: ???

Me: I work in an advertising agency. You see the ads on TV, in the paper…. I do stuff like that.

Neighbour: Ohhhhhh….. you’re a model!!!


And that’s one of the flattering interpretations. Over the years, I’ve been mistaken for a journalist, a billboard painter, even an obituary writer. Some have a low opinion about my abilities, obviously misled by the ‘copy’ bit in Copywriter. A friend’s grandmother thought she finally understood what I did when she commented, ‘Ah, so you have a good handwriting.’

My parents too took a while getting used to my vocation. “My ad’s in the paper”, I yelled one morning, proudly displaying my first creation in print. My parents avidly pored over it, taking in every line. I waited breathlessly.

Dad looked up, nonplussed, ‘But where’s your name on it?”

Always practical, Mom wanted to know, “Will they pay you more for this?’

Plumbers don’t have this problem. Neither do politicians nor palm readers nor software programmers. Everyone’s professions are self-explanatory, making it easy to slot them into neat, little boxes. Copywriters, in comparison, are a slippery lot. They don’t copy (at least they’re not supposed to!) and they don’t just write.

‘So what do you DO then?’ people ask curiously, even suspiciously. I point out ads they might have seen on TV or in the newspapers. They struggle with that for a while and then launch the dreaded question, ‘But how do you come up with ideas?’

Recently I quit mainstream advertising and joined a media house as the in-house copywriter. My job is to create advertising for the different publications in the Group. Now, more than ever, I shrink from occupation related questions.

A gist from a recent conversation:

Aunt: Where do you work?

Me: ‘I’m with XYZ (Newspaper name)

Aunt: ‘You’re a journalist?’

Me: No, I’m a copywriter. I do ads to promote the newspaper.

Aunt (frowning): ‘You mean you write those matrimonial ads?’

Me: ‘Er.. aunty, actually I’m a journalist.’

I know when it's time to give up.

There's no such thing as a free lance

It’s been a while since the last instalment in the blog, and there’s a reason for that – freelance.

In a copywriter’s expansive vocabulary, few words elicit such unadulterated pleasure as ‘freelance’. It’s the advertising term for moonlighting, converting clever words into numbers (with rupee signs in front of them!) Why, with the right client and the right fee, one could end up making a month’s salary for just a few days work.

But like all things which sound too good to be true, freelance has its downsides. The most perilous being the name itself. FREE-lance. Somehow, that bit misleads clients into thinking they don’t really have to pay. Or rather, that there’s no hurry to pay up.

So here I wait to be paid for the URGENT job I did in January. I’ve spent more in phone calls following up on that cheque. Each month I’m haranguing a new person, because the previous bloke has quit the company. Sometimes I wonder if I should quit too. But then the galling thought of being cheated makes me lunge for the phone once again.

Another cheque-in-the-mail is due from my ex-agency. If I had an ounce of sense I would have refused the job, because I knew their haphazard functioning. Still the thought of being indispensable to one’s ex-agency was flattering. Now I listen to the same excuses every week ‘We’ve sent the estimate for approval’… ‘Cash crunch in the agency’… ‘Will look into the matter’. Maybe I should invest in a few voodoo dolls.

Recently, I did a job for a friend. That sounds like it has disaster written all over it, right? But hang on; he actually paid me an advance. The job’s been completed a few months now, but not the payment issues. The last time I tentatively brought up the subject, he mumbled something about checking his bank balance.
For a while I began refusing freelance work. Offers came up but I referred other copywriters. Nothing was worth the hassle, I told myself virtuously.

But the filthy love of lucre can’t be quashed and I accepted not one, but three assignments. I’ve just sent my bills yesterday. Now, I’m keeping my fingers crossed and my voodoo dolls poised.

What's the word for it?

5 years of working in Advertising has left me with a rather dubious legacy. I cannot walk down a road or enjoy a drive without taking in every single billboard, poster and handbill along the way. With clinical precision, the material is scanned, dissected and tossed into mental jars with labels, ‘passable’ ‘execrable’ and ‘guillotine the copywriter’. (That mental superiority is another unfortunate legacy.)

Last weekend, I added three rare gems to the collection (yes, the collection again!) They weren’t obvious howlers, the kind menu cards usually throw up. Rather, there was something deliciously subtle and startling about them.

I spotted the first one as I sprinted across a break in traffic on a busy intersection. A poster tacked to a wooden board in a shop announced: ‘FIREWORKS WITH A TOUCH OF CLASS’.

I paused to consider this. (A rather silly move when traffic is bearing down on you!) Was there a catch? A twist – as ad folks would say. Else, you’d have had to really run out of adjectives to use ‘class’ to extol fireworks. Or perhaps the manufacturers figured that all the good USP’s like Explosive, Dazzling and Spectacular were taken. Or just maybe, these fireworks found a genteel way to erupt, without the unholy row and wake of noxious fumes.

The second gem turned up in pamphlet thrust into my hand. ‘LOVELY CHICKEN AND EGGS’, it announced, in Helvetica Bold, Point Size 48. Pardon the adjective fixation, but Lovely??? Give me a Tasty Chicken, a Finger-lickin’ Chicken… heck, go for honesty and even admit, Stringy Chicken. But Lovely? By the time it has reached me, it’s a little too late to notice anyway. And do I even need to start on Lovely Eggs? Of course, there’s a certain possibility that the owner goes around by the name, Lovely. But we’ll leave that unspeakable parental cruelty for another blog.

I found the third one emblazoned in great, unabashed strokes on a wall. ‘WE TEACH ENGLISH SPEAKING LIKE A MOTHER TEACHES HER CHILD’. No iffy adjectives here, just one mind-boggling metaphor. Now, English isn’t quite handed down in maternal conversations in this country. And some of the English my mother used when prodding my thick skull wouldn’t exactly be found in the dictionary.

The mental jars now feature two new additions: Classy and Lovely. But I’m not quite sure where the last gem would go.