Content writing has always been the same

We are trained that content writing for the web is vastly different from content writing anywhere else. Yes, I know it’s different because of SEO and search engine rankings, but I really don’t believe that much is really changed.

We all know what the world’s oldest profession is, and we can joke that the second oldest profession is marketing. Truthfully, that is no joke. It seems that the “girls” would have a unique pattern cut into the soles of their sandals so that when they walked through the sand or dirt streets of town, they left their mark. A trail was made right up to their door. I really can’t tell you what the ROI was, but the conversion rate had to be 100%.

Fast forward to the modern era. Print and multi-media marketing have not changed. Success boils down to relevance and conversion. It would do no more good for someone to be motivated by an ad, run out to the local car dealership only to find out the car company has no warranties, service plans, or genuine knowledge of what they sell, then it would’ve for an interested follower of one of the “girls” to find out when he got to her door that she suffered from leprosy.

What about a marketer (every one of us are marketers) that does a super job with content writing for SEO and has a flood of traffic to their site, but fails to get the correct message across?

Look at the the phenomenon of Web 2.0. Talk about hot. Why? Relevance. There are millions of targeted group pages, forums, and communities on the Internet. Web 2.0 is a marketing windfall, but the same old principals are applied. Keywords or action words are employed to target consumers and gather them into one place to hear the “pitch”, or read the ad.

The laundry soap and household goods marketers didn’t really advertise anywhere else, but on afternoon television, for decades, until the market started to evolve and broaden. Two large companies made bold moves by marketing their laundry soap and pantyhose on NASCAR racing automobiles. Why? The sport was growing at amazing rate and the demographics showed that in the southeastern region of America, women made up exactly one half of the followers of the sport.

Yes, writing website content that is keyword rich is tantamount in gaining traffic from the search engines, and making a targeted effort at the relevant groups will get you fans, but the bottom line is conversion. Conversion comes through valid and genuine content. Google knows this, as EVERY word on your page is considered and weighed into the algorithm. Your readers know this as they read in hopes that you can offer them a solution. A solution that they can trust as being targeted towards their needs.

The “girls” practiced SEO with targeted symbols on the soles of their shoes, and offered relevant content. The car companies employ keywords in their television ads by separating trucks from luxury cars and suvs; delivering genuine content by having dealerships that specialize in certain vehicles they manufacture, and we, as Internet marketers, use keyword laden content writing to entice the search engines to deliver targeted traffic to our site(s), where our persuasive rich content is infused with the keywords to provide the reader with a trusted solution.

Imagine, what if there was one slip of the carving tool, causing the symbol to advertise faith healing? Talk about a high bounce rate.

Copywriting has it's ups and downs, but it can be a blast.

Copywriting freelance jobs on the internet  are often  difficult propositions, but they also can be  a rewarding experience. Part of the difficulty lies in the fact that copy is used in a number of ways including  splash pages, bio pages, content, white paper and product reviews.

Freelance copywriters often find that each  unique use of their written copy  demands a different mindset  and angle of persuasion, depending on the project requirements:

• Splash pages require few words, yet the writing has to pop and entice readers to continue to the site.

• White pages are typically reports or technical data and must be written to wet the appetites of targeted readers without boring them to tears.

• Content is the general term used for the copy seen on any page at a website. Content often includes HTML, images and information. A general sales pitch about the product or information is normally found in content. Content often requires a call to action.

• Product reviews are  a combination white paper and content in that technical information is presented that is persuasive and truthful. How do the features of the product resolve the needs of the potential buyer?

• Bio pages, or About Me pages, are  designed to build trust in the site owner . The reader should feel like they can trust the owner after reading the About Me page.

Not getting the info needed to complete the project can lead to frustration. This is just an indication that communication needs to be improved between the author and and the client. The onus should be put on  the author to find every detail needed to bid on,  start and complete the job. The author should ask all the pertinent questions about the job.

Not understanding the scope of the project and/or being intuitive to the client’s needs can add extra writing and time which means a lower pay rate for the given job. Nobody’s fault but the author.

Having to change  voices to meet every instance required when writing copy for the internet can be a draconian task, but if an author can do this successfully, boredom will rarely set in and the writing will remain fresh. Change of pace can be rewarding and help transform a difficult task into a fun and rewarding challenge.

post picture is courtesy of  Thomas Hawk via creative commons licensing

Digging around to find work...

As a shaker started to rattle nearby, Tony what’s his name leaned in a little closer. Just over the martini being tossed around with the ice, “I think most men would run from you. But, you being a widow three times over and only forty-three years old rather intrigues me.”

Diana looked at her slender, but very strong hand and replied, “Thanks Tony.”

Tony’s lean turned permanent as the drink was being poured somewhere down the bar, “So, you’re unemployed? I find it hard to believe that someone with the amount of character you exhibit could be without something meaningful to occupy your time. Do you mind if I inquire as to what happened with your last employment?” Then a slight laugh,  “Oh geez. Sorry. I know I sound like an interviewer now.”

Diana gave a slight smile as she touched Tony’s arm, “It is quite all right Tony.” She caught his eyes and cast the spell,”My last employer struggled in this economy. The fall was too great and he couldn’t survive.”

Tony displayed a bit of cunning as he gently rested one hand on her knee, right at the hem of the slinky black dress, and cradled the stem of his martini glass. As if the glass was a crystal ball, Tony stared at it, “I’ve been extremely fortunate in this climate.” A well calculated pause, then a glance in to Diana’s ocean blue eyes, “Extremely so.”

Diana felt so alive as they drove up the coast to his beach house for drinks and an extension of the evening . Her raven black hair being tossed in the night air trapped every light that pierced the dark. She recalled that her second husband owned a CLK350, just like the one she was in. God, she missed that car. Her she was again in one, and after a game that she played so deftly that she herself was impressed at her long honed skills.

She looked over at Tony as a vision of a weighty bank book flooded her mind. On the cover of the book read the name of Anthony….”Tony darling, what is your last name again?”…….Ciprio. Yes, Anthony Ciprio.  Forty-nine year old investment broker. Maneuvering funds adeptly in and out of medical concerns as if he were a champion with an epee. Successful Anthony Ciprio likes the martinis served at The Prestige, and slender Italian looking women with long black hair. Anthony Ciprio, a sucker for a tight fitting dress whose hem tugs at the top of the knee.

“I’m sorry Tony. I do have a terrible time with last names.”

Author’s note: I grabbed the writing prompt for this working piece from Erica’s blog, Desert Pond.

Too "old School"?

I’m fairly new to the whole freelance writing  game and I am trying to figure out my best strategy to get freelance writing gigs. There seems to be a deluge of writers out in the market competing for a great number of jobs, and there appears to be a variety of ways to try to obtain those jobs.

What seems to be the most popular way to vie for online freelance writing jobs is the use of what I call article pools (Constant Content, Associated Content, etc.) or bid for jobs sites like Elance.

The article pools give writers an opportunity to pick and choose from a list of article requests, which gives the authors  opportunity to write about topics they are comfortable with. The lists will also show what the pay rate for the accepted article is.

This sounds way to tempting. Everything is right there. Your topic and what you’ll get paid for it. What more could you ask for? How about not having to compete against 177 other  submissions for the same request? No problem, just write another article for a different request.  Yeah, why not flood the list with submissions?

• Number one:  how many of the 178 article submissions do you really believe are going to get read? Think about the standards for reading and writing web content. Attention span ain’t too long, is it?

• Number two: how many words are you going to have to write before you sell an article for ….ohhhh….let’s say…..$20? How many hours of research and writing those words are you going to spend? You’re working pretty cheap.

Elance may be a step up in trying to find freelance online writing jobs in that the writer actually bids on work.  And the requester will have an opportunity to see your portfolio.

Oooops. Did I mention portfolio? For an up and comer like myself, this could be a major hurdle when clients are seeking writers. Also, Elance seems to put restrictions on contacting potential clients about the work.  Elance takes a cut from your pay as well and I’d like to have one less hand in my pocket.

Maybe Elance will work for me after I build a reputation, but before then I think that I would get frustrated.

So, where does that leave me? Right where I like it. I’m beating the ether pavement and it seems to be working well for me. Not a lot of work yet, but the effort is paying off in a snowball kind of way.

There are a number of sites that offer lists of freelance writing gigs, but the one that has been the best is at Freelance Wrting Network. There is a fresh listing of jobs posted every day at this site. Jobs that a writer actually can apply for as well as strike up a conversation with potential clients.

No pre-writing, no cut,no having to worry about 177 other articles in the pool. You get to sell yourself, which is most of what freelance writing is. You may have talent, but how well do you communicate with your client? There’s the trick.

The Freelance Writing Networking site also happens to be a stellar site dedicated to us writers and our struggles to work online.

Don’t forget about Twitter and some the groups apps associated with it. A properly set up profile and honest personal branding can go a long way on Twitter.

By going “old school”, I’ve landed a great client who is building a new business. From the start, communication has been open and free. I’m giving her what she needs and she loves it. There is now some talk of maybe operating a copywriters class from her site. How cool is that?

Is my approach all wet?

Who likes your writing? Do you?

Honestly, no one else matters until you like it. And until you feel the pain of what it means to dig deep into your being and relive those experiences that make up who you are, you really won’t like writing. Oh, you may convince yourself that you do, but it will be a facade covered up by the smiles of friends who pat you on the back and say, “Cute,” and then quickly change the subject.

When you write what you feel as it pours out of you, not giving a damn about syntax or correctness, just writing rage, glee, contentment, or whatever emotion boils inside, you begin to crave the emotions that get slam dunked in your face when you leave your comfort zone. There is no more alive feeling than that.

As Angela Booth wrote about, when we leave our comfort zones, we grow. When we plunge that wooden stake into our hearts, we begin to realize that we have hit the mother lode of material. It’s real, it’s gritty, it’s ours. When we splash a little bit of that onto our writing our words take shape. They become three dimensional and vivid.

You will not only like what you write, but you will fall in love with it. The process becomes addictive. You will miss meals, mumble to yourself, and possibly alienate those around you. Remember, as I alluded to in an earlier post, to truly write is to be truly alone. You’ll have your cheerleaders, but none of them can turn the muck for you.

Wiping his greasy hands, that were stained with years old grime, on his barely clean county issue jumpsuit, Harry looked at his twin. Larry looked back him and he imagined he was looking into a mirror. Right down to the dirty, wild hair and faded blue eyes. Identical.

Even the flakes of grouper in their mustaches.

“Damn, Larry. We coulda beat this petty theft rap and got away clean if’n we woulda wiped under our noses.”

“Yeah Harry, we woulda. But look at it like this; we get a place to stay and a nice snack,” Larry answered as he pulled his lower lip out and brushed the fish flakes from his mustache.

Author’s note: I grabbed the writing prompt for this tasty little piece from Erica’s blog, Desert Pond.

Not putting pen to paper or pounding my keyboard for a couple of days has taught me a valuable lesson. Once we really begin to write, we never stop. We never stop because writing is living. The more we live, the more we write and vice versa.

While on the rain and storm threatened beach, I not only noticed the gray skies, but I saw leering skies. I saw skies that were pissed and were ready to take out their anger. There were thick dirty white clouds that had been pushed against the raging dark skies with a giant thumb. When the angry heavens eventually targeted the beach and began to spit, people gathered their precious towels and coolers and hurried to the safety of  dry cars. The children resisted, not understanding why getting wet at the beach was such a pain in the ass.

Our senses become heightened  when we write. The vibrations needed to set them off aren’t required to be as jolting. The slightest movement gets recorded on our soul. We hear exactly how unsteady the blower fan in the hotel room air conditioner is. We catch ourselves trying to count the plates being stacked in the restaurant kitchen, even if we can only hear them being stacked. We feel every grain of the warm sand as the beach swallows our heel.

This is why writers can make readers feel the totality of being alone in a hotel room somewhere on the damp North Carolina coast while rush hour traffic steadily streams past. Writers are alive and in tune, whether they want to be or not.

This is our curse.

The milky moon is glaring at me like the eye of an evil dragon. Through the murky clouds, the moon’s gaze pierces my soul.

I had made tedious preparations and had given this night much consideration. I tried to allow for any and all possibilities. No rope, duct tape. A gun for domination. Dark clothes. Rubber gloves. Her car. Location. This night had to be perfect, for my fantasies.

What I hadn’t counted on was her gun.

My chest is moist and on fire, yet the rest of me is getting cold. Lying here in the dewy weeds, I see the dragon’s eye fading.

The pigeons never bothered her up here, high on her perch at the top of the Empire State building. They’d grown to ignore her and would settle their plump, little bodies into nests made of grass, newspaper, and bits of fabric harvested from the laundry hanging at tenements across the river.

She sensed a presence and was a little alarmed to see a fellow angel appear next to her and take a seat. No one ever found her here, in her hideaway from the world, and she very much despised the intrusion.

“Streak”, he said, holding out a somewhat grimy hand, the smooth complexion of his smiling face rouged with dirt from the wiping of those hands on his cheeks, “and you?”

“Annoyed”, she said, glaring meaningfully from his hand to his face and pursing her lips. She left her hands where they were. He had all the signs of a fledgling novice, unable to juggle the demands of the post and keep up his image. He smelled of garbage and sewers and hell would have to come and grab her before she’d touch the likes of him.

“Well, now, angels annoyed are angels to avoid, I suppose.” He chuckled at his own, little joke. “I just rarely come across another angel and thought you might need some company.”

“Quiet, is what I need, Stink, and you’re not helping. This is my alone time. I like to sit and think, stare out at the skies and gather myself for the next level. I’m halo-level, pal, nearing wing status and you simply reek. Did you know that? What kind of an angel are you? Who would take your advice or heed your counsel, looking and smelling like that? You’re never going to make halo, much less wing, with habits like those.”

“Oh, you’re a funny one, Sarah Anne. I’d heard that about you. See, I’ve done my homework. Yes, I’ve been in a bit of a recent scrape looking for my next charge. Sometimes finding the soul that needs a nudge isn’t as easy as they make it sound in training. You must be really good at that, halo and all. Maybe you could teach me a thing or two? I’d be very grateful.”

Sarah Anne rolled her eyes. A suck up. Perfect. She’d had to hard-scrabble her way to where she was, first helping lowly wild animals at risk of extinction before being allowed to work with real people (and even then only the ones with measly little problems like financial strife and marital woes). Most recently, she’d been assigned to help the sick and elderly, although that seemed a bit pointless as they would soon be entering angel training themselves, if they were as fortunate as her. She longed for her wings and the important tasks that would come with them – helping those who help others. Then she’d really be able to make her mark. If by helping one person she could make a difference in the lives of hundreds or thousands…well, she’d show the other angels a thing or two about saving the world.

She realized she’d drifted off in thought and looked back at Streak. He’d been watching her this whole time, she discovered, and something was different. His eyes, before a watery brown, were blazing a deep, rich blue like the clearest ocean waters. The dirt was gone and his hair was blowing in the breeze, clean and shiny and glistening with flecks of gold from the sun that was just starting to crest the horizon. He looked concerned, and hurt, nearly physically harmed. He stood, lifting himself effortlessly to his feet on the small ledge they shared and from behind him came a ruffling noise. The birds, she thought at first, until she realized the large, glowing, feathery wings rising from Streak’s side. They were muscled at the crook and aged yellow with the endless passing of the years they’d been used for flight.

“Sarah Anne, you’re my charge, my little angel, and I have a message for you. Pride goeth before a fall, as they say, and from where we reside, it’s a doozy.”

(Written for Julie – not about Julie – because she’s a sweet angel who visits this blog. )

I’m a better writer than you! Bullshit. No one is a better writer than the next. Some people are better at describing what they see. That makes them better reporters, not writers.

Everything we write is unique to ourselves. Our individual “voice” is made up of our experiences and emotions. and how we interpret those experiences. That waitress in the faded white uniform, stained apron, and make-up that hides her rough past only in darkness cannot possibly write what I can. And there is no way in hell I can dig deep, under that bonnet which  fails at containing the beehive, and describe the pain of pouring a million cups of coffee and then taking the last bus home, only to climb the  dimly lit stairwell. How can I truly feel the fighting off of angry noises that permeate through onion skinned walls.

All that pain, and when she collapses into her efficiency, takes off the scuffed white shoes and peels the thick hose down her spider veined legs, the simple pleasure of relief. I can’t experience that. I can only report it.

If that waitress wrote about her life and who she really is, we would all feel for her. If you write about your life and who you truly are, the writing would live. It would be felt, not just noted.