The Rules

 

People like rules because they promise clarity. Do this, avoid that, and everything works out. It’s the same logic behind every “best practice” list.

I prefer not to think of rules as narrow and rigid. I consider them flexible guidelines. Guidelines assume you can think. They bend. They expect context. They’re less law, more “this usually works—until it doesn’t.”

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not anti-rule. Rules are useful and have been developed and tested over time, but they're built for conformity and comfort. They’re the box that gurus tell you to think outside of.

I like a good structure. And I like knowing where the edges are. But I don’t pretend those edges are fixed. Context shifts. People change. Technology rearranges the furniture while we’re still in the room.

So know the rules, but also know when to bend ‘em and when to break ‘em. Think of altering and ignoring rules as adjustment as opposed to a rebellion.

A hook isn’t a party trick

 

If you tease and bail, you’re not clever. You’re forgettable.

A hook isn’t a party trick. It’s a promise. And when you break it, you train your reader to stop trusting you.

Great copy does three things:

1. It earns attention
2. It rewards attention
3. It directs attention somewhere useful

Hook ‘em. Pay ‘em off. Then give them a clear next move.

Because the goal isn’t to leave people impressed by your setup.

It’s to leave them glad they stuck around and compelled to act.

AI Knows the Code. We Know the Story

 

A machine can parse “red” down to numerical terms: hex codes and RGB values. To AI, the word is nothing more than coordinates on a chart. Efficient. Accurate. Sterile.

But when we say “red,” we’re not speaking math.

We’re summoning brake lights glowing in the fog.

We’re tasting strawberries stolen from a neighbor’s garden.

We’re remembering that sweater someone wore the first night we fell in love.

In other words, we’re not just naming a color. We’re tapping into a web of memory, story, and sensation. Words carry with them the fingerprints of lived experience.

And this is where machines stumble. They’re excellent at patterns … finding them, repeating them, remixing them until the rhythm sounds right. But sounding right and feeling right are two different things.

Humans notice the gap. Not consciously, not always with language for it, but we sense it. We read a piece of text and something just isn’t there. The pulse is missing. The connective tissue of actual life hasn’t soaked through the words.

That’s why study after study shows humans outperform AI detectors when it comes to sniffing out machine-made text. We aren’t just scanning for form. We’re searching for connection. And when it’s absent, the silence is deafening.

Because words don’t live in a dataset. They live in us. They carry the weight of moments machines will never taste, touch, or remember.

And that weight makes all the difference.

The Cycle of Creation

THE CREATIVE PROCESS
(Dombrosky's Six Steps of Idea Realization)

Tom Dombrosky had a way of distilling truth into six-word mantras, the kind you’d find scrawled on a lipstick-stained napkin at a bar that serves whiskey neat and disappointment straight up. 

When we were working on client campaigns, he felt we typically pushed through 6 distinctive phases he called The Creative Process. But really, it was just life condensed into six predictable steps.

Step 1: This is awesome.

You’ve got an idea. A big one. The kind that makes you sit up straighter, crack your knuckles, and declare: This. This is the thing. You picture awards, applause, possibly a parade in your honor. You tell Tom, and he nods, unimpressed.

Step 2: This is tricky.

Turns out, your genius idea has some... logistical issues. Like how a trapeze act sounds great until you remember you’re afraid of heights. You’re making adjustments, problem-solving, doing the work. But the excitement is fading, and there’s an itch at the back of your skull whispering, Hey, this might suck.

Step 3: This is shit.

Yeah. It definitely sucks. What the hell were you thinking? Who let you do this? Where is the nearest exit?

Step 4: I am shit.

It’s not just the work that’s terrible ... you’re terrible. A fraud. A hack. A pretender who should’ve been stopped years ago, preferably by someone who loves you enough to tell you the truth. 

Step 5: This might be okay.

But then... maybe. Maybe there’s something salvageable. A spark. A sliver of light breaking through the wreckage. You breathe. You tweak. You fix. You remember why you started this in the first place.

Step 6: This is awesome.

Holy shit. You did it. And somehow, it works. Maybe even better than you imagined. 

Once through the process, and reviewing my output, I can visualize Tom raising a glass, and toasting me with a grin. “Told you,” he says. "And tomorrow, we get to do it all over again."

________________________

For a few years, Tom and I were partners in a small advertising agency in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. He was the senior. I was the junior. I learned a lot, made a lot of money, and had one helluva good time. Here are a few Dombrosky stories you might appreciate:

Chutzpah

Research

It Wasn't Pretty

Kicking Butt in Restaurant Marketing