Halloween Rant

 

I love Halloween. I do. To a point. I won’t spend October acting like a deranged Karen who lost her pumpkin spice latte in a custody battle with autumn. That being said, can we talk about Halloween advertising?

Apparently the world believes that come October 1st, we all shed our human skin like snakes and emerge as pumpkin-hungry ghouls who communicate exclusively through discount codes and pictures of skeletons wearing sunglasses.

Every aisle in every store looks like a Tim Burton fever dream collided with a craft-glitter explosion. “SPOOKY SAVINGS!” they scream as they encourage you to buy nightmare inducing lawn decorations that cost as much as a used car. Not to mention the Family-Size bag of Fun-Size candy. Since the candy’s fun-size, that means I have to buy family-size quantities to achieve adult-level joy. Math is terrifying enough. Save your horror-clown animatronics for someone who didn't just check their credit card balance.

And the ads.

“Turn your home into a haunted wonderland!” Too late. My home is already haunted. By laundry. By dishes. By that weird smell no one can identify but we’ve all silently accepted. I don’t need a snarling ten-foot animatronic werewolf, I need a ten-foot animatronic motivation coach who shouts “CLEAN UP YOUR OFFICE, SCOTT!”

And don’t you dare try to guilt me with, “Make this the scariest Halloween ever!” Bro, I already filed my taxes late and opened WebMD at 2 a.m. in the same week. We’re good.

Then the pumpkin patch ads. “Come frolic in the crisp fall air!” Frolic? Frolic?! I'm one joint-snap away from becoming a cautionary tale. I don’t frolic. I cautiously adjust my posture and hope gravity minds its business.

Anyway, marketing departments of the world: Relax. I don’t need a cartoon ghost that says “BOO Y’ALL!” in whimsical font. I need reasonably priced chocolate and enough self-control not to eat it before October 31st. Spoiler: I will fail.

Happy Halloween, you commercialized candy goblins.

Now excuse me while I go panic-buy glow sticks and pretend I'm doing it for children and not because they're fun and make me feel like a wizard.

_________________________

Ahhh ... a good rant always makes me feel better. And the commercialization of holidays always strikes a spark.

Some holidays want you to buy love.

Others demand you sit across from relatives who chew like livestock and ask about your life choices.

Halloween? It just wants you to be weird, eat candy, and celebrate chaos in a mask. No casseroles. No gift panic. No emotional booby traps. Just sugar, silliness, and the sweet freedom of pretending to be someone else for a night.

Honestly, that’s how every holiday should work.

In the words of Tanya Correa: “Halloween is everything a holiday should be. It's a Fat Tuesday with no Skinny Wednesday.”

Headlines don’t decorate. They detonate.

 

If you’re a copywriter, here’s the hard truth: your headline is the idea.

Seven words or less. That’s the challenge. That’s the knife fight. You strip everything away until what’s left is pure, sharp, undeniable. If you can’t get there, you don’t have an idea yet.

This is the line we walk: art versus artistic expression. Art can wander. It can explore. But we don’t get that luxury. Ours has to land. Has to move. Has to work.

Headlines are where clarity and creativity stop being enemies and start being dance partners. They force you to answer: What’s at the heart of this?

This takes skill and art, but you’re not Van Gogh painting sunflowers. You’re trying to stop a thumb from scrolling. Your brush is clarity. Your canvas is half a second of attention.

Slowing Down (Sort Of)

 

I’ve been working since I was fourteen. Mowing lawns, washing dishes, selling ideas … doesn’t matter the job, I’ve always been doing something and getting paid for it. Work is what I know. Work is what I like. It makes me feel useful. Necessary. Like there’s a scoreboard somewhere and I’m still in the game.

I like goals. I like beating them. I like that quiet little high you get when you finish something that didn’t exist before you started it ... and your team recognizes the accomplishment and celebrates it.

Somewhere along the way, “being productive” got wired into me. Not as a suggestion, but as a law of nature. You produce, you earn, you contribute … therefore, you exist.

And now?

Now I’m breaking that law.

I just turned down a contract extension. The contract that’s been paying most of the bills. Not because it was a bad deal (it wasn’t; it was a great deal), not because I was burned out (I wasn’t), but because … it’s time.

Time to stop chasing the next milestone just because there’s always a next milestone.

Time to let the machine idle for a while.

I guess I’m retiring. Sort of.

I’ll still take on freelance work, but only the kind that feels like play. Projects that make me curious. People who make me smile. Things I’ll want to brag about to a mirror when no one else is around.

But while everyone around me is celebrating my retirement, I’m over here feeling like I just stepped off a moving train and can still feel the ground humming under my feet. It’s disorienting. There’s a part of me that’s grieving. Not just the work, but the rhythm of it. The sense of belonging that comes from being needed. By teammates. By the organization.

Because let’s be honest: working isn’t just about time and money. It’s also about meaning.

And when the work you’ve done has filled your days, your ego, your social life, your sense of purpose, well, walking away from that is no small thing. It stirs up all the big stuff. Life. Death. Legacy. That whole “what’s it all about” montage that starts playing in your head when things get too quiet.

So yeah, I’m feeling a lot. Excitement, sadness, maybe even a little terror.

But underneath all that, there’s also a quiet curiosity.

What happens when I’m not producing for someone else? What happens when the only deadlines are the ones I set for myself?

That’s what I’m about to find out.

I’ve got a couple of books in the works. Some music I’ve been meaning to finish. This blog that’s been quietly tapping me on the shoulder for years, saying, “Hey, maybe posting once a week ain’t enough.” It's all coalescing into a direction ... a plan of sorts.

My plan is to stick to my plan. But hold it loosely.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from decades of work, it’s that life doesn’t follow your Gantt chart.

So here I am … easing off the throttle, hands a little shaky, trying to remember that slowing down isn’t the same as stopping.

Maybe it’s just changing gears.

Congratulations, humanity.

Congratulations, humanity.

We found a way to make email worse.

 It used to be simple. Cold, joyless, efficient.

 You could fire off a “Sounds good” and move on with your life. Minimal effort. Maximum relief.

 Then AI showed up. And suddenly every coworker is a Victorian novelist.

You send “Got it.”

Todd sends back three paragraphs about “alignment,” “shared vision,” and “deep appreciation for your collaborative spirit.” Todd. Buddy. We’re scheduling a meeting, not founding a political party.

And it’s not just the office. Oh no. Now everyone with a Gmail account has the power of a marketing department.

Your dentist. Your kid’s soccer coach.That coffee shop that once misspelled your name as “Skitt.”

They’re all blasting out sleek, emotionally intelligent newsletters like they just graduated from the HubSpot Academy for Feelings.

“Hey there, Scott! We at Bean There Brewed want to thank you for being part of our caffeinated community of dreamers.”

I just wanted a latte, not a manifesto.

And let’s not forget the emotional stuff. Condolence letters, love notes, apologies ... all now available in deluxe AI formatting.

Your dog dies and you get this: “Your resilience in this difficult chapter inspires us all to cherish the pawprints left on our hearts.”

That’s beautiful. Did you write it yourself? Or did you just hit “More Heartfelt” and press send?

We’re living in a Candyland valley of sincerity. Everything sounds perfect ... but no one means anything.

Remember when typos were human? When an extra exclamation point meant somebody actually cared? Now the machines proofread our grief.

And the worst part?

We’re not even mad about it. We’re grateful. “Oh, wow, I didn’t have to write that awkward thank-you note myself!”

Yep. And you also didn’t personalize it.

So here we are:

Smarter, faster, wordier … and somehow hollower.

Our inboxes are fuller, our hearts are emptier.

... and Todd's still replying-all.

The Semicolon: A Completely Unnecessary Necessity

 

Ah, the semicolon; the punctuation mark that shows up like a dinner guest who wasn’t technically invited but brought a really good bottle of wine. You don’t know where to seat it, but you also don’t want it to feel bad. After all, it’s trying its best to be useful.

Nobody really knows what to do with a semicolon. You’ve probably seen one; you’ve probably even used one … accidentally, while reaching for the comma. But ask ten writers why they used it, and you’ll get ten versions of “It felt right.” Which is code for “I panicked.”

The Case for Team Semicolon

In theory, the semicolon is a workhorse of nuance. It connects two closely related thoughts, thoughts that deserve more intimacy than a period allows, but less clinginess than a comma demands.

Example:

I have a big presentation tomorrow; I need to prepare my notes tonight.

It’s the punctuation equivalent of saying, “These two ideas are dating, but not ready to move in together.”

The semicolon also plays well with fancy words like however, moreover, and nevertheless. When you see one of those in the wild, the semicolon often lurks nearby, like a proud punctuation parent:

I was going to skip the party; however, free tacos changed my mind.

And when lists get messy, like that time your aunt tried to describe her “simple” potato salad recipe in a single sentence, the semicolon steps in to sort out the chaos:

The picnic included sandwiches with ham, turkey, and cheese; chips, both regular and barbecue; and a cooler full of questionable lemonade.

See? It’s the Marie Kondo of punctuation. Everything suddenly sparks clarity.

The Case for Team “Why Bother?”

But here’s the thing: no one needs a semicolon. You can live a long, full, grammatically respectable life without ever touching one. Commas and periods already do 99% of the heavy lifting. The semicolon, meanwhile, just sits there in the middle of your keyboard, smirking like it’s part of an exclusive club.

People think using semicolons makes their writing sophisticated. Maybe it does. But it can also make your sentence look like it’s trying too hard, like a guy at a poetry slam wearing sunglasses indoors.

And if you use them too often? Congratulations, your prose now sounds like a Victorian telegram. Stop.

The Beautiful Contradiction

So what’s the verdict? The semicolon is both utterly unnecessary and undeniably elegant. It’s the punctuation world’s middle child: overlooked, slightly dramatic, but secretly brilliant. It asks us to slow down, to think about the relationship between ideas, to linger in the space between this and that.

Good writing lives in that space. Which means, like it or not, we probably need the semicolon, if only to remind us that language isn’t just about what we say; it’s about how we connect the dots.

Use it sparingly. Use it bravely. And for heaven’s sake, don’t use it to look smart.

That’s what em-dashes are for.

Stand Up and Speak Up

 

You're there to get your clients to a level they wouldn’t be able to reach on their own.

That’s why they hired you.

If they were just looking for someone to complete tasks, they could find someone cheaper to do the job.

So stand up and speak up.

When it’s your turn to have an opinion, have one.

But what if I don't have one?

If there's a specific reason you don’t have one, explain that.

Just make sure the reason you don't have one isn't because you’re avoiding conflict.

Why and When to Use Personification in Advertising

Brands are constantly searching for ways to stand out, connect, and persuade. One creative device that consistently proves effective, when used strategically, is personification. Giving human traits to a product, object, or idea might sound like a literary trick best left in the pages of children’s books, but in advertising, it can unlock surprisingly powerful results.

Why Use Personification?

1. It Builds Trust Through Relatability

At its core, personification makes things feel familiar. When we see a juice bottle that “asks” us to give it a shake before opening, it suddenly becomes more than packaging, it becomes a partner in our morning routine. A bag that “invites” you to unzip its front pocket feels less like a product and more like a helpful guide. This kind of interaction can increase the perceived trustworthiness of the brand. By humanizing the product or the message, advertisers can lower the barrier to belief. It's no longer a cold, corporate claim; it's something (or someone) you can relate to.

2. It Grabs Attention Through Direct Appeal

A key challenge in advertising is simply being noticed. Personification is an attention magnet because it disrupts expectations. When a product “speaks” or behaves like a person, it activates the part of our brain that’s wired to engage with social cues. Whether it’s a sponge that’s “tired” after cleaning or a car that “wants” to go off-road, the ad shifts from being a statement to an interaction. This moment of surprise or amusement is often enough to make someone stop scrolling, watch a little longer, or lean in.

3. It Drives Action With Playful Prompting

Good advertising doesn’t just inform, it nudges. Personification can create a more natural and memorable way to suggest a behavior. “Shake me before you open!” is more engaging than “Shake well.” “Unzip me to explore inside” feels more inviting than “See internal compartments.” By turning instructions into playful prompts, personification helps move people from passive viewing to active engagement.

When to Use It

Personification isn’t a one-size-fits-all solution, it works best in specific contexts:

• For everyday products that benefit from charm. Household items, personal care products, or packaged foods can easily feel boring or overly functional. Personification adds warmth and voice to the otherwise mundane.
  
  
• When you want to teach or instruct. Complex or multi-step products often come with instructions that consumers skim over. By turning those instructions into dialogue or personality, you make the message more digestible and memorable.
  
  
• In campaigns that rely on emotional storytelling. Brands looking to build loyalty or shift perceptions can use personification to forge an emotional bond. Think of the M&M’s characters or the talking insurance gecko... they become more than mascots; they’re brand personalities.

Final Thoughts

In a world of data-driven targeting and algorithmic precision, it might feel odd to talk about something as whimsical as personification. But it’s precisely that human touch, that spark of creativity and emotion, that often turns a good ad into a great one.

Used wisely, personification helps your product speak not just to the consumer, but with them.

The Automated Lie: AI and Your Devices Don't Love You

Your Apple Watch just told you to "you're making tremendous progress this week." 

ChatGPT started it's response to your query by complimenting you on your  insightful question. 

LinkedIn just offered you congratulations on your work anniversary. 

And somewhere in your kitchen drawer, yesterday's fortune cookie slip still promises that "good things are coming your way."

All lies. Beautiful, well-intentioned, algorithmically-optimized lies.

Here's the uncomfortable truth we've all agreed to ignore: kindness doesn't scale. You can't compress genuine human care into a push notification. You can't reduce authentic encouragement to a randomized string of motivational text. Yet somehow, we've built an entire digital ecosystem designed to simulate the very thing it fundamentally cannot produce: sincerity.

Think about the last time someone genuinely surprised you with kindness. Not the predictable "Happy Birthday" post that Facebook reminded them to write, but real, spontaneous human warmth. Maybe it was a coworker who noticed you seemed stressed, or a stranger who helped carry your groceries, or your kid who drew you a picture just because. That moment had weight because it was unscheduled, unscripted, and irreplaceable.

Now compare that to your fitness tracker congratulating you for standing up. The emptiness is almost insulting.

We've become so starved for positive reinforcement that we'll accept it from anything ... even machines that wouldn't know genuine encouragement if it were written directly into their source code. We've trained ourselves to feel a tiny dopamine hit when our phones tell us we're doing great, as if a device that can't distinguish between a sunrise and a screensaver somehow has insight into our worth.

The cruelest part isn't that these automated affirmations are fake. It's that they're training us to accept fake as sufficient. Every time we smile at a generic "You've got this!" notification, we're lowering the bar for what counts as human connection. We're teaching ourselves that engagement algorithms understand us better than the people in our lives.

Real kindness is inconvenient. It shows up at the wrong time. It costs something. It can't be A/B tested or optimized for engagement. It doesn't come with analytics showing how it performed across different user segments. It just is ... messy, imperfect, and irreplaceably human.

So the next time your smartwatch tries to coach you through a breathing exercise, or your video call platform tells you you're "amazing," remember what you're really being offered: the digital equivalent of a participation trophy. A hollow simulation of care from something that has never cared about anything.

Save your appreciation for the humans who show up without being programmed to do so. They're rarer than you think, and infinitely more valuable than anything your devices will ever tell you about yourself.

The machines can keep their compliments. I'll take the real thing, thank you very much.