Amazon's "Ask This Book": Thumbs Up or Thumbs Down?

 

Amazon just added a new Kindle feature called Ask This Book.

Reading a book on Kindle and have a question? You can type a question about the book you’re reading and get an AI-generated explanation instantly ... inside the book itself. Not a quote. Not a page jump. An interpretation.

Forget who a character is? Ask. Unsure why something matters? Ask. The system explains it in its own words, without the author’s voice, and without leaving the page.

And that raises a real question for writers.

This isn’t a reference tool. It’s not helping readers find what they already read. It’s telling them what the book means. And it’s doing that without the author’s voice.

There’s no opt-out. If your book is on Kindle, this feature can explain it, summarize it, and interpret it. You don't see the questions. You don’t see the answers. You can’t fix mistakes. You don’t get a say in how your work is framed.

So, writers, how does that feel?

Does this help readers stay immersed or does it put a machine between you and your audience? Is this a useful assist, or the start of something that slowly rewrites how your work is understood?

The Authors Guild is already pushing back (as they should), arguing that this effectively turns books into annotated editions, without permission or new terms. Amazon didn’t negotiate. They just turned it on.

Some people will say it’s accurate. Maybe it is. But accuracy isn’t really the point. The question is control (and voice) and where interpretation begins and ends.

Copyright is about control over how work is reused and reshaped. This puts a machine between the writer and the reader. Even if it’s accurate, it’s no longer the author’s voice doing the explaining.

And once this becomes normal, it won’t stop here. Explanations become summaries. Summaries become condensations. Condensations become rewrites. Then something else entirely. And every step moves the reader further from the original work.

Does Ask This Book feel like a helpful tool for your readers or a line that shouldn’t have been crossed?

_________________________

For more details, check out “What Amazon’s ‘Ask This Book’ Feature Means for Authors” 

How Confident CTAs Drive More Conversions

 

You were taught to say please.

Good manners. Polite. Civilized.

All good things ... except in a Call to Action.

When you say “please” in a CTA, you’re not being courteous. You’re being hesitant.

“Please sign up.”

“Please download.”

“Please consider…”

That one word quietly tells the reader: I’m not fully convinced this is worth your time.

A strong CTA doesn’t beg. It leads. It assumes confidence. It believes in the value. It removes friction instead of adding doubt.

If what you’re offering truly helps, don’t apologize for asking.

Say what to do. Say it clearly. Say it confidently. And save “please” for the dinner table.

 

Here are 16 examples of confident, no-apology CTAs ... the kind that lead instead of ask:

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Poll Results: Copywriters’ Fears About AI in 2026

In an informal, unscientific poll, responders indicated that copywriters’ biggest fears about using AI cluster around losing work, losing value, and losing trust in their own (and others’) writing. Many see AI as both a useful tool and a direct threat to how they get paid and how their craft is judged.

1. Job and income security

• Fear that AI tools will replace human-written ad copy, blogs, emails, and social posts, shrinking demand and pushing rates down.​
• Anxiety that clients will switch to “cheap” AI output and only hire writers to lightly edit, devaluing deeper strategic and creative skills.​
• Worry that entry-level and junior roles will disappear, making it harder to build a career path toward senior creative or strategy roles.​

2. Being misjudged or distrusted

• Fear of being falsely accused of using AI when they did not, especially as AI detectors often flag human work as “machine-written.”​
• Concern that clients and managers will trust AI detectors over the writer’s word, damaging professional reputation and relationships.​
• Unease that audiences may assume polished, efficient copy is “just AI,” making it harder to prove the value of expert human craft.​

3. Loss of creative identity and craft

• Anxiety that AI will homogenize tone and style, flooding channels with same-sounding content and making original voices harder to spot.​
• Fear that writers will be pushed into prompt-tweaking and editing instead of concepting, storytelling, and big-idea development.​
• Worry that constant reliance on AI will dull skills like ideation, structural thinking, and nuanced phrasing over time.​

4. Ethical, legal, and IP concerns

• Fear that their past work has been scraped to train models without consent or credit, undermining ownership of original writing.​
• Concern about accidentally publishing AI-generated material that includes plagiarism, inaccuracies, or fabricated details, with legal or brand consequences.​
• Discomfort with being asked to “just run it through AI” when the underlying data, permissions, or attributions are unclear.​

5. Practical quality and workflow worries

• Worry that AI will confidently generate factual errors or made-up case studies that slip through and damage credibility.​
• Frustration that prompting, checking, and rewriting AI drafts can be time-consuming and sometimes slower than writing from scratch.​
• Concern that clients will overestimate AI’s capabilities, expecting instant, perfect copy and compressing timelines even further.
  
  
  ​

I win. Google me.

 

Curt Cignetti, Head Football Coach at Indiana University at Bloomington

I’ve been thinking about Curt Cignetti lately, mostly because his story keeps bumping into everything that annoys me about how we talk about success now.

You know how it goes. Everyone says “be patient,” but what they really mean is “don’t make me uncomfortable by stepping off the approved path.” Stay put. Optimize your resume. Trust the process. It’s like being told to keep circling the airport on a delayed flight because eventually the runway will clear. Maybe. Or maybe you just run out of fuel.

Cignetti didn’t wait.

And that’s the part that sticks in my craw ... in a good way.

Here’s a guy who did everything “right” for decades. Long assistant career. Big programs. National championships. Alabama. Nick Saban’s office. The whole cathedral of college football prestige. And still, no one handed him the head coaching job he was “supposed” to get. At some point, patience stops being wisdom and starts being denial. Not grit, but inertia wearing a motivational hoodie.

So at 49, an age when modern culture quietly nudges you toward “managing expectations”, he took a job most people would pretend not to see on a map. Division II. A 60% pay cut. A program that had been losing so long it probably forgot what winning felt like. People warned him he’d disappear down there. Like success is a Wi-Fi signal and you lose bars the farther you get from the Power Five.

What gets me is that everyone meant well. They always do. “You’ve got it made.” “Don’t throw this away.” “Just wait.” Those phrases sound supportive, but they’re really about risk management for the person saying them. If you fail while following the script, no one blames you. If you succeed by ignoring it, you quietly indict the whole system.

Cignetti went anyway.

Part of it was personal. His father had built that Division II program into something real. Hall of Fame real. Field-named-after-you real. And Curt had spent his whole career being “Frank’s son,” which is its own kind of invisible weight. Nepotism is a funny word ... sometimes it means you’re handed everything, and sometimes it means nothing you do is ever fully yours.

So he went to a place where the expectations were low enough to trip over. And he won. Immediately. Then he kept winning. And nobody noticed.

That part feels painfully familiar in the age of algorithms. If you’re not already trending, you’re invisible. If you’re not winning in the “right” zip code, it doesn’t count. It’s like shouting into a canyon and being told your voice doesn’t exist because the echo didn’t go viral.

He moved again. Won again. Still no calls. He was in his early 60s by then, which in our culture is roughly the age where we start gently suggesting hobbies instead of ambition. Retirement plans. Consulting. Maybe a podcast, if you’re lucky.

Then Indiana called. Not out of belief, but out of exhaustion. They had nothing left to protect. When you’re the losingest program in college football history, dignity is already off the table. You might as well try something unfashionable.

And Cignetti showed up like someone who had run out of patience for polite lies.

“I win,” he said. “Google me.”

People laughed because confidence without branding feels rude now. You’re supposed to hedge. Add context. Credit the team. Thank the process. But he wasn’t selling vibes; he was stating a record. In a world addicted to potential, he showed up with receipts.

What followed still feels unreal. Eleven wins. Then sixteen and zero. A perfect season in a sport designed to prevent them. Beating programs that are basically religions. Winning a national championship with players nobody else wanted. A quarterback who couldn’t get on the field somewhere else, now holding a Heisman like it was always meant to be there.

And suddenly, the culture caught up. Eight-year contract. $93 million. The same people who would’ve warned him against the Division II job now calling it visionary. That’s how it always works. We love risk ... after it’s been de-risked by success.

The thing I keep circling back to is how simple his insight was, and how hard it is for people to accept: if you wait for permission, you’re outsourcing your life to a committee that doesn’t know your name. Institutions don’t discover you; they absorb you once you’re undeniable.

Modern culture tells us to build personal brands, but what it really rewards is people who quietly build proof. Proof doesn’t trend. Proof accumulates. It’s slow and unglamorous and often happens in places no one’s watching. Like Division II football fields named after someone else.

Cignetti didn’t hack the system. He walked around it. Took a side door that looked like a service entrance. And by the time anyone noticed, he was already holding the trophy.

Which makes me wonder about myself, about anyone reading this, how many “step-down” moves we’ve dismissed because they didn’t look impressive enough on LinkedIn. How often we confuse visibility with value. How many times we’ve stayed put not because it was right, but because leaving would’ve looked irrational to people who weren’t going to live with the consequences anyway.

Sometimes the path up looks like a demotion. Sometimes the only way to be taken seriously is to stop asking to be taken seriously. And sometimes the most rebellious thing you can do in a culture obsessed with optics is to go somewhere unfashionable and do undeniable work.

“I win. Google me.”

Arrogance? Maybe. Perhaps better explained as impatience with bullshit.

And honestly, we could use more of that.

Slip Into Their Inner Dialogue

 

Every prospect is already talking to themselves.

They’re not sitting around waiting for your ad, your email, or your clever hook.

They’re thinking about their deadlines. Their money. Their family. Their next move.

As a copywriter, it’s your job to slip into that inner dialogue so smoothly it feels like the thought was already there.

It doesn’t feel like marketing when your words match what they’re already worried about … already hoping for … already trying to solve … it feels like you're lending clarity to their thought process.

Pick up the thread of the story they’re already telling themselves, and continue it in a way that leads straight to what you’re selling.

There’s a branding lesson in here somewhere

“Voice” is a key component of branding.

Can you sound too much like yourself? What if you sound too little like yourself?

John Fogerty’s record label sued him for sounding too much like … John Fogerty. Fogerty filed a countersuit, and the case went to the Supreme Court in Fogerty v. Fantasy, Inc. (1993). Fogerty won.

In 1983, Neil Young’s record label sued him for recording “unrepresentative” and "uncharacteristic" albums. In other words, they were essentially arguing that Neil Young no longer sounded like Neil Young. The suit was settled.

There’s a branding lesson in there somewhere.

_________________________

Sources (with the full stories):

https://www.ajournalofmusicalthings.com/when-john-fogerty-was-sued-for-plagiarizing-himself/

https://americansongwriter.com/remember-when-neil-young-was-sued-by-his-label-for-not-being-commercial-enough/

The Death of the Em Dash (A Casualty of the Algorithm Wars)

 

I used to love the em dash.

Not in some overwrought, writer-y way. I just appreciated its utility. The way it could pause mid-sentence, shift gears, or deliver a punchline. It was punctuation with personality. A little theatrical, sure, but in the right hands it added rhythm. Made prose feel alive.

Then the robots showed up.

Now every piece of content that crosses my desk reads like it was written by the same caffeinated AI having an anxiety attack. Sentence after sentence peppered with em dashes. Thoughts careening from clause to clause with breathless urgency. What was once a subtle tool for emphasis has become the literary equivalent of Valley Girl uptalk (every statement ending with an implied question mark?).

The giveaway isn't just frequency. It's the way AI deploys the em dash as a universal solution. Unclear transition? Em dash. Need to add information? Em dash. Want to sound conversational? You guessed it. The algorithm has learned that dashes feel informal and modern, so it sprinkles them everywhere like semantic seasoning.

This is tragic for several reasons. First, the em dash actually requires restraint. Hemingway used them sparingly. Austen deployed them with surgical precision. In skilled hands, they create genuine pauses—moments where the reader's brain catches up to the writer's intent.(see what I did there?)

But there's a bigger problem. The em dash has become a casualty of the algorithm wars. Writers who once reached for it naturally now hesitate. Will readers assume this is AI-generated? Does this sentence sound too robotic? We're self-censoring based on how we think machines write.

This is backwards. We shouldn't be avoiding good punctuation because bad algorithms overuse it. We should be writing better.

So here's my modest proposal: bring back the semicolon. Embrace the period. Remember that the comma exists for a reason. When in doubt, try one of my favorites: the ellipsis. Use the em dash when it's actually needed, not as a nervous tic.

Let the robots have their breathless, dash-heavy prose. The rest of us can write like humans again.

Creativity Is Not a Service

Creativity isn’t something you order off a menu.

It’s not a delivery. It’s not an invoice line item.

It’s a partnership. A provocation. A search for what hasn’t been said or seen yet.

If clients could brief exactly what they needed, they wouldn’t need us. They’d write the headline, design the platform, and move on.

But the brief isn’t the answer. It’s not even the question.

Our job isn’t to nod politely and check boxes. It’s to challenge the brief. To ask the uncomfortable questions. To dig until we uncover what’s really at stake.

The best creative leaders don’t ask, “What do you want?” They ask, “What are we trying to shift?” The culture? The category? The assumption that things can only be done one way?

This might sound like arrogance, but it's responsibility. Because if we only ever deliver what’s asked for, we’ve already failed.

Creativity should ignite. It should stretch the conversation, not simply decorate it. It should move people ... sometimes in ways that feel risky, sometimes in ways that feel uncomfortably new.

That’s how you know it’s alive.

Split Personality

 

Some days I’m the copywriter. Other days I’m the marketer selling the copywriter.

And most days they’re both a pain in the ass.

Because freelancing’s a split personality gig. Half of you is busy crafting killer lines for clients. The other half is trying to convince the world you’re worth paying for them.

Too much copywriter, and you’re broke with beautiful work. Too much marketer, and you’re loud with nothing to show.

The sweet spot? That razor-thin middle where you sell yourself just enough to keep writing the stuff that sells everything else.

“Is AI gonna take our jobs?”

 

That’s the wrong question.

It’s like standing in front of a Ferrari asking if it’s going to replace your bicycle. Technically, sure … but aren’t you at least a little curious what happens if you learn to drive?

The center of gravity just moved: According to McKinsey’s latest research, today’s tech could already automate 57% of U.S. work hours. That’s half your to-do list. Gone. Vaporized.

But the headline isn’t the automation.

The headline is this:

Over 70% of the skills we use today still matter.

They’re just getting reused, remixed, and re-leveled.

AI isn’t deleting humans. It’s deleting chores. Drafting? Gone. Research? Half-gone. Data prep? Your new robot intern’s problem.

Meanwhile, human value is stampeding toward the good stuff: judgment, framing messy problems, negotiating, coaching, seeing around corners. The things no algorithm can fake without looking like a teenager wearing his dad’s suit.

Demand for AI fluency has jumped 7x in two years.

What does that mean to you? You don’t have to be a prompt-slinging wizard, but you do need to understand what this tech can do besides writing snappy emails. You need to know how to pair people with agents with robots the way great chefs pair flavors: intentionally, creatively, with a dash of fearlessness.

The $2.9 Trillion Elephant in the Room

$2.9 trillion … that’s the number leaders keep stepping around like it’s optional: Companies that rebuild entire workflows -- not just sprinkle AI like parsley -- stand to unlock $2.9 trillion a year by 2030.

But the winners won’t be the ones with the most AI.  They’ll be the ones with the best partnerships, where humans, agents, and robots don’t just coexist but compound each other’s strengths. Think co-pilot, not tool. Dance partner, not threat.

The Bottom Line

If you’re a leader waiting for the world to “settle down” so you can make a clean, rational AI strategy, I have news: the future is already jogging laps around your building. This is the moment -- right now -- to rethink roles, redraw workflows, and reskill your people.

Not because AI is coming for your jobs … but because your competitors are coming for your workflows.

And they brought robots.

DIY

 

All copywriters and content writers have heard that before. Many times.

I get it. I’ve learned (repeatedly) that a lot of things in life only look easy. It’s usually someone’s mastery making it appear effortless… or my ego whispering, “You could do that, no problem.”

Spoiler: I usually can’t.

Every time I attempt something that should be simple but isn’t, I discover yet again that the world is full of hidden difficulty. And I’m also reminded that it’s full of craftsmanship, patience, and people who make the impossible look easy.

I love that reminder. It keeps me humble, curious, and appreciative of the people who put in the work to make hard things look simple. And proud of the time and pain I have put into striving for excellence in my work. And how it might seem effortless to the outside world.

But I’m not sure I’ll be able to quiet my overactive ego, so I’ll probably keep believing that I can do things that look easy to the untrained eye. I’ll keep falling for that voice that says, “How hard could it be?” And I’ll keep being gloriously, hilariously wrong.

But I’ll also keep appreciating the people who make hard things look simple … because I know the truth: it’s not ease. It’s mastery.

And mastery never looks easy from the inside.

QUICK BRIEFING: Generative AI vs Agentic AI

We’re stepping into a new chapter of AI, and this one doesn’t just sit there generating pretty paragraphs or clever images. It gets up, stretches its legs, and starts doing things.

Agentic AI isn’t content to be your idea machine, it wants the keys to your tools, your data, your systems, and it’s ready to run errands on your behalf.

But with that freedom comes the fuzzy stuff.

These systems think in abstractions, not hard lines, which means the borders around “private” and “public” can get smudged if we’re not careful. And all those little human rules we just know ... the instincts about what’s okay to share and what absolutely isn’t? AI doesn’t come preloaded with that.

As these agents start negotiating deals or making moves, they’ll lean on the human patterns baked into their training, quirks and all.

And since the science behind all this is still being drawn in pencil, not ink, it’s on organizations to put the guardrails in place -- clear rules, clear limits, and a clear sense of what’s allowed -- while this whole agentic frontier takes shape.

Diacope: The Copywriter's Secret Weapon for Memorable Lines

 

Consider these iconic movie lines:

"Bond. James Bond."

"Run, Forrest. Run."

What do they have in common that makes them so memorable?

Same as these oft-quoted lines from Shakespeare:

"To be or not to be."

"O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?"

All these lines use diacope.

Huh? What the Heck Is Diacope?

Diacope is when you repeat a word or phrase with a few words in between. That's it. Simple, right? Yet this little rhetorical trick packs a serious punch.

The repetition creates rhythm. The pause creates emphasis. Together, they drill your message straight into your audience's brain like an earworm they can't shake.

Why Copywriters Should Care

Using the rhythm and repetition of diacope can be a copywriter's secret weapon. Here's why:

It's memorable. Our brains love patterns and repetition. When you serve up a word twice with a tasty filling in between, it sticks like glue.

It adds drama. That little pause? It builds tension. It makes people lean in. It turns ordinary statements into mic-drop moments.

It sounds natural. People actually talk this way when they're being emphatic. "I need coffee. Strong coffee." See? You do it too.

Diacope in the Wild: Famous Ad Campaigns

Ready to see how the pros use this technique? Here are 2 legendary ad campaigns that wielded diacope like a boss:

1. Maybelline: "Maybe She's Born with It. Maybe It's Maybelline."

This beauty brand nailed it by repeating "maybe" with a clever pivot in between. The first "maybe" suggests natural beauty, the second plugs the product. It's diacope doing double duty … creating rhythm while delivering the sales pitch.

2. Las Vegas: "What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas."

The repetition of "Vegas" highlights the simultaneous mystery and permission of this tagline. It's simple. It's memorable. And it transformed an entire city's brand by using just seven words … two of them repeated.

Your Turn

Next time you're crafting a headline, tagline, or call to action, ask yourself: Could diacope make this pop? Really pop? (See what I did there?)

Try repeating your key word with a few syllables dancing in between. Play with it. Massage it. Make it sing. (Did it again.)

Because great copy isn't just good. It's memorable. Truly memorable. (Somebody stop me!)

And diacope? Diacope is your new best friend. (Couldn’t resist one more.)

Generative AI: TO BE (a tool) OR NOT TO BE (a tool)?

The debate about Generative AI often collapses into a single, deceptively simple question:

Is it a tool or not?

On one side, you have the pragmatists saying, “Relax. It’s just another technology. Like a word processor. Like a calculator.”

On the other side, you have people who feel something visceral rise up in their bodies when they hear that comparison ... and want to throw the whole framing out the window.

I find myself somewhere in the middle, which is usually another way of saying: “This is messier than either side wants to admit.”

Why the “It’s Just a Tool” Argument Feels Incomplete

In traditional software, there’s a stable relationship between input and output.

If I enter numbers into a spreadsheet formula, I know exactly what result I’ll get. With Generative AI, the equivalent action is a prompt … and prompts don’t behave like formulas. They’re interpretive. They’re relational. They can be crafted well or poorly, consciously or unconsciously. And the output can range from genuinely helpful to deeply off, or worse, convincingly wrong.

That alone introduces a different dynamic. But it goes deeper.

Before AI, computers mostly served us expected outcomes. They did what we told them to do, and when they didn’t, it was clearly an error.

Generative AI doesn’t crash in the same way. It keeps going. It fills the silence. It offers something … sometimes brilliant, sometimes slop, but always with a tone that suggests confidence.

That’s where the nervous system starts asking a quiet but important question: “Who’s actually in charge here?”

This is why equating GenAI with traditional tools feels experientially thin. It ignores the fact that AI doesn’t just speed up productivity, it shifts meaning, authorship, and judgment in ways we’re still metabolizing.

The Stronger Objection: It’s Not Helping You Work; It’s Working For You

There’s a sharper critique that goes something like this: Tools help you do the work. Generative AI does the work instead.

When a craftsperson builds a desk, the screwdriver doesn’t decide how the joints fit.

When a writer types an essay, the word processor doesn’t generate the paragraphs.

When a musician composes, the piano keys don’t move without finger contact.

In all of those cases, the human remains the locus of care, specificity, and intention.

Generative AI breaks that pattern.

It doesn’t wait for your thought, it anticipates.

It doesn’t amplify your voice, it drafts one for you.

It doesn’t assist creativity, it substitutes a generic version of it.

From this angle, calling GenAI a tool isn’t just inaccurate. It’s mistaking delegation for assistance, replacement for support.

And honestly? There’s truth there.

Where I Land (For Now)

I’m not against AI. I’m also not pretending it’s neutral.

My adoption discomfort isn’t rooted in being a Luddite. It’s rooted in recognizing that this technology introduces a different power dynamic … one that touches authorship, meaning, and agency in ways screwdrivers and spellcheckers never did.

So the real question for me isn’t: “Should we use AI or not?”

It’s: “How do we stay in relationship with our own judgment while using something that can so easily bypass it?”

That requires more than technical literacy. It requires metacognitive training. It requires learning where we end and where the system begins. It requires clarity about when AI is supporting our thinking, and when it’s quietly replacing it.

If we don’t slow down enough to build that awareness, it can start to feel like we’re handing over power rather than exercising it.

But if we do give ourselves that time, if we learn to set boundaries, claim authorship, and stay accountable to our own voice, then maybe the question isn’t whether Generative AI is a tool. Maybe the real work is deciding when we are.

Rethinking the One-Track Mindset

 

You graduate high school and are asked to pick between two tracks: the university track or the vocational/technical track. Both are valid options, but in reality, one is celebrated and the other quietly discouraged.

Somewhere along the way, we decided that success only came packaged in a four-year degree and a decal for the back of the minivan. We built an educational GPS with exactly one destination: college. Everything else? A “scenic route” people whispered about but didn’t recommend.

But reality in 2026 isn’t buying that narrative anymore.

Across the country, 18-year-olds are stepping straight into high-demand careers such as welding, solar tech, plumbing, and manufacturing … jobs that pay well, matter deeply, and keep the lights on, sometimes literally. These aren’t consolation prizes. They’re the backbone of the world we live in.

And yet, too many students graduate high school with miles of academic prep but barely an inch of exposure to the work waiting for them outside the building.

That’s not a skills gap. That’s a vision gap.

If countries like Finland and Sweden can introduce kids to hands-on problem-solving before they’ve even lost all their baby teeth, surely we can give American students more than tests and pep talks. We can give them tools. Experiences. Mentors. The agency to make choices that fit who they are, not who the system assumes they’ll become.

This isn’t about college vs. career. It’s about honesty. Relevance. Balance.

It’s about schools partnering with industries, community colleges, and the folks who know what the local economy actually needs. It’s about students earning credentials while they earn their diplomas. It’s about redefining readiness so it includes more than SAT scores and application portals.

And yes, it’s about finally ditching the old stigma around the trades, the one that never made sense to begin with.

Because here’s the truth: Choosing a trade isn’t opting out. It’s opting in … sometimes to a paycheck, sometimes to a purpose, often to both. For some, working in a trade is fulfilling and gratifying. For some, working in a trade results in young pros circling back for degrees later, when they know what they want and can afford to chase it without drowning in debt. Both reasonable choices.

Every student deserves the chance to shape their own path, with real information, real exposure, and real choices.

College is powerful. So is the workforce. And if we’re doing this right, students won’t have to choose between them, they’ll simply choose what fits.

And we should support their choices either way.

The Sting and the Forgiveness

 

There’s a difference between describing the smell of rain and actually standing in it.

Between typing “the coffee was cold” and feeling that thin, sour sip hit the back of your throat because you got too lost in your inbox to drink it while it was still worth drinking.

We talk a lot these days about how machines can write. And they can. They’ll give you a clean sentence, a crisp metaphor, a line that sounds just enough like truth to pass the ear test.

But that’s all it is. Sound.

No weight behind it. No pulse.

Because the thing that gives writing its gravity isn’t vocabulary. It’s experience. It’s the body behind the words: the skin that bruises, the heart that misses a beat, the hunger that won’t let you sleep.

You can’t fake that.

You can feed an AI every poem, every story, every human confession ever uploaded to the internet, and it still won’t know what it’s like to sit in the dark after a fight you shouldn’t have started. It can tell you about heartbreak, sure. But it’s never had to wake up to the silence it created.

The human mess … that’s the engine. The smell of your grandmother’s house. The sweat on your back after carrying too many groceries in one trip. The moment you realize you’re not the person you thought you’d be, and you have to write your way out of it.

That’s the stuff that leaks into the words. That’s what makes them human.

And until a machine can feel the sting of a paper cut or the soft forgiveness in a hug, I don’t care how elegant its syntax is, it’s still just rearranging furniture in a house it’s never lived in.

Let's Hear It For Ugly Ads

Somewhere, at this moment, a marketing team is polishing an ad like it’s a Fabergé egg. Perfect gradients. Perfect fonts. Perfect kerning. Perfectly forgettable.

Meanwhile, a crooked, text-only, looks-like-it-was-made-on-a-lunch-break ad is running circles around it.

How could that be?

Simple: Customers don’t want “polished.” They want clear.

The Ugly Lesson

A client once told me: “We can’t run this. It looks unpolished.”

Of course it did. It was 10 words of blunt clarity:

“We fix your broken CRM. Fast. No contracts. Start today.”

Their polished version had:

• A hero video of happy people pointing at screens
• A headline that read, “Elevate Your Workflow Ecosystem” (whatever that means)
• A CTA buried three paragraphs down

We tested anyway.

The “ugly” page beat the pretty one by 131%. That’s not an improvement. That’s a mugging.

Why Did Ugly Beat Pretty?

• Ugly Feels Human

People are becoming less trustful of  ads. Anything too polished screams “We’re trying to sell you something,” while ugly ads feel real. And real feels safe.

• Ugly Breaks the Pattern

Pretty blends in.

Scroll any feed and everything is shiny, sleek, algorithm-friendly… and invisible. Then an ad pops up that looks wrong.

Crooked photo. Too much text. Headline written by someone who’s had enough of everyone’s bullshit.

And suddenly you’re paying attention. That stuff stops the scroll.

• Ugly copy tells the damn truth. Clearly. Directly.

Examples?

Gym page  

Polished: “Unlock Your Optimal Wellness Journey.”

Ugly: “Lose weight. Build muscle. First week free.”

Guess which one fills the classes?

SaaS page

Polished: “Revolutionizing cross-team synergy.”

Ugly: “Your team keeps missing deadlines. We fix that.”

Cue the conversions.

E-commerce

Polished: “Crafted for Modern Lifestyle Expression.”

Ugly: “The hoodie you’ll wear every day. Free returns.”

Boom. Add to cart.

Clarity wins because your customer arrived with a mission … and your mission is not to distract them from their mission.

When Ugly Works (And When It Doesn’t)

Use ugly when:

• You’re in a noisy market
• Your audience is skeptical
• Speed > Aesthetics
• The offer sells itself

Avoid ugly when you’re selling luxury watches, legal services, or anything where credibility is the product

How to Do Ugly Right

• Strip everything down
• Write like a human, not a brochure
• Make it feel native to the platform
• Say the thing plainly
• Test it against the pretty version (brace yourself)

The Final Punchline

Ugly isn’t lazy. Ugly isn’t sloppy. Ugly is efficient. Ugly is honest. Ugly says: “Here’s what it is. Here’s why it matters. Want it?”

Pretty tries to charm you. Ugly gets the job done.

And most of the time, the customer chooses the one that doesn’t pretend.

 ______________________

An example of a very successful ugly ad:

Your Message Is a “Maybe” Without This One Thing

 

If your message hits the right inbox but you don’t have credibility, you’ve just delivered a beautifully wrapped maybe.

“Maybe” doesn’t move people. “Maybe” doesn’t shift behavior. “Maybe” doesn’t get the sale, the signup, the share, or the slightest flicker of actual interest.

Audiences are looking for someone who’s proven they can walk the same muddy trail they walk …same bruises, same blisters, same “well… that sucked” moments.

Because without that, your big idea becomes background noise. Faint. Forgettable. A car alarm in a Costco parking lot everyone assumes someone else will deal with.

At best, people nod politely while scrolling past like you’re a well-meaning stranger at a bus stop. At worst, they don’t even register you exist.

You have to earn their trust first. Then deliver the message.

Here are five ways copywriters actually do that:

1. Show your receipts.

People don’t trust vague promises. They trust screenshots, case studies, numbers, outcomes, and the occasional “holy crap, that actually worked?” moment. Proof is the currency. Pay up.

2. Speak their language, not “marketing-ese.”

If your copy sounds like it was stitched together from a SaaS brochure and a LinkedIn pep talk, you’re done. Use the words your audience uses to describe their problems. When your writing feels like it came from inside their head, credibility skyrockets.

3. Admit what you don’t know.

Perfection is plastic. It cracks under pressure. Credibility grows when you say, “Here’s where I’m strong … and here’s where I’m still figuring it out.” Your honesty makes your expertise believable.

4. Prove you’ve lived their pain.

Tell the stories. Show the scars. Let them see the mud on your boots. People trust the guide who’s walked the path, not the one pointing at it from a clean, air-conditioned distance.

5. Give value before you ask for anything.

Teach something useful. Deliver a small win. Hand them a tool they can actually use. The moment someone benefits from your words, they trust the next ones you say.

Credibility isn’t charisma. It isn’t bravado. It isn’t shouting louder than the feed. It’s reputation earned one honest, valuable, proof-backed step at a time.

Do that, and your message stops being a “maybe.” It becomes a must-listen.

Fragrance

 

I’ve accepted that perfume commercials aren’t made for me.

There’s always a man -- sleek, angular, possibly carved by an Italian Michelangelo wannabe -- rising out of a pool that seems to be fed directly by moonlight. He walks in slow motion, water cascading off him like he’s auditioning to be Poseidon’s intern.

Then we cut to the high society château party. A woman in a designer gown glides through a crowd of hipster guests. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t even acknowledge the guy offering champagne. She just smolders in slow motion.

I can’t relate. The only thing speaking to me at parties is the buffet table.

And then the brand name … it’s always one floating word, a single, mysterious syllable whispered by a voice that sounds like it’s been trapped in a velvet pouch since the late ’90s. Or possibly just someone clearing their throat in French.

Something like: “Élau” or “Vür.”

No notes about what it smells like. No hint of how much a bottle costs. Not even a suggestion that the scent won’t make me smell like a citrus-forward tire fire.

I guess the assumption is: You already know it smells good.

The ad is just there to assure you that if you spritz this stuff on your wrists, you too can become a mysterious, hydrodynamically perfect being who doesn’t need to speak to anyone at a château party.

But I know better. I’d still be me: moist in all the wrong places, a little lost, and emitting the faint scent of lemon-related insecurity.

 

______________________________

 

Speaking of commercials that bug me, how ‘bout prescription drug ads? The first quarter of the commercial: soft music, golden retriever, someone living their best life. “Ask your doctor if Joyvexxa is right for you.”

Then the rest of the ad is basically a demon reading from the Necronomicon: projectile vomiting, spontaneous orifice bleeding, coma, possible death.

Hard pass, Joyvexxa. I don’t need a medication with a longer threat list than a horror movie.

A Quick Prediction About AI Copy

Let me throw out a prediction: AI copy is going to get worse.

Not slower. Not clumsier. Not less impressive on the surface. Just… less effective.

Yes, AI is going to keep getting faster and smoother. It’ll crank out emails, ads, landing pages, and blog posts in seconds.

But speed has never been the thing that makes copy work. Persuasion isn’t about how quickly words show up on the page. It’s about whether those words actually mean something to the person reading them. And that’s where things start to break down.

AI Is About to Start Eating Its Own Cooking

AI learns by consuming existing content. And more and more of that content is … written by AI.

So now you’ve got AI trained on AI trained on AI. It’s a feedback loop.

The result isn’t garbage. It’s worse than that. It’s perfectly fine, perfectly readable, perfectly forgettable copy. Everything starts to sound the same. Same rhythms. Same claims. Same “helpful” tone. Same safe ideas. Language doesn’t explode ... it slowly flattens.

Smooth Copy That Doesn’t Move Anyone

You’ll see a lot of copy that sounds right. But doesn’t do anything. No tension. No edge. No moment where the reader thinks, “Wait… that’s me.”

Because AI doesn’t know what actually worked. It only knows what resembles what was acceptable in the past. And resemblance doesn’t create conviction.

What AI Will Never Have

Great copy almost always comes from running into reality.

• Talking to customers who don’t say what you expected
• Launching something you were sure would win … and watching it flop
• Hearing objections that mess up your nice, clean positioning
• Living so close to the problem that it annoys you

AI doesn’t have any of that. No embarrassment. No emotional investment. No skin in the game. It can remix language forever, but it can’t generate insight.

The Beige Future of Copy

What’s coming is a flood of “pretty good” copy. Nothing offensive. Nothing bold. Nothing memorable. Copy that checks all the boxes and still doesn’t convert. And the more of that we see, the more valuable actual thinking becomes.

Humans Still Matter

This is the part many miss: Experienced marketing writers don’t lose relevance as AI gets better. They become more important. Not as typing machines, as decision-makers.

AI can give you:

• 30 headlines
• 5 angles
• 10 email drafts

But it can’t tell you:

• Which one to test
• Which idea is too safe
• Which truth will make prospects uncomfortable enough to pay attention

That’s judgment. That’s taste. That’s understanding the market.

The Real Split That’s Coming

The real divide won’t be AI vs humans. It’ll be: People who let AI think for them vs People who bring thinking to the AI

If you outsource your thinking, you’ll sound like everyone else. If you use AI as a tool (not a brain ) you’ll stand out more than ever.

One Last Thought

AI is flooding the world with words. But words were never the scarce thing. Insight is. Clarity is. Belief is.

And as AI copy slowly collapses into sameness, the copy that actually feels human -- specific, opinionated, a little risky -- will become increasingly difficult to ignore.