My name is Molly.

I'm a writer, copywriter and poet from Seattle.

 

I was just explaining to my smart, classy friend Gary why I am such a good copywriter.

 

Gary thinks it's because I crave the attention of strangers. (I do.)

 

"Gary, I am hurt that you think I'm that shallow," I say. "I love stories! I love solving customer pain points! And yeah, I love self-aware product inserts written in the voice of a cartoon fox. So sue me."

 

Gary goes on to say that all good copywriters are fearless. They use plain language, language that sings, and they respect their audience. They're funny, but they don't sacrifice clarity for cleverness. Gary is really nailing it tonight. He's staring wistfully at a can of grapefruit LaCroix while he talks, peering somehow both into and beyond it.

 

At this point I am prepared to launch into a whole thing: how my short-form work can be found on boxes, blogs and boutique brand strategies across the country and how my long-form work has appeared in The Stranger, The Airgonaut, The Princeton Sun. How I was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2016 and how I once wrote a novel in the margins of a machine manual I found in a fox den in Alaska, and-

 

But Gary leans his head on my shoulder before I can speak. He points: a shooting star is burning across the sky. Isn't it beautiful? He seems to be saying. Isn't it beyond words?

 

And it is, so we leave it at that.