Anna Mitchael; Michelle Sassa Copygirl

ISBN 13: 9780425281123

Copygirl

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( su 537 valutazioni fornite da Goodreads )
 
9780425281123: Copygirl

Mad Men meets The Devil Wears Prada in this lively debut about a young woman working at the hippest ad agency in New York...

So. You want to work in advertising. The glitz, the glamour, the cocktail-fueled brainstorming sessions and Xbox breaks. Sounds like a dream job, right?

Wrong. The reality can be a nightmare. There are five simple rules for succeeding in the ad world—and I think I’ve already broken every single one...

1) Never let them see you cry. Even if your best friend breaks your heart. And posts it all over social media.

2) Be one of the boys. And, if you were born with the wrong equipment, flaunt what you've got to distract them while you get ahead.

3) Come up with the perfect pitch in an instant—or have your resumé ready to go at all times.

4) Trust no one. Seriously. If you don't watch your back, they'll steal your ideas, your pride, even your stapler.

5) Most importantly, don’t ever, under any circumstances, be a CopyGirl.

Trust me. I know...

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About the Author:

Anna Mitchael is a Louisiana-born writer who now lives on a ranch in Texas with her family, lots of cattle and a one-eyed dog. She is the author of a memoir entitled Just Don’t Call Me Ma’am, a monthly magazine column and a blog on positive living. She often writes about the modern female experience, hope, perseverance and the comfort of coyotes. 

Michelle Sassa is a freelance writer who has created memorable ad campaigns for brands like Coca-Cola, Reebok and New York Road Runners. She lives with her husband and three kids by the Jersey Shore, where she is an avid soccer player, rock music aficionado, and disciple of stupid humor. CopyGirl is Michelle's first novel.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

contents

cat lady

It’s so hard to think when you have a gun pointed at your head.

“First thing tomorrow, you’d better show me genius,” Elliott had warned us earlier. Then he followed up with his very favorite threat: “Remember, I can fill your seats in five minutes.”

Come on, Kay, think. Think. THINK!

I just need one good cat food slogan. It’s not like I have to find the cure for cancer or invent some dome that will let us live on Mars.

I type the first thing that comes to my head:

Here, shitty kitty.

And I am pretty darn sure that’s not what Elliott has in mind.

Here, shitty kitty is what Johnjoshjay say every morning when they see me coming down the hall of cubicles that comprise our ad agency’s creative department. Here, shitty kitty. Here, shitty kitty. The boys’ club loves to tease me, and this gem is their favorite catcall. (Pardon the pun. Occupational hazard.) It’s because I’m the copywriter on Little Kitty, get it? Oh so clever. In retaliation, I refuse to call any of them by their individual name. At least, not in my own head. They deserve one generic identity since they all dress like identical little hipsters: sagging jeans, designer sneakers, ratty but overpriced T-shirts, hats on backward until they come in the door and then drop them next to their computers along with their matching leather satchels.

Those poser suck-ups think they’re so great because they get to work on Superfine sneakers and Atlantis—the urban clothing line out of Brooklyn. And I’m stuck penning print ads for “pussy food.” Another one of their wink-wink witticisms. But I’m not going to let any of that get me down. After all, Little Kitty is our biggest account. The proverbial cash cow. Our bread and butter. Its big budget keeps the agency lights on, so keeping the client happy keeps my bosses happy. And tonight I plan on coming up with mad genius ideas that wow the Little Kitty execs, so that Ben and I can finally get the recognition we deserve.

Speaking of, where in Manhattan is my loyal work partner? I really thought he’d be back from the gym by now with the takeout dinner and brainstorming help he promised. My stomach swoons just thinking about my hunger . . . and, okay, full disclosure . . . thinking about him. As much as I want to nail this assignment, I secretly want to nail Ben even more. Cliché, I know. Girl copywriter falls for her hot art director partner. And it’s quite possibly career suicide. But we’ve been a pair—in the work sense—since the second day of advertising school down in Atlanta, and now he’s living with me, too. Granted, he sleeps on my couch, not in my bed like I wish. And, granted, the arrangement is temporary, just until he finds a place of his own. But whatever. The point is, he’s totally grown on me, which is bound to happen when you spend almost all your waking hours breathing in someone’s Axe body spray. Isn’t there a name for that? The Axe Effect?

You see, in addition to the cohabitation, Ben and I work side by side a lot. That’s because we’re the lucky new junior team in the creative department of Schmidt Travino Drew & Partners, one of the edgiest advertising agencies in the entire country. We must have beat out like a hundred other fresh-out-of-ad-school copywriters and art directors to score this gig. Just like creative teams at other agencies, we get paid to come up with ideas together, then Ben makes the pictures and I write the words. But unlike other agencies, ours was just named Advertising Age’s Agency of the Year so we’re “a big fucking deal.” Tons of people would kill to steal our jobs, a fact that our creative director Elliott feels he must mention every time he briefs us on an assignment.

Hence, the aforementioned gun pointing at my head.

I know Ben likes me—why else would he have wanted us to take a job together after ad school?—but I’m hoping when he sees the brilliant headlines I come up with to save our asses, he gets so excited that he wants to kiss me full on the mouth. I just need to start writing. Now.

If only I had my own muse, like Olivia Newton John in Xanadu, zipping around on her roller skates, feeding that musician guy all those big ideas. “Here, Kay,” I can almost hear her saying. “Here are your award-winning headlines. Now put on these skates, hold my hand, and let’s roll through this city like we own it.”

Sigh. Good muses are so hard to find. Especially when you’re starving. My last meal was the little white bag of candied cashews I snuck out for around three this afternoon, a poor substitute for lunch. Looking out the window now, I realize that, unlike me, all the sidewalk food vendors have gone home for the night.

That’s a depressing thought . . . but what’s not depressing is that here I am. In the middle of New York City! Well, okay, my office is in Chinatown, so technically that’s the bottom of the city. And I didn’t grow up far away, but still, this place is like a whole new world. Millions of people. Infinite possibilities. I like to look at the buildings and wonder who’s still in them and who’s like me—trying to prove that she deserves a place here.

What’s the saying? If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere. For me it’s more like: If I can make it here, I won’t be broke on the next bus back to Jersey. I thought if Ben and I moved to this city together and worked our ad magic, we could take the town by storm. Can I—correction, can we—really make a name for ourselves here? And leave all the doubters in the dust? I really hope so. I also really freaking hope Ben gets back soon. Remembering there’s a whole world outside these walls is making me feel more alone than I want to be. And after all, we are a creative team.

My phone pings with an incoming text, as if some muse has indeed heeded my call. Maybe it’s my best friend, Kellie, phoning from halfway ’round the globe with one of her patented pep talks. I could use that right now even more than pad Thai.

Hey Kay, any progress on Little Kitty?

Nope, definitely not Kell texting to say she’ll call me in five. It’s Suit, the senior account planner, subliminally cracking his whip yet again. Like I don’t know I have to present ideas to Elliott tomorrow morning. Like I don’t know it’s already 8:13 p.m. Why doesn’t he just text me a picture of an Uzi aimed at my right cranial lobe?

Paranoid, I peer over my cubicle to make sure Suit isn’t lurking somewhere nearby, waiting for me to get ’er done. Nope, no signs of life anywhere on this floor. He’s probably out to a fancy-schmance dinner with that uber-beautiful girlfriend of his, the six-foot-tall glamazon who wore head-to-toe leather to the office Christmas party. I bet she’s only with Suit because of his height. No way a girl like that is going out wearing flats. I’d dressed all wrong that night, as usual. My silky red top—which seemed retro when I bought it at an Atlanta thrift shop—was so bright that Elliott kept calling me Rudolph. To make matters worse, girls like Suit’s gal pal were all over that holiday party—just like they’re all over Manhattan—as if put here just to remind the rest of us we don’t cut it. Though if Suit was with Leatherette tonight, I doubt something as banal as cat food could divert his attention for so much as a second.

More likely Suit went out with Elliott and his crew for one of their liquid dinners. They’re probably at the Hole, the dive bar on the edge of Soho where someone from our agency or another can usually be found. Not that I asked for specifics. I’m just glad to get a few hours of quiet before they file back in here later, buzzed, to play a few rounds of Call of Duty on Elliott’s Xbox under the guise that they’re “working late.”

The boys’ club had even tried to peer pressure Ben into joining them tonight, though they know full well we’re on a deadline. The deadline Elliott gave us. I overheard them all by the elevator—our sadistic creative director was being especially loud and obnoxious. Elliott’s not used to being turned down when he extends an invitation, so he was riding Ben pretty hard about “which skirt he was going to wear to work out.”

Obviously, Elliott is the ringleader of the bunch. They all call him “E”—like he’s some hallucinogenic life of their party. And like the drug ecstasy, “E” is known for extreme moods—highs and lows. Behind Elliott’s back, Ben and I call him E-hole.

His boy network is so notorious they even got their own special mention in the big “Agency of the Year” write-up in Advertising Age magazine. The article’s exact words were, “The boys’ club is alive and well at this downtown denizen of edgy advertising, thanks to Creative Director Elliott Ford and his testosterone-laden band of thinkers.”

Testosterone indeed. There aren’t many chicks here at Schmidt Travino Drew in general, and technically I’m the only one in the creative department. There’s uber-bitch Peyton but she’s a producer, which is more like creative support, so that doesn’t really count, and then there’s Gina, the creative intern who got promoted but everyone still makes her fetch coffee so she counts even less. I’m pretty damn proud of this seat I have, but I know that at an agency like this, there’s a long line of people waiting to pull it out from under me. Probably why it’s just me here alone in this ridiculous chrome and glass office space while the band of drinkers—I mean thinkers—“works” off-site.

Come on, Ben. Walk off that elevator and come to Kay—show your sexy self. Not that I have anything to show him yet, either.

I think I’ll go ransack Elliott’s office for glossy photography books that might spark an idea. He’s got three whole bookcases crammed with them, and on his Lucite coffee table alone are two books full of Japanese anime, a book on street graffiti, as well as volumes devoted to black female nudes, tattoo art, art toys, burlesque dancers, and art inspired by classic 80s videogames. I hate being in this office, no doubt some Pavlovian reaction to constantly being zapped by my boss’s sharp criticism, but oh I do love the Eames chairs. I drop myself into one and start flipping through one of the anime books, searching for visual ideas that might help Ben with Little Kitty’s ad design. Just a few hours ago, he was sitting in this very chair while we were getting briefed. I smell the seat back and there’s his scent, Axe Phoenix . . . mmmmm. I close my eyes and picture Ben’s tall, broad frame, tight with muscles . . . his tousled, sandy hair . . . and those eyes of his, both playful and brooding. I conjure his hearty laugh—so thickly midwestern, like a warm bear hug that lifts you off your feet. Lord knows I could have used one after our shakedown today in this very office.

Ugh, that was soo embarrassing. Did Jayjoshjohn have to walk into Elliott’s office right when he was telling us that he could find an addict on 8th Street who could do our job better than us? And then those numbskull idiots just go to the video games as if nothing is happening. And instead of actually giving us any creative direction, E-hole just shows all of them the new bug-sized camera he got straight from Tokyo for a small fortune. Or, as he not so humbly put it, “for more than any of you little people make in a month.”

As usual, the guys rushed to huddle around E and ogle his latest toy. I swear, there’s nothing that man loves more than having the technology that came out a second ago—or even better, hasn’t been released to the masses yet.

“It’s got a Carl Zeiss lens,” Elliott bragged, “so the quality is insane. And it’s the smallest camera in the world, so no one will ever notice it.” Then he clicked a small button on his computer. “See, I filmed this two minutes ago.”

Next thing you know, there I am, in horrifying close-up on Elliott’s huge monitor, sweating golf-ball-sized bullets as he berates Ben and me for the last round of Little Kitty ads we’d done. My limp hair, flattened even more by stress. My left cheek indented the way it always is when I’m chewing on it. And I’m squirming like a shoplifter who just got busted wearing ten pairs of Vicky Secret undies under her jeans.

“Looks like Special K is having an allergic reaction,” one of the Joshjohnjays quipped. And of course another one chimed in, “Allergic to the big dogs, little kitty?” Then they all burst out laughing . . . at my expense. It was my moment to shoot back some sarcasm and join in their reindeer games, but as usual my tongue was tied tighter than my Converses. Thank God for Ben—the mouthpiece of our team—and his effortless wit. He defused my humiliation with one of his goofy one-liners. “Wow, Kay, I never realized you had such nice pores!” A small victory in an afternoon of feeling like a total loser.

Ben might pal around with those guys every once in a while, but I just know that he would never let the boys’ club change him. Ben is too Wisconsin. Too true to his roots. True to me, too . . . I hope. And one day, he’ll want to take our partnership to a less professional, more horizontal level. I just know it.

A click, click sound snaps me back to reality. Elliott’s bug camera! Where is it hidden? I hope it’s not on! I scan high and low in Elliott’s obscenely big office, feverish with panic. The darned thing could be anywhere.

Click, click. I hear it again.

What if Elliott and the boys are watching me right now, falling off their barstools? What if footage of me sniffing his Eames chair floods the morning e-mails? Something hits my foot, and I look down to see a wind-up robot, the source of the clicking noise. Whew! I must have inadvertently knocked it off the table.

I step over the toy, grab a few books, and hightail it out of there pronto. Navigating the row of cubicles back to my own, I notice a wind-up robot on Josh’s desk, and then when I pass Jay’s, there’s another robot just like it. Hmmm. Have they always been carbon copies of each other—or did they become that way when Elliott, Fucking Famous Creative Director, hired them?

To Johnjoshjay, good ole E can do no wrong. I hate to admit it, but there is something magnetic about the guy. Luckily I’m impervious to his powers. Or maybe it’s that he doesn’t ever try to include me in the group with their high-end tequilas or trendy microbrews and whatever fads they “discover” in the pages of Spin and Details.

And it works for them. All they ever seem to talk about is gaming and indie music, yet they turn out award-winning ads for Superfine and Atlantis. Whenever I’ve seen them with girls (the few times I actually get to leave the office and have a drink at the Hole) I’m totally intimidated by who they bring around—the kind of women I always see on the street but never in the mirror: beautiful, confident, a few steps ahead of the conversation.

Ben can always tell when I’m feeling self-conscious, and when all the guys are hitting on these super-babes, he comes over and talks to me. But Ben has never—not once—made a move on me. I whine about it to...

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Anna Mitchael; Michelle Sassa
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Descrizione libro Berkley Books, United States, 2015. Paperback. Condizione libro: New. Language: English . Brand New Book. Mad Men meets The Devil Wears Prada in this lively debut about a young woman working at the hippest ad agency in New York. So. You want to work in advertising. The glitz, the glamour, the cocktail-fueled brainstorming sessions and Xbox breaks. Sounds like a dream job, right? Wrong. The reality can be a nightmare. There are five simple rules for succeeding in the ad world--and I think I ve already broken every single one. 1) Never let them see you cry. Even if your best friend breaks your heart. And posts it all over social media. 2) Be one of the boys. And, if you were born with the wrong equipment, flaunt what you ve got to distract them while you get ahead. 3) Come up with the perfect pitch in an instant--or have your resume ready to go at all times. 4) Trust no one. Seriously. If you don t watch your back, they ll steal your ideas, your pride, even your stapler. 5) Most importantly, don t ever, under any circumstances, be a CopyGirl. Trust me. I know. Codice libro della libreria ABZ9780425281123

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Descrizione libro Berkley Books, United States, 2015. Paperback. Condizione libro: New. Language: English . Brand New Book. Mad Men meets The Devil Wears Prada in this lively debut about a young woman working at the hippest ad agency in New York. So. You want to work in advertising. The glitz, the glamour, the cocktail-fueled brainstorming sessions and Xbox breaks. Sounds like a dream job, right? Wrong. The reality can be a nightmare. There are five simple rules for succeeding in the ad world--and I think I ve already broken every single one. 1) Never let them see you cry. Even if your best friend breaks your heart. And posts it all over social media. 2) Be one of the boys. And, if you were born with the wrong equipment, flaunt what you ve got to distract them while you get ahead. 3) Come up with the perfect pitch in an instant--or have your resume ready to go at all times. 4) Trust no one. Seriously. If you don t watch your back, they ll steal your ideas, your pride, even your stapler. 5) Most importantly, don t ever, under any circumstances, be a CopyGirl. Trust me. I know. Codice libro della libreria ABZ9780425281123

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Descrizione libro Berkley Books, United States, 2015. Paperback. Condizione libro: New. Language: English . This book usually ship within 10-15 business days and we will endeavor to dispatch orders quicker than this where possible. Brand New Book. Mad Men meets The Devil Wears Prada in this lively debut about a young woman working at the hippest ad agency in New York. So. You want to work in advertising. The glitz, the glamour, the cocktail-fueled brainstorming sessions and Xbox breaks. Sounds like a dream job, right? Wrong. The reality can be a nightmare. There are five simple rules for succeeding in the ad world--and I think I ve already broken every single one. 1) Never let them see you cry. Even if your best friend breaks your heart. And posts it all over social media. 2) Be one of the boys. And, if you were born with the wrong equipment, flaunt what you ve got to distract them while you get ahead. 3) Come up with the perfect pitch in an instant--or have your resume ready to go at all times. 4) Trust no one. Seriously. If you don t watch your back, they ll steal your ideas, your pride, even your stapler. 5) Most importantly, don t ever, under any circumstances, be a CopyGirl. Trust me. I know. Codice libro della libreria BTE9780425281123

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