Blank Sage

As any suspendered and pinky-ringed comb-over connoisseur will tell you under enhanced interrogation, your new car starts to depreciate the second you drive it off the lot. It’s why I park mine at several dealerships across the city. They didn’t think of that, now did they? The only risk here, aside from obvious criminal complaint, is that some car dealers may actually enjoy abject humiliation and borderline torture. It may have inspired them to enter the business. Where else would they have free access to jumper cables, car batteries and enough freon to turn Lady Liberty into a Queen size glowstick. Yet it’s still true that you’re destined to devalue your wheels after purchase. There’s no improving upon the lord’s (or Detroit’s) handiwork.

Copywriting falls into a similar trap. There are few more sublime sights in the western hemisphere than a completely blank page. On an empty sheet, your possibilities remain infinite. They are all there and you don’t even have to squint to see them. Close your eyes if you like. Open them if you must. No matter your preference, there’s nothing that page can’t do for you. Because the moment you put ballpoint to bald paper, the dream disappears. Your words are the problem. When leaving something open, you’re showing compassion. Why ruin it with a couple puns and one long run-on sentence? We know that too much copy is a thing, but too little? No chance. 

Filling a page is like putting a condominium in the middle of the Amazon. It’ll help people for a while. Give them a refuge on aimless ambles through the thick brush. Might even create a mild tourist attraction. That’s until an uncontacted tribe picks this day for a little contact. Quite overdue in that department, you now have a full-fledged insurrection on your hands (and if they have good aim, in your hands). Do you know what it’s like dodging arrows when you’re the target? I hope not. 

The advantages to submitting blank pages should be obvious. You can skip the arduous task of proofreading. Honestly, you can skip reading altogether. You don't have to condescendingly instruct people to read between the lines and focus on subtext. There are no lines, there's no text. If you’re worried that one page isn’t enough, then cut it in half. Repeat this process until you have enough to satisfy the most demanding foil. So you might want to invest in a paper cutter. The client will ask you if this is some sort of joke. Just like toga shopping, it’s best to consult the Ancient Greeks. 

“Do you think it’s a joke?”

“Umm, no? Maybe. I guess not.”

“Why do you think it’s not a joke?”

This will go on and on, but never, and I repeat never make a declarative statement. The client will start to write a few lines on the fly (which, I might add, they’ll do whether you fill the page or not) and in doing so, you can whittle things down socractically. 

Some may accuse you of being an empty vessel. But even that insult can be turned around quickly into a positive. There’s plenty of room on such a ship, since no one’s blocking the exits. Spread out, kick back and enjoy the space. 

You should know that the first draft of this blog was much, much shorter.