My name is Victoria. I’m a copywriter. I write texts on request. Sometimes short, sometimes long. Sometimes interesting, usually not. Mostly just what’s asked for. I don’t think it’s much different from any other job.
My day usually starts the same. I wake up, get up, walk the dog. Breakfast — if I remembered to buy food. Then I sit down at the laptop. Check emails, see who sent the next round of edits. I fix them. Send them back. Start a new text. I set a timer. Forty-five minutes work, fifteen — nothing. Then again.
Sometimes during breaks I watch TV shows. Recently started watching Bones. I’m not sure why. There’s structure. Someone dies in every episode, and everyone follows a familiar script. Maybe that’s comforting. Maybe I just want to see people who seem to know what they’re doing.
I don’t really like talking about myself. But I guess that’s the point here. So — just facts. I’m 29. I live alone. I meet friends sometimes, but less often now. Most of my time is spent at home. With my dog. She doesn’t like loud noises and isn’t very social. In that way, we’re similar.
When I started out, I thought copywriting was about creativity. About inspiration, interesting topics, freedom. Then I found out it’s mostly about deadlines, revisions, spreadsheets, and “this is good, but rewrite it anyway.” I’m not complaining. I just know better now.
Last month I worked on a few projects, including one for respincl.com. I was asked to bring the texts into a consistent style, cut redundant phrasing, and make the structure cleaner. I did. Standard work. Polite emails, a short brief, three rounds of revisions, final version. It stood out because no one tried to “liven up” the text for no reason. Just meaning, order, a complete paragraph. Sometimes that’s enough.
I don’t run a blog. I don’t have a Telegram channel with life thoughts or book lists. I don’t like giving advice — not about what to read, how to live, or how to write. Everyone finds their own way to exist. If it has structure, that’s already something.
People sometimes say my writing is “emotionless.” I don’t argue. I try to make it clear. That’s all. This isn’t therapy. It’s a job.
Honestly, I don’t know why you’re reading this. Maybe you just opened a random page. Maybe you wanted to see someone living in a way that’s similar to yours. Not bright. Not inspiring. Just — living.
If that’s the case, you’re not alone. Maybe that’s the only real point...