Confessions of a Fundraising Copywriter
My name is Rick Grant, writer for hire.
I was in my office with my feet on the desk. I had poured a second cup of coffee from a fresh pot, and it was warming my hands. I drink a lot of coffee. What can I say? I'm a wordslinger. It's a living. It pays for the coffee.
I was brooding over my last case. It was an acquisition job. I had written a direct-mail package that beat the control by 165 percent, and the client never said a word. No "wow." No "thank you." Not a peep.
I was staring out the window, watching the rain rivulets race each other down the pane, when I heard the knock.
She breezed in like she was floating on a cloud. Her heels were that high. She was wearing a dark business suit, white blouse and carrying a burgundy briefcase under her arm. Her red hair was pulled back into a tasteful bun. She had a thin, sharp face, like a runway model. She closed the door and turned to me with a hard eye.
"And proud of it," I said.
She looked at me aggressively and didn't say anything. I smiled pleasantly. I was beginning to feel like my hero, Spenser. Well, more like his creator, the late Robert B. Parker.
"You being a wise guy?"
"Only for a moment," I said.
"I don't like this," she said.
"Well, it's a start."
"And I don't like funny either," she said.
"That's OK. I'm not always this funny."
She glided into my guest chair.
"My name's Denise Doherty."
"I love alliteration."
"There I go again."
"Look, mister, if you don't want my business just say so."
"I don't want your business."
"OK," she said.