New media sensibilities. Old fashioned precision.
Does your business rock? Is it awesome? Do your customers ‘can haz good product’? Srsly?
This year over 572,900 businesses opened in the US alone; perhaps it’s time to consider that the overuse of tired buzzwords is no longer a viable selling strategy, much less a way to stand out amongst the hundreds of thousands. Though as a freelance writer I generally charge for my work, I’m perfectly willing to offer free advice right here in the first paragraph: You know your brand is intelligent, your copy must put the same trust in your potential customers. Nowadays, treating your audience with respect and intelligence is, in itself, an act so rebellious and revolutionary that it has the power to make someone read an ad they otherwise would have hit the ’skip’ button on, to read an Email they otherwise would’ve thrown in their junk folder, or to engage in a way that keeps them from marking ‘unsubscribe’ on that newsletter.
I’m a writer, not a PR person. I can help tell your story in a way that contains intelligence and class, while still having the cutting-edge style, wit, and ease of understanding that is required in today’s frantic new media world. Whether it’s copy for an eye-catching ad, an Email campaign that actually connects, or a great conference speech that’s informative and charming, I can create prose that’s written in the language of human beings.
The quality, originality, and freshness of my work is unmatched in the online world; I’m told I am a pleasure to work with, and my personal deadline is always at least four days before your actual one. I live in New York and can be reached at 732.513.2401, also on Skype as ‘obstructionist’, or you can email me. I’d love to talk and see how I can help you tell your story, but also I just love hearing people explain their passion to me. Thanks for stopping by my site and I look forward to working with you!
–Seth Eagelfeld
Writing Samples:
The Gotham Conference - Spec Web Copy
Those Who Destroy History - Essay
Zoom H2 - Spec Ad
Sleeping on the Beach - Story
Max From Minnesota - Story
Here, in the beginning was the word. And the word said 'here' and here he was. He knew not why he was here (do any of us?), but he was here and there was nothing else here, only darkness--though lacking even the quantity called 'darkness'. And though there was not yet loneliness, terror, or cold; the being found himself terribly lonely and cold. Before the being could utter a magic word or a command, light raised up to the sky and illumination seeped onto the earth causing the being to smile for a moment, but then again he found himself crying because the light had only further lit up and revealed the full extent of nothingness.
The old men of the village had their eyes firmly focused on politics again. And the economy. And property values. And sports. But not their wives; their wives were safe at home now--safe and unlooked on. The candlelit dinners and music, the awkward dancing and even more awkward reading of poetry had stopped when the young men left. No need for it anymore. Yes, the old leaders of the village no longer had to watch their spouses like hawks--even though they sat at home all day, bored. So, though there was a war going on, the elders were all noticeably calmer than during peacetime and the council meeting had a relaxed air to it.
"Liberty Univer..." Mark stopped. It was the first time either of them had said that, the word "kill". Madison Square was completely dark now except for a few people at the enclosed dog-run. 
Kyle thought as he went for a better arrangement of the list. His structure still seemed off and taking it out of alphabetical order hadn't fixed the problem. He scribbled down on his notepad again: Homosexuals, blacks, Aisans, lesbians...
Both the young teenager and the old officer were terribly embarrassed as the Police cruiser careened through some of Wilson's earliest paved roads. 
There was nothing that crazy about the nickname; Americans are a practical, simple, right-to-the-point kind of people: And quite simply, practically, that's what it was good at. Well, of course, planes are, first and foremost, good at flying, but this one was particularly well suited for killing Arabs. It was untraceable on radar, could effectively dodge either a bullet or a missile--while it's own projectiles were effectively unstoppable, and so precise that, according to one Army pilot, they could take out a towelhead without disrupting a hair on his goat's ass (his words, not mine). This was the fear of God, or Allah, or whatever.
Summer in the city. The grid is lit up like a dirty grill, hot and red, caking on the filth and the remnants of last night's meat. It's the weekend, but who cares, we have places to go, the atoms say, stretching apart, thrown together, brushing up against eachother's agendas. A week ago, a crane fell and killed two and we stood on the cool breezy street, talking and complaining to absolute strangers, calling for Mike's resignation, for action, for bureaucratic blood. Now the papers report that a crane operator had been bribed and, so long as the AC works, let's bribe him some more and move, move, keep moving, the city is swell, though it feels like hell.