There are moments in a web designer’s life when you stop breathing. Not from awe or panic — more like that quiet sixth sense telling you, “Brace yourself, something’s coming that’s about to derail the timeline, the layout, and your will to live.”
And it usually starts so innocently. Someone says, “I’ll write the text myself. It’ll be faster that way.”
And that’s when the mental warning light goes off. Not blinking. Full-on runway lighting, as if someone just left a suspicious suitcase in Departures.
– Because I’ve been here before.
– Seen it.
– Lived it.
– Survived it.
It starts with enthusiasm. The kind that spills into emails filled with exclamation marks and bold promises. Then comes silence. And then… a Word document. Usually named something like Content.docx or, more alarmingly, final version (use this one, definitely final).docx. Inside: a mix of motivational quotes, philosophical musings, product descriptions of questionable origin, and notes like Add something clever here.
I kid you not. I keep these files. Like relics. So that in moments of doubt, I remember why I always, always recommend a copywriter.
Don’t get me wrong — I love it when clients know their own business. When they want to tell their story in their own voice. But the language of “me talking to my mirror” and the language of “I want to show up in Google search results” are often two completely different dialects.
And that, dear reader, is where the following stories begin. Tales of clients who took on the noble quest of writing their own website content. Some driven by passion, some by budget, others simply unaware that copywriting is even a thing.
Each one is different. All of them are real. And every single story ends exactly where it should have started: in the hands of a brilliant, patient, battle-tested copywriter.
Chapter 1: Champagne Ambitions, Tin Can Copy
It all started, as it often does, with an email full of high spirits and words like “Absolutely!”, “No problem!”, and “I’ll do all the copy myself, it’ll be quicker!” Now, from experience, I know this is web-design code for: Project delay incoming. But hey — benefit of the doubt, right?
A week goes by — nothing. Week two: “Almost done, just polishing!” Then finally, in week three, I receive the much-anticipated file. Title: “Main Page Copy”. Contents? A handful of sentences, all marching to different beats. No structure, random capitalisation, and the classic line: “Put something snappy here, you’re better at this stuff.” Right.
Still, I try to help. I ask gentle follow-up questions, suggest expanding on certain points. What I get in return is version two — five pages of stream-of-consciousness, no punctuation in sight, but a whole lot of feeling. Problem is, I’m not a content surgeon. I can’t perform a transplant if I can’t tell which bits are vital organs and which are just creative fat.
The project stalls. The client battles the copy, the website sits half-built, waiting. In the end, they’re referred to a proper copywriter. Together, they manage what couldn’t be cobbled together between emails, coffee breaks, and late-night existential crises.
The site finally moves forward. But by then, it’s lost momentum, picked up some dust, and — surprise — the final cost isn’t what anyone imagined. Not in time, not in energy, and certainly not in money.
Chapter 2: Poetry in Motion, Visibility in Question
This one was different. From the very start, the client had a plan. A structure. And, more importantly, a literary soul. At our first meeting he said: “Don’t worry about the copy — I’ll write it myself. No one knows my business like I do.”
And write he did.
The first batch of text landed in my inbox, and I have to admit — it was lovely. Like, genuinely. It read like something out of a creative writing course: elegant, fluid, packed with metaphors. The services were described like personal journeys. Each paragraph told a story. Every sentence sang.
Except… none of it said anything Google would care about.
There were no keywords, no headers, no structure that a search engine could crawl. Just beautiful prose floating in the digital void. It was like reading the blurb on the back of an expensive bottle of wine — charming, but unless I already knew what I wanted, I had no clue what I was being sold.
I gently suggested a few tweaks. Maybe add a “who this is for,” a short summary, some calls to action? The reply: “But I want it to sound original. I don’t want my website to look like everyone else’s.”
Fair enough. And to be fair — it didn’t.
And that’s precisely why nobody could find it.
A few months later, the client reached out again. “We’ve had no calls, no emails. Do you think the site’s too subtle?”
Let’s just say — subtlety wasn’t the issue.
Eventually, he worked with a copywriter — someone who knew how to preserve his voice while still delivering on clarity and searchability. They kept the magic, but added a bit of direction. One or two keyword phrases. A proper heading structure.
Clear messaging. Suddenly, things started to click.
The style stayed. But this time, it was anchored.
Chapter 3: The Long and Winding Road to Nowhere
Piotr was… poetic. Instead of sending over a brief, he sent me a novella. Four pages on how he started his business. His personal philosophy. How each service was connected to his worldview. At first, I was impressed. Then confused. Then very, very tired.
The opening line of his About Us page read: “It all began on a misty morning when the world whispered that it was time for change.”
Right. And I whispered back, “How do I turn this into a usable homepage?”
Every day, Piotr emailed me more reflections. The page titles were there — Services, About, Contact — but each one quickly evolved into an essay. The service descriptions clocked in at over 3,000 words. One even began with a memory of a family trip to Croatia.
I gently suggested some editing. Maybe tighten things up? Add some structure? His answer: “I don’t want the texts to be short. The client needs to feel me.”
Well, they felt him all right — about halfway through paragraph seven, just before their attention span gave up.
When the site launched, nothing happened. No traffic, no engagement. Just digital crickets. Eventually, he asked: “Do people even read anymore?”
Yes, Piotr. They read. But first, they want to know what you do, for how much, and why you’re the one they should trust. Croatia can come later.
He eventually handed his content to a no-nonsense copywriter. She kept his voice, trimmed the excess, and gave his story a proper spine. The poetic flavour remained — but this time, it actually went somewhere.
And Piotr? He was relieved. His message hadn’t been lost. It had just been found by the right audience.
Chapter 4: Technical Brilliance, Human Confusion
Tomek ran a solid business in London. Precise, reliable, and no fluff — exactly the kind of client you’d expect to send over clean, structured copy. From day one, he said: “I’ll write the content myself. I’ve got all the details. No need to hire someone for that.”
And so he did.
A few days later, a file landed in my inbox. I opened it, read the first paragraph… and paused. Then I read it again. Then I googled one of the words just to confirm it wasn’t some rare dialect of German engineering terminology.
The copy was clearly written by a man who knew his trade — and assumed the reader did too. Acronyms, systems, component specs. No explanations, no context. Just pure technical brilliance beamed straight from the brain of an expert to… well, no one in particular.
I suggested we add some entry-level explanations. Maybe a practical example? Something more approachable? Tomek replied: “I don’t want to dumb it down. My clients will understand.”
Sure — the ones who’ve already worked with him. But the new ones? The ones searching “who fixes this thing in East London”? They had no clue what “Type B2 load compensation module” meant, let alone why they needed one.
A few months in, the site wasn’t getting any bites. Tomek messaged: “Maybe something’s off with the layout?”
Nope. Layout was fine. Copy? Not so much.
Eventually, he swallowed his pride and called a copywriter — someone his mate had worked with. They reworked the copy together. Kept the facts, trimmed the jargon, added clarity. Suddenly, emails started landing, phones started ringing.
Lesson learned. Don’t write at people — write for them.
Chapter 5: Beautiful Words, Undefined Offering
Ania was something else entirely. Passionate, radiant, full of energy. When she talked about her work, her eyes sparkled. She said things like “I work from the heart” and “I help people find their inner light.”
And then came the content.
Three pages for the Services section, opening with: “I believe every soul carries a light waiting to shine.” Poetic, sure. But was she offering coaching? Energy healing? A lamp-fitting service?
Each paragraph was soaked in emotion and intention — but not a single sentence explained what she actually did. Were there sessions? Packages? An online course? Nothing concrete. Just lots of “flow”, “alignment” and “authentic self”.
I wrote back carefully: “Would you mind telling me — practically — what the client receives?” She replied instantly: “Oh, I don’t like to box things in. People know what they need when they arrive.”
That may be true in some cosmic, spiritual sense. But the average internet user has a five-second attention span and a tight schedule.
So the site launched — beautiful, serene, full of crystals and white space. But after a few weeks: silence.
Eventually Ania said: “Maybe it’s too… ethereal?”
I nodded. Virtually.
She then met with a copywriter who specialised in soulful businesses. Together, they created content that still had her voice — but added the essential details: what the client gets, how long it takes, what it costs.
Ania didn’t lose her magic. But now people actually knew what spell she was casting. And they started signing up.
Because sometimes, all it takes is one less line about light… and one more line about your three-session intro package.
Chapter 6: Five Pages in the Menu, Three Sentences per Service
Ah yes, the classic. The ambitious sitemap. The beautifully detailed structure — laid out in our first planning call with pride: “We’ll have a separate page for each service. Portfolio. Testimonials. FAQs. All clear and structured.”
I love that moment. It smells of strategy and ambition.
And then… the content arrives.
Each service page gets exactly three sentences. If I’m lucky.
- Service One: “We do X. Been doing it for years. People like our work.”
- Service Two: “We also offer Y. Always on time.”
- Service Three: “Professional approach. Great reviews. Fast turnaround.”
And that’s it. The full extent of what was supposed to be five individual service pages. Entire content that could comfortably fit on a sticky note.
Now don’t get me wrong — minimalism has its charm. But when you have a whole page for each service, you kind of need more than… a tweet.
So I reach out and gently suggest: “Perhaps we could group these into one Services page instead?”
Client: “Oh, really? I thought that would be enough. Just needed something quick.”
And there it is. The elephant in the room — speed, simplicity, cost. A well-meant shortcut that leads straight into a dead end.
In the end, we simplified the site. One well-built Services page, clear icons, short descriptions. And it worked — but it wasn’t the grand, professional vision we started with.
Could it have been avoided? Sure. A short conversation early on. A tiny consultation with a copywriter. Or even just an honest check: “Do I actually have enough to fill this page?”
Because building out a whole structure on wishful thinking is like designing a mansion and realising you only own enough furniture for a studio flat.
Chapter 7: All About Me — But What About You?
There’s a special kind of content that reads like a memoir. Clients who sit down to write not because they have to, but because they want to. And boy, do they write.
I’ve seen About Us pages that start with a childhood memory, weave through personal philosophy, and end in a declaration of universal truth — all without once mentioning what the business actually offers.
Don’t get me wrong — it’s often beautifully written. The grammar is flawless, the tone warm, the story engaging. But the question lingers:
- What exactly are you offering?
- Where’s the value for the reader? The outcome? The reason to stay?
Because when a visitor lands on your site, they’re not just there to admire your prose. They want to know what’s in it for them. What you solve. What they get. Why they should care.
It’s like being at a party with someone who talks for twenty minutes straight about their journey — and never asks a single question about you.
You don’t need to kill your voice. Keep your soul, your stories, your sparkle. But lead with clarity. Show them you understand what they’re looking for — and then, once they’re hooked, share your why.
Your website isn’t a diary. It’s a conversation.
Chapter 8: Common Sins of the Self-Written Web
Let’s finish with some light confession. Not every content mistake is a full-blown catastrophe. Some are small — but when stacked, they create a wobbly tower of “meh”.
Here’s a quick collection of the usual suspects:
- Copy-paste from the competition
Sprinkled with slight edits and a new font, but still smells like someone else’s site. Google doesn’t like it. Neither do your visitors. - “We are a passionate team of dedicated experts…”
If every sentence starts with “We”, you may as well be reading a mission statement from 2009. The visitor wants to hear about themselves. - No call to action
Great content… but what now? No “Book a call”, no “See our work”, no “Let’s talk”? You just ghosted your reader at the end of a great first date. - Everything, everywhere, all at once
One paragraph about services, then a childhood story, then the price list, then your dog’s name. Let’s maybe sort it out? - Sentences that never end and commas that go missing
Writing like this feels like you’re stuck in a long conversation with no pause for breath and by the end you have no idea what was said but it definitely felt exhausting. - SEO? Never heard of her.
No keywords, no location, no idea what you do. And then: “Why isn’t my site showing up in Google?” Well… - “It’s working fine — let’s leave it.”
The website hasn’t been updated since Brexit was a fresh headline. You’ve moved offices, changed prices, and grown a beard — but the site still says you’re “a young, dynamic team”.
You don’t need to be a copywriting genius. But recognising a few of these? That’s the first step toward fixing them.
Because words matter. Not just for branding — but for actually helping your business breathe online.
Final Word: Write if You Want — But Don’t Write Alone
After eight stories, you might think I’m against DIY content. I’m not. Honestly — I get it. You want to be hands-on. You know your business best. And yes, budgets are a thing.
But your website content isn’t just a “filler”. It’s your voice. Your handshake. Your shop window. And sometimes — all it takes is one good conversation with a copywriter. A quote. A tip. A fresh pair of eyes.
And if you do love writing — go for it! Just maybe not in the “Services” section. Start a blog. Share your thoughts, your journey, your worldview. Let people get to know the real you.
Let the main pages speak clearly and simply. Let the blog be your stage.
Because a good website isn’t just about selling. It’s about sounding like a human being your clients actually want to work with.