A few months ago I attended three back-to-back rockabilly shows in a single week. Tight outfits, bone-shaking bass slaps, and PBR-soaked shoes. Sheer bliss.

I pulled up a barstool and some dude in a Hawaiian shirt bought me champagne on the rocks because the bartender misunderstood his belligerent uttering of “Jim Beam on the rocks.”

Surprisingly, champagne on the rocks ain’t half bad.

You know, I’m almost thirty but I still love getting sloshed in a mosh pit every now and then. The wild and chaotic circle that leaves me sweating and wheezing until I dump myself out on the street corner surrounded by a cloud of Marlboro smoke.

What the fuck does this have to do with writing?

A lot, my dude.

I’m not old—but by no means am I a spring chicken.

If I rewind my life by five moves, three states, several ex-boyfriends, and copious amounts of hangovers, I’d end up back in my high school bedroom sitting on my trundle bed trying to make her big break into the blogosphere.

But I had nothing to write about because nothing happened to me yet.

Attempting to be wise beyond your years doesn’t work if you haven’t garnered any wisdom.

Granted, I’m still a buffoon. But a wise buffoon.

Plato said art imitates life.

If you don’t step out of your comfort zone and live a little, your writing will always be subpar. I’m frequently asked where I get my ideas from and my answer always remains the same: from the regular ol’ world, which is far from ordinary if you keep your ears open.

I took a theater class years ago. Our instructor assigned us to go out into the city and write down a conversation between two or more people. Then, we had to bring out scripts back to class to read them aloud. Everyone had to guess the age, sex, and personality of our unsuspecting stars.

It was a great exercise.

What I’m getting at is that if you want to be a better writer, you have to write from life. After all, as copywriters, we’re supposed to write as we talk, right?

You’re not boring—neither should your copy. Go to that show, take public transportation, dance until you’re drenched in sweat, and relish that cold night air once you hit the neon-laced streets.

Let your experiences ooze into every pen stroke.

Take risks with your work.

Start writing outside of the margins and live a little FFS.

I’ll revisit this topic in fifteen years.