"Prada is never funny."

This was the feedback my fellow copywriter gave me. And I'm glad she did since I spent the other night knee-deep in virtual Prada. They're gorgeous bags, they really are, but I'll admit some relief when I switched to Fendi and later, Christian Dior.

With fashion copy, much like fashion itself, less is often more.

This is a hard lesson for those of us who lean toward the hyperbolic and too clever-clever. If you have the ability to spin words, to feel them vibrate off your tongue and onto the page in snappy little couplets, it's hard to reign yourself in. The impulse to show off, to prove that you are the literary equivalent of an Indy 500 driver, is strong indeed.

But few people want to read that shit. I mean, sure, we all love a Douglas Coupland novel, with its nuevo-slang and self-actualized ironic imagery. And I get postively wet for Tom Wolfe's journalistic rantings in his older novels. But by and large, so much of maturing as a writer seems to come from relaxing and pulling back--not hitting your audience over the head with one wordy line after another.

And copywriting is a challenge unto itself. Cramming meaning and clarity into a few lines is an exercize in restraint. Churning through descriptions, assembly-line style, when you're dog tired is another. The later the night gets, the more I want to resort to the weird and amusing. But couture, even couture that has little hand-sewn rainbows and clouds on it (for the low, low cost of $2 grand) is dead serious.

This is all good for me, though. I feel like it's a test. In the same way that others jog or go to boot camp, I am seeing what I'm made of.