Copywriter, Toronto
"I don't do expected. I do 'wait, we can do that?'"
Words that tattoo themselves on your brain.
Copy that refuses to be forgotten.
The Philosophy
Flash Sheet
08 Works
Popeyes
Eat The Damn Chicken
Smiski
Let Smiski Do The Talking
Nicorette
Nothing Is Sexier Than Quitting
Rexall
Care That Comes To You
Balthasar Bloem
Counter Couture
TOTO Washlet
Face The Fear Feel The Clean
Birkenstock
Comfort Has Its Consequences
Gorilla Glue
Temporary Chaos. Permanent Fix.
ABOUT
SURAYA
I'm a copywriter who believes the best advertising doesn't feel like advertising. It feels like a punchline you can't stop repeating, a truth you didn't know you needed to hear, or an idea so obvious in hindsight it's almost offensive nobody said it first.
Personal Writing
who writes things
down.
We descend together,
strangers who have agreed, wordlessly,
to be briefly trapped.
I know the plot of your divorce.
You know I cried last night.
We have never met.
The man across from me
has declared his legs a nation-state
and is expanding into contested territory.
I grip a pole
ten thousand hands have touched before mine
and call it Tuesday.
I have never been more capable
than when something else needs doing.
I reorganized my bookshelf by colour.
I researched the history of the stapler.
I became, briefly, an expert
on a war that ended before my grandfather was born.
The email sits open in another tab,
patient as a saint,
waiting for me to become
the person who can write it.
I will get there.
But first—
I am very good at describing pain.
I am less good at just
having it quietly
like a normal person.
My therapist says I intellectualize.
I said yes, isn't it beautiful,
and she wrote something down.
I have never experienced anything.
I have only collected material.
Every argument is a third act.
Every stranger on the subway is a chapter.
Every heartbreak arrives already
formatted for the page.
I cannot turn it off. I have tried.
I once cried at a sunset and immediately thought:
The sky performed grief beautifully tonight.
People ask how my day was and I give them imagery.
They tell me about their day and use the word good.
Good.
A day that moved through light and shadow,
that held small devastations and private victories,
that smelled like rain on concrete
and tasted like burnt coffee and almost—
Good.
I flinch.
I cannot help it.
I am a blessing at eulogies and exhausting at brunch.
This is the condition.
I would not trade it.
I have already written about wanting to.



