Alyssa Kowalski

Passionate poet, freelance writer, article reviewer, history buff, and researcher.

Hire me

Blog posts

Your brand needs to be seen as a subject matter expert in your category. My job is to make perception reality. I’ll do the research to understand your customers and their problems, delivering engaging blog posts that position you as the expert—and your product as their next logical purchase.

Social media

How often do you look at the world around you and see consumers on their mobile devices? Social media ads are everywhere, and getting your product to stick to to the consumer instead of just scrolling you will need a "hook". A way to get them sold on your product. I can help you do that by using a positive description of said product based on who it is targeted towards. 

Email

It didn’t take long for the email inbox to turn into a junk mail wasteland. Your customers hate junk—but your product isn’t junk. I’ll write engaging emails that stand out from the pack of unwanted messages, giving you and your customers what you both really want.

Press releases

If you want to get noticed, you need to do something notable. Whether you’re launching a new product, shaking up the C-suite, or making a major brand pivot, I’ll craft a press release that will make the media pay attention.

Display ads

When your customers are cruising down the information superhighway at 98 clicks per hour, do your banner ads give them a reason to take notice? Or do they cruise by without a thought? I’ll write display advertising that make them pump the brakes and give your brand the attention it deserves.

Script writing

I can write scripts about storylines involving poetry. I can also involve script writing involving more real-life topics such as climate change, politics, and mental health. 

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Lydia

‘Do you want to say grace”? I swear my mother's voice could echo through every open space that existed on planet Earth. Piercing those who hear it like a knife stabbing a beast. Hitting every corner and bouncing back to my ears. ‘Yeah sure”, I reply to attempt to keep the peace. For tonight I feel not like starting an argument I’m bound to lose. “Heavenly Father, we thank you for the lack of calories that sit on these stained rusty plates in front of us, Amen”. I catch my brothers’ eyes before I even meet them. He had like a look of disapproval that could haunt you. “Really Lydia” he releases from his tense jaw as my mother’s sigh once again fills the space around her, and thus those who hear it. “Why do you always need to start drama, why can’t you just be kind to Mother, do as she pleases”. The very thought of that tenses my body like a car geared towards a tree in an empty field. The room goes silent, which for once is more uncomfortable than the ridicule of my mother. I picked through the mashed potatoes on my plate, but the gravy becomes the brown hues of the sad boy. The only thing that shakes me out of it is, “How was school” as I look up and see the desperation in her eyes, some forced level of entry into the conversation. An attempt at trying to have some sort of relationship with me. I hate when we all converse. I feel like between the two of them I am standing on a stage with a bright spotlight hitting my figure, and the crowd is already holding up tomatoes ready to chuck at me. “it was fine”. I stand up quickly and put my plate into the sink. Sometimes I wish I could have a relationship with my mother. But every time she forces entry I feel this anxious pit in my stomach. I cannot help but flee the scene. When I was a young girl I used to adore my mother. She had this ability to appear so effortlessly beautiful. When she would go work for her church youth group, and my father would already be passed out drunk in his chair, as much irony as that was, I would sneak into my parents’ bedroom. I would crawl my way into their closet. She always had the most beautiful dresses. They all ranged in lengths and patterns; though most consisted of at least florals. Some had puffy sleeves, some had lace. Some had a train that extended long past her feet, those were for special occasions. But my favorite of hers was bright cherry red. The arms of it draped the wearer in fine lace, and silk covered the body. The front was low, revealing. There was no back that showed except skin crossed with veins enhanced by bruises from my father. She got rid of it a long time ago, donated it to goodwill, and said it was a dress of Satan. The window creeks much like the steps I walked down this morning and my radio, my only sense of salvation from loudness outside my bedroom walls, shared a message from the news station. “Attention folk of Northington, there is a rain storm headed towards town. Be alert, and do not drive, flooding is not just possible but likely, be safe. I switch off the radio and a single drop falls onto the footboard of my bed. Well, I will be damned. Greek mythology is another salvation of mine. Another thing my mother views as a sin. My favorite story is the one of a Minotaur. A half-man half-bull creature banished to the island of Crete. The Greeks would punish criminals by sticking them into the labyrinth the minotaur lived in. A long never-ending maze. It would be a form of psychological torture as the captor never knew when they may run into the beast, facing their unfortunate doom. My eyes close and the raindrops hit the side of my cracked window, flooding my shaggy 1970s carpet yet giving me peace. When I awaken, I am in the labyrinth. My mind begins the never-ending track of poetry that plays on repeat. I’m the queen of missing the silver lining. The black abyss is sheltered by a reflective border. The only way to get out is through. Similarly, the only way to get out is to escape. Which seems to not make any type of sense. But that is before you understand the complexities of the maze that lives in my head. The head sheltered by black hair, contrary to my mothers’ beliefs, is indeed mine. Most people call it a brain, as simple as that but, it is more like a labyrinth to me. My ego is the minotaur, waiting to eat and destroy any happy spots that wander to meet their unfortunate doom. The difference is hard to tell when your every thought is a maze. Right or left, up or down, a never-ending path. In the same way, the minotaur was a victim in its own life, yet portrayed as evil. Because every turn reveals something new. Like a haunted house. Sometimes you turn the corner and find relief in your breath because no monster is there to jump and frighten you. But more often than not you find yourself in front of a demon. But even though you know you will likely run into the demon; you still turn anyways. You hold your breath and wait for its appearance and even though you know it is there, you still jump. After a while you find yourself no longer jumping, no longer being afraid but in some sick way you wish you would be because it is better than the empty pit that lives in your soul. The stomach knots stay, but you get used to them, accept them, and understand there is no more room for butterflies. So, you hope when you find joy again the knots flutter like the insects would. Every night your mind wanders through the labyrinth while your body lay still in your sheets and all you can think about is the cruel sayings of those who supposedly love you the most. You mix confusion on what love is supposed to be with the cruelty of another damaged soul. The only escape from your nightmares is the dreams of what could be, but you find yourself never believing they will come true, you just hope for them. Much like the chained beast that is the minotaur. You wait for the day a man loves you enough for you to carry a child. A young girl, you will raise very differently from how your mother raised you. The way you could make a generational curse just and right. Break the chains of the beast. You would bring her cheap roses and braid her locks. You would tell her she is worth more than anything to you and make her believe that for herself. You would listen to her dreams and affirm her that she is capable of achieving them. You would teach her how to put on mascara and hold her hand while she cries. Even though you know you always be trapped in the maze, you will do everything in your power to set her free.

Buy for $150

Search advertising

We no longer have to guess what customers are looking for, they tell us with every online search. Today, we just need crystal-clear copy that answers their questions with your product. I’ll write targeted ads that put your product at the top of their search results.

Direct response

You have potential customers who are ready to whip out their wallets. They’re practically begging to hear a convincing reason to go with your product instead of the other guy’s. That’s where I come in. I’ll write a compelling pitch for your product, convincing your next great customer to take action now.

Ebooks and white papers

You’d never ask someone to marry you on the first date. Commitment takes time. That’s why free resources are so effective for lead generation and nurture. I’ll do the research to write a compelling resource you can give away for free—so you can convince your customers to take the next step.

Ebooks and white papers

You’d never ask someone to marry you on the first date. Commitment takes time. That’s why free resources are so effective for lead generation and nurture. I’ll do the research to write a compelling resource you can give away for free—so you can convince your customers to take the next step.

Ready to get started? Hire Me