Professional writing services are not something many business owners use despite their importance to their shops, hotels, restaurants, their business. Fact: A single spelling mistake on a website’s home page will reduce sales by 50 per cent as it suggests professional sloppiness and possible fraud.

Although there is a pressing need for both translators and copywriters there is little demand for either. Translating is, of course, the conversion of say English to Spanish or Russian. The translation will be a faithful copy of the original content but like for like is rarely acceptable so avoid using Google translate.

Russians who translate to English are fine at grammar but the results fail to communicate in a way English speakers are comfortable with. The translation is wooden and written in bureaucracy-speak. Russian businesses tend to favour copywriters whose first language is English.

Copy-writing and ghostwriting (enhancing) is a creative trade in which there is a need for word empathy. The copywriter takes uninspiring content and ‘sexes it up’:

You sell the steak, the copywriter sells the sizzle. Fees charged for either service can be modest. Like much else in life you get what you pay for. Many translators are doing it ‘on the side’ and have only their time to consider. These translators are inappropriate for such legal and official documents that require a notary’s stamp.

On the other hand, the copywriter is rarely paid his true worth. He or she takes your written content and creatively spins a web of enticement to attract interest and buyers.

Their fees are often high and so they should be. You see an advert; he sees many hours of inspired concentration. Their job is to create masterpieces out of a basic sales pitch. The true business professional does not count the cost of the investment as he expects returns to be far higher. A good copywriter can multiply sales faster than a jackrabbit can fornicate to produce rabbit kittens. You cannot put a price on that. ~ Michael Walsh


If you have written a novel or biography but lack the skills to bring your work to retail standard Michael Walsh can help you.

Enquiries are invited from writers who have already written or are well advanced in writing their novels. There is a demand for fiction, real-life stories, mystery, romance, crime, erotica, and romantic comedy. Contact: or

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Article, Poetry

It Was Christmas Eve in the Casa

Without inspiration, there can be no communication. Every line we read be it a news report, biography or poem, is inspired by someone or something. Such was my inspiration when from my rooftop garden situated on the highest home in Mijas Pueblo I watched a sunset to die for. Yes, it was indeed Christmas Eve 2011. Inspired, I then scrawled my thoughts down.



It was Christmas Eve in the casa,

On that charming Spanish hill;

And high in the star-filled dome above,

Was mirrored an earth so still.


It slept through the noise and tinsel,

For it cared not when nor why,

That man will fight among themselves,

And some are prepared to die.


The chapel bells were tolling,

They talked from vale to vale,

High up in my hillside casa,

I felt that God prevailed.


A melody of eventide,

Each tower sang its song,

In Andalucía hillsides,

I was where I belonged.


In vales below the twinkle lights,

A bed of stars it seemed,

I felt as one with God above,

I dreamed, I dreamed, I dreamed.


Let others do their worship,

At altars of their choice;

But let me be where I would be,

Where God will have His voice.


The chapel bells are singing;

His hills are filled with hope;

From eventide, be by my side –

My small heart filled with hope.


Happy Christmas from Michael Walsh


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Michael Walsh Reads Some of His Favorite Poems

You can listen to the audio as you read along.


Hello, wherever you are. I am the Irish poet, Michael Walsh. I was 26-years old when I first discovered that my mother was right; I have a gift for composing heartfelt poetry. That was a long time ago; in fact, it was nearly 600 poems ago, which is a long time.

I composed poetry as self-indulgence, just as a painter or sculptor may paint or create for their own pleasure. With the passage of time, I realized that others wanted to read my poetry. Mainstream publishers are disinterested in poetry so I self-published. How pleasing that despite being advised by the Writer’s and Artist’s Yearbook not to consider publishing more than 500 books, my print-run of 3,000 copies of two collections sold out in weeks in just the city of Liverpool alone. I supposed that in the year 2000 I was likely Britain’s most popular poet. It was very gratifying.

I don’t have a favorite but I do have favored poems. These very much include Ma Vourneen, which is Gaelic for, ‘My Darling’, ‘The Girl I met in May’ and ‘Where the Skylarks Sing’.



When time and distance separate us,
Then you will find the spirit of our togetherness,
In a glass of wine.
My darling; Make it a long stemmed glass,
To remind you that even the minute apart is the longest one.

Fill it to its very brim to symbolize,
The fullness that you bring to my heart;
Sip it gently, and often, that you may know,
That each slight touch or glance is a kiss from you.
And most of all; let its spirit warm you as yours has warmed me.
Raise the glass and salute both the past and the future that link us;
But most of all, toast the emptiness that lies between,
Without which there could be no anticipation.
And if the spirit of the glass brings,
Warmth, peace and joy to the inner you,
Then you will understand what you have brought to me.

Let the shimmer of the wine’s sparkle on your lips,
Hint at desire;
The coolness of the chilled bottle the long ago.
The chuckle of its pour, the future.
But most of all may it, as it becomes part of you,
Remind you that you are a part of me.



The gladness of my heart is wakened,
By the speckled cream of wavelets,
Wash to gold the sands of morning,
By the colours of the day;
Rolling up the tide-washed bay,
Blending with the distant corn;
How the forests rise in splendour
Paying homage to the dawn.

The gladness of my heart is wakened,
Willow poise her grace had beauty,
Wash to gold my heart of mourning,
By the girl I met in May;
In her lime green décolleté.
For a past so far away;
Colours of the spring will waken,
To the girl I met in May.



The summer air so balmy brought the fleet of clouds to rest,
They drifted aimless; some were caught upon the mountain crest.
The maid was plucking flowers though her shoulder turned aside,
To hide the blush upon her cheek, perhaps a flush of pride.

That I should speak of poetry and sonnets for her heart,
Create a word-spun spider web that brings romance to art.
So while she stepped through flowers she beguiled and won my soul;
I chased until she caught me and to both of us our goal.

She sat her chin within her hands and smiled a thought unknown;
I closed my eyes and dreamed that she might one day be my own.
We felt the heather in the air and heard the skylark sing,
The curlew’s call to higher realm where seagulls rest the wing.

And in her hands the harvest of the pastures summer filled,
Across the vale, the dingle, dale; where all the flowers spilled.
To ripple, dance to summer’s tune, the ocean’s breathing sigh;
Where skylarks sing and flowers grow and maiden lovers lie.


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