Kranz On Copy: Insights and answers on copywriting and writing copy

Is it "misters" or "messers"? I don't know, but I see it in print all the time.

Which leads me to a dilemma I bet many of you have as well: Our reading vocabularies exceed our daily speaking vocabularies, a common trait among people who love to read.

Most of the time, our pronunciation befuddlement poses little difficulty. But on those occasions when we want to reach deep and draw out one of our "reading-only" vocabulary words, we either hesitate, fearing ridicule, or we make the leap, risking mispronunciation.

Fortunately, there's help: a book by Charles Harrington Elster called, The Big Book of Beastly Mispronunciations. Published in 1999 and available on Amazon.com, The Big Book is an entertaining read with a serious purpose: To give voice to people like us by giving us confidence in our speaking vocabularies.

A sample selection:

grievous GREE-vus. Don't say GREE-vee-us.
Be sure to say this word in two, not three, syllables, rhyming it with leave us. The three-syllable GREE-vee-us is an old and stubbornly persistent beastly mispronunciation -- perhaps in part because, as Holt (1937) observes, it is "a common mistake among ministers."

I hope it proves as helpful to you as it has been to me. (Unfortunately, "messrs." isn't in the book, but I choose not to hold that against Mr. Elster.)

This morning's Wall Street Journal features an article about MS boss Bill Gates and his twice-yearly "Think Week" retreats to a secret cottage in the woods of the Pacific Northwest. There, he stays up till two or three in the morning reading MS white papers and drinking cans of diet Orange Crush. No one, not even his family, is allowed to interrupt him; a caretaker stops by twice a day to drop off humble meals. Otherwise he is completely isolated.

I'm in no position to judge the merits of this leadership approach. (It's been a long time since I've directed a major, multi-billion-dollar software behemoth.) I see good and bad things about it, but what I really look forward to are the consequences of this publicity: In addition to increasing Gates' Nerd Mystique, the article will inspire executives everywhere to ask themselves -- and their subordinates -- "Why don't I have my own Think Weeks?"

Indeed, even as I type this blog, underlings all over the world are groaning over hastily-written e-mails demanding that they prepare and organize Think Weeks for their masters. Somewhere in the bowels of an exposed-brick loft in the trendy neighborhood of a blue state city, a sharp-witted and well-caffeinated consultant is at this very moment creating a Think Week proposal, a complete "turn-key" package with lodging, transportation, meals and more for his executive clientele.

In the weeks and months to come, the business media will swell with articles about other executive Think Weeks, about popular "secret" destinations, about practical ways you too can have your own Think Week. Experts will argue about the relative merits of isolation versus connection, and the geekier columnists will suggest which technology you should bring, which you should leave behind.

You can see the storm coming. And it all begins today with one article, about one man, in the Wall Street Journal.

Sometimes, it pays to think negative. Case in point: Last week I created a new page for my Web site, 10 Important Reasons NOT to Hire Me.

The key word here is "NOT," of course, and many marketing directors I know would instantly red-line it, then draw an arrow to a margin note that would read, "Please turn this into a positive. This is too negative!"

I think not. In the week following its posting, the "10 Reasons Not" page has become one of the most popular on the site, second only to the home page in visits.

If I had created a link to a "10 Reasons to Hire Me" page, would anyone come? Probably not -- they would anticipate a sales pitch and maintain a safe distance.

But that negative word, "NOT," attracts attention. Some people wonder why I would deliberately discourage business. More experienced marketers understand that I'm qualifying my prospects, and come to see how I manage it. Others are simply curious.

One of the truly beautiful features of the Web is that it allows us to experiment with content then gather immediate, measurable results -- practically for free. Try it yourself. Take something such as, "8 Ways You Can Increase Sales" and flip it on its head. With the amazing power of negative thinking, it becomes, "8 Ways You Undermine Sales, Discourage Customers and Reduce Revenue." Then watch what happens to your click-through rates.

Expect a positive result. . .

(Tip of the hat to David Scott for inspiration!)

Correctly executed, a brand is about something meaningful to the customer -- that's why we might say it's "branded" into their heads.

Lately, I've been scratching my head over a couple of taglines that seem to say the brand . . . is all about the brand.

Here's one example of this circular logic, heard every day on WBUR: "Collaborate. Create. Succeed. This is what we do. This is how we do it."

What the . . . ?

Collaborate on what? Create what? Succeed at what? If I follow this company's "reasoning" (using that word lightly), they're telling us they collaborate, create and succeed by collaborating, creating and succeeding.

Another example on TV, from an ad for a Web site that pushes overstocks: "It's all about the 'O'."

What the . . . ?

OK. The 'O' is the logo and symbol of this brand. What does the 'O' stand for? Why, it's simple -- the 'O' is all about the 'O.' Oh, mercy.

Circular branding. It's all about the . . . whatever.

The book that turned me into a copywriter was not a book about advertising, marketing, nor copywriting; it was The Rhetoric of Fiction by Wayne Booth. (I'd be hard-pressed to define rhetoric in a clear and sensible manner, but for our purposes, let's just describe it as how we say what we say.)

In Rhetoric, Booth insists that everything we say and write communicates three things simultaneously. The first of these is the most obvious -- the subject matter, or the topic at hand. For 99% of us, this is what we discuss when we discuss writing, and if you're a copywriter, it's what clients look for in our copy: products, features, benefits, services, etc. In this blog, for example the subject is rhetoric and its applicability to copywriting.

To borrow one of the rhetorical tropes of direct response TV -- but wait, there's more. Through vocabulary, tone, point-of-view, and the application (or not) of wit, irony, metaphor, allusions and other devices, the writer creates two other things: a personality for the author him/herself, and a personality for the readers as well. Lit crit types call these the "implied author" and the "implied reader," respectively.

Again, using this blog as an example, the casual way I'm addressing "serious" academic content is intended to create the impression that I'm a bright, yet straight-talking kind of guy with a touch of self-deprecating humor. The examples I've selected to illustrate my points suggest that my readers are also intelligent, but more knowledgeable in marketing issues than academic criticism.

Here's why rhetoric matters: Even mediocre copywriters can successfully communicate "subject matter." It's mastery of the other two areas --the implied author (the business or organization making the message) and the implied reader (the target market/audience) that distinguishes the truly accomplished copywriter.

"Accomplished" doesn't necessarily mean "professional." One of my favorite masters is the man behind Lindsay's Technical Books, a catalog of obscure and/or reprinted texts on the arcane arts of do-it-yourself metalworking, machining, radio-building and other fascinating, nearly-neglected technologies. I've never met the man, but I'll assume his name is . . . Lindsay.

Here's Lindsay on one of the books he offers:

"Some people seem to think automobiles, camcorders, and plastics grow on trees. Suggest to the bonehead that SOMEONE had to design the product and SOMEONE had to create the product and SOMEONE had to create the raw materials that went into it, and they're stunned. If you suggest to them that real people can smelt metal from ore, make a battery, make their own photographic film, explosives or plastics, and they just won't believe you. But this book shows how you CAN do just those things."

Fortunately, Lindsay works for himself. If he were accountable to anyone else, copy like this would probably never see the light of day. "Bonehead"? Too negative! And it takes too long to introduce the product, which doesn't appear until after three lengthy, very opinionated sentences.

Talk about attitude! And that's exactly the point. If you think the above selection is something, take a look at something else again, Lindsay's disclaimer on his ordering page:

"If you're an idiot, GO AWAY! Much of the information contained in these books is potentially dangerous. If you're too lazy to think ahead and exercise caution in your work (my definition of an idiot), then I don't want you on my customer list."

Wow, strong coffee. The implied author? Lindsay comes across as a crusty old S.O.B., but instead of offending his customers, his rhetoric reassures them: It says that this man is the real thing, an authentic tool-guy, someone who really knows his stuff.

And the implied reader? Someone who respects the no-nonsense authority of a man like Lindsay, and is in fact flattered to be among the select group of people who are not idiots -- people who are smart enough to read and order from Lindsay's catalog.

No, Lindsay's style would not work for herbal health supplements or fine European home furnishings. But it's just right for his products and his market. And that's what makes Lindsay's copy, great copywriting.

Despite its short history, Kranz on Copy has served more than its fair share of whining about bad writing. That's why I'm relieved by this opportunity to acknowledge surprisingly good writing from an unexpected place, rock criticism, a genre that often blends two of the most obnoxious strains of pop-culture rhetoric: the fan's hyperbolic and self-justifying enthusiasm and the snob's pretentious intellectual posturing.

(One of my big pet peeves: Categorizing an obscure band as a mix of two equally obscure bands that, if you're as hip as the critic, you certainly should know -- duh! -- as in, "Think of The Beezers as a cross between early, pre-synthesizer Tower Muffins and The Ham Shingles in their Alex Chilton/Syd Barrett phase.")

The cause for celebration is Ugly Things, a magazine published at irregular intervals by Mike Stax in San Diego, California. Dedicated to the recorded legacy of garage rock (mostly), Ugly Things offers in-depth historical reports, artist interviews and cogent record reviews that are as entertaining as they are informative.

Opening the most recent issue of the book-length magazine at random (at 200 pages for $6.95, it's also a bargain), I offer contributor Jeff Monk on Release the Hound, a recent compilation of rarities from the late bluesman, Hound Dog Taylor:

"To say this set is a wiry barnburner is to damn it with faint praise. Taylor and band were from the blues performance school that dictated that if a man was going to play guitar on-stage he was required by blues law to put on a show that would keep the punters dancing and getting down in general. If the band was rocking, usually the house was too. It's not a fluke that pretty much every photo you see of Taylor is lit by his mile-wide grin with those picket fence choppers gleaming in the light."

Or here's Mike Fornatale, in a review of a recent Runaways compilation, attacking the excessive release of unnecessarily ressurected recorded material:

"You've been carefully educated to believe that anything that was left lying around on tape, by anyone, at any time, is fair game for eventual compilation. Bullshit. NOT every spare twang, giggle, wheeze and snorting sound are worthy of your perusal. . . . did you need to hear over-earnest Piano Student Talent Show renderings of two Beatles songs -- sung in a wheezy coke-ravaged whistle that contains only remnants of a voice you used to adore? I didn't think so."

Or how about Patrick "The Llama" Lundborg's article on Mel Lyman, a charismatic banjo player who transformed the Jim Kweskim Jug Band from a modestly popular folk group into HQ for his Manson-like messiah cult, The Lyman Family:

"Mel Lyman wasn't just another head, though. To begin with, he wasn't really from the Appalachians, and while he looked perfect for the part as illiterate backwoods banjo musician, he was well-read and sophisticated, with a few years of college behind him. . . . Even in the role of supporting musician, Lyman gradually took hold of the Jug Band, and Jim Kweskin became one of his earliest followers. Undettered by his girlfriend freaking out and being hospitalized after some Harvard-related acid trips in 1963, Lyman consciously and methodically began using drug sessions to develop his game."

Sure, there are clunkers among the contributions -- but with three columns per page in small type, there's a lot of writing here and the amazing thing is just how much of it is engaging. Late at night, when I should be sleeping, I'm reading Ugly Things and making a mental list of new old records I should add (just gotta' have it, just gotta') to my shopping list.

Kudos to Mike Stax and gang for a terrific read!

If you've ever read the comic strip, "Family Circus" (perhaps someone has held a gun to your head at the breakfast table), you know that the cartoonist occasionally passes his creative responsibilities to his "son" Billy, who shares his awe-shucks, isn't-that-cute, child's-eye view of the world.

Today, with a nod to Billy, I'm taking a break to hand over this blog to Robin, a hapless consumer of marketing messages who would like to share a few frustrations he/she (I'm not telling which) has with Website content:

Dear Business-With-A-Website:

I'm one of the millions searching the Web today, and I have some news to tell you about what you say on your site.

When you say you're "committed to exceeding customer expectations," I don't believe you. According to Google, exactly 238 companies share the same extraordinary commitment; it just seems a little implausible that all 238 of you are jumping simultaneously through the same flaming hoops.

When you say you're an "innovative" and "strategically-focused" organization that seeks "out-of-the-box" solutions, I don't believe you. How can it be true when there are thousands of other organizations that say the same thing? In exactly the same way?

Hey, you know that Flash thingy that pops up when I come to visit -- you know, the one with all the elements that stream in from the margins to form your logo, just like thousands of others? (Oh, I'm sorry, you thought yours was original and different? Did you actually take a few minutes to to look at your competitors' Web sites before you poured thousands of dollars and man-hours into your own?) That Flash thing wastes my time. Am I impressed? Indeed -- with your narcissism.

I didn't find Plato, Aquinas or Kant on your "Philosophy" page, of course. I also didn't find anything actually helpful to me there, either. I did learn, however, that you credit your ideas with a great deal of importance. Yeah, that impressed me, too...

So what did I hope to find? How about something simple: What you do (or sell); how you do it; why it should matter to me. I'm neither a Communist nor an ascetic locust-eater, so you don't have to tell me about your noble commitments -- I live in the 21st century and I accept that you're in business to make a profit. As long as I find value in your product or service, I'm okay with that.

If you have a little imagination, you can go beyond my most basic expectations and hold my attention with content I can use. Perhaps you can show me how your products work. Or how I can profit from them. Maybe you can give me insights into new trends, designs or ideas related to the search terms I used to find your site. Can you give me tips, hints or suggestions that will help me, my family, or my business?

I love good information -- that's why I'm on the Web in the first place. Indulge me.

But don't use your site to indulge yourself. Because when you do, I go back to Google and start all over again. Without you.

Sincerely,

Robin

I see this on the Web all the time: flat, completely undescriptive headlines and subheads that fail to engage visitors in any meaningful way. You know the labels: "About us," "History," "Products" and even the misapplication of the correct intention -- to include benefits and features -- with literal headings that say, "Benefits" and "Features."

Do yourself, and your prospects, a big favor. Transform the static labels into active prompts. Hook your readers' attention by teasing them with the promise of rewards to come.

For example, instead of using the label "Benefits," incorporate one of your most compelling benefits into the head/subhead/label itself, such as "Save up to 12.8% on replacement parts" or "Identify the most qualified candidates in half the time." The classic corporate history page? Try something that offers a little drama, such as "From roadside stand to national retailer -- The TarMart Story."

Another way to think about this: If your content were a newspaper article, what would the headline be? Instead of a mere "Products" page, perhaps you could use a headline such as, "Environment-friendly 'green' paints come in a rainbow of designer-friendly color options."

Yet another suggestion: When in doubt, lead with a verb. Replace "Feature Options" with "Build your ideal [what-have-you]."

Has anyone seen examples of Web sites with genuinely helpful or engaging heads/subheads? Send 'em along and share.

Writing a book is an exercise in endurance; publishing it means enduring compromises. There's nothing wrong with that. With the perspective of experience, editors and publishers often contribute changes that substantially improve the book; that was certainly the case with Writing Copy for Dummies.

There were other times, however, when I was asked to remove material because it made the editor uncomfortable -- material deemed "too negative" for a book brand that prides itself on being upbeat.

Fortunately, a blog is all about turning up the heat, not turning it down. For my readers (especially my recent subscribers Dave, David and Noahm -- welcome!), I offer my raw, uncensored, unexpurgated missive on mission statements. Completists among you may want to compare the following passage to that on page 172 of WCFD. I invite everyone else to share the laughter and the tears:

Making mission statements -- if you must

Call me crazy, but wasn'’t there a time when people knew what they were doing -- or at least what they wanted? Businesses made money; hospitals healed the sick; churches saved souls. Then, in the 1990’s, it seemed as if everyone lost his way; suddenly no one was capable of doing anything without having a “mission” first. Worse, they seemed intent on sharing this great vision -- The Mission -- in a “mission statement.”

This craze for mission statements leads to almost surreal contradictions. Myself, I just think of how it feels to be stuck in an emergency room at 2:00 in the morning with a fussy and feverish infant, trying to comfort her by pacing the halls, back and forth. In the third hour of waiting, my eye catches a plaque on the wall -- it’'s the hospital’'s “mission statement.” In it I'’m told, as my baby continues to cry inconsolably, that the hospital is “committed” to prompt, compassionate care. Gee, that’s a comfort. Maybe in my fourth hour of waiting I'’ll come to believe it. But I doubt it.

Mission statements are like maps in a foreign language. If you know where you'’re going, you don'’t need one. If you don'’t know where you'’re going, it won'’t help you. And don'’t be seduced into believing that they're useful tools for communicating anything meaningful to either your employees or your customers. When you visit a company’'s Web site, do you bother to read the mission statement? And if you do, do you believe it? Neither do your employees and customers.

But if you'’re absolutely forced to write one because...well, just because, here’'s what you do:

1 Identify your values: These are all the things that typically follow the phrase, “"we'’re committed to.”" You’'re not allowed to admit that you’'re in business to turn a profit, so be sure you'’re committed to lofty ideals such as customer service, uncompromised quality, community enrichment, neighborhood empowerment, or shareholder value. If you’'d like to eliminate world hunger or raise the dead, go ahead and throw that in, too.

2 Mention a few ways you'll fulfill those values: Frankly, many mission statements begin and end by declaring values. But if you would like to add a least a little meat to the bones, mention a few ways your organization actually intends to live up to its commitments, perhaps by investing in research, building superior products, exploring new markets, or returning all customer inquiries in 24 hours or less.

3 Chain yourself to a rock and wait for the eagle: In Greek mythology, Prometheus stole fire from the gods as a gift to mankind. For his efforts, the gods chained him to a rock where, each day, an eagle came to pick out his liver. At night the wound healed, but at daybreak the torment continued. You won’'t be so lucky. For your efforts, your writing will be picked to pieces and you’'ll be asked to rewrite the statement over and over again. It won’'t get any better, mind you. In fact, most organizations tend to strike out the best parts, the specific promises of actual, tangible things the organization does or will do, because they’'re afraid of committing themselves to anything real -- anything for which they may be held accountable. Instead, you'’ll watch your statement become ever more vaporous, as responsibility-phobic executives proudly craft a mission that looks exactly like every other mission from every other organization: a “commitment” to quality, service, and value for all of its “stakeholders.” You’'ll pray for the eagle.

A couple of months ago, I attended a professional association event featuring an award-winning creative director, representing a major agency, discussing multi-million dollar work for a famous credit card account. This famous card-issuer, who will remain unnamed, suffered declining applicants and a customer base that was, in the CD's words, "in the senior bracket and dying."

For the next 45 minutes, he thrilled the crowd with the results of his agency's "innovative strategic thinking" for reaching a young, media-savvy market: a complex multi-media campaign featuring downloadable videos of Jerry Seinfeld and Ellen DeGeneres. These videos were genuinely funny and superbly executed -- absolutely professional through and through. They practically vibrated with the latest industry buzzes -- "viral," "experiential," "permission-based," and "customer-directed" (the fruit of the agency's "innovative strategic thinking," which just happens to sound very much like every other large agency's current "innovative strategic thinking") -- and the commercial plug in each execution was modishly discreet.

The crowd cheered -- mostly. But underneath the laughter, you could feel an undercurrent of vague dissatisfaction, a kind of "this looks good, but..." feeling that wasn't easy to articulate. This mood took on a more solid shape when the speaker was asked about results: Have applications increased? Our CD laughed nervously, then said the numbers were proprietary. When his dodge elicited a few incredulous guffaws, he quickly insisted that the client was very happy with the work. "A great new direction for the brand."

Lights up, applause, end of show. As participants put on their overcoats, you could hear people share their admiration for the funny videos. "Wasn't that Superman thing fantastic?" "Who'd ever guess that Ellen would make such a strong comeback?" No one, however, had anything favorable to say about the card.

Me, I was angry. I thought we were sold a load of shinola. Was this really a "new" kind of strategy from a forward-thinking agency, or just the same-old, same-old wrapped in the latest advertising fads?

Take the demographics, for example. Why assume that the client needs to target the youth market in order to succeed? Yeah, I know -- get 'em while they're young so you capture brand loyalty. But is that really true any more? Was it ever really true? And as the boomers age and the overall population/aging numbers trend upwards with them, shouldn't it be more important to reach the growing market of people 50 and up?

Then there's strategy. I agree with the essential tenet of "experiential" branding that the brand is more than a message, it's the sum of the customer's experience of the brand and the business behind it. But in the case of this card campaign, "experiential" means watching videos. Of famous people. Doing funny things. In what possible way has the prospect experienced the credit card? In truth, the client has spent millions of dollars to build brand -- for Jerry Seinfeld and Ellen DeGeneres. Let's hope they're grateful.

Finally, the underlying strategy seems ruthlessly superficial in its approach, focusing, as usual, on clever creative as a camouflage for tired thinking. If the agency had done a little digging, they might have noticed that the number of merchants carrying this particular card has declined considerably in the last 10 - 20 years; these merchants simply don't appreciate paying a transaction fee (3%, I believe) that's higher than what other cards demand. As the number of merchants has declined, so has the number of card users: When there are other cards that are virtually universal, who needs a card that isn't accepted everywhere?

Real, honest-to-goodness strategic thinking would tackle this dilemma head-on. Perhaps the agency would advise the client to revise the fee structure. Maybe they'd suggest a partnership program targeted to merchants, who would be encouraged to promote bonuses/discounts/premiums/prizes to customers who used this particular card, in return for bonuses/discounts/premiums for the merchant themselves. You could then imagine a scenario in which the merchant actively solicited this card at the point of purchase, explaining the advantages to the customer for doing so. Instead of an expensive media campaign that makes people laugh, maybe you'd have an almost invisible program that steadily increased merchant, then customer, loyalty. Maybe.

But such a campaign wouldn't be "creative." It wouldn't win awards. It would be merely successful. And exactly what the client had really paid for.

Two posts ago, I offered a free copy of Writing Copy for Dummies to the observant reader who could identify a poem surreptitiously referenced in my MarketingProfs. com article, Three Ways to Transform Vague Attributes Into Compelling Copy.

We have a winner: Jeff Cawley, VP of Market Development at Northwest Analytical, Inc. in Portland, Oregon. After "a mad search through the dark recesses of bibliographic lore," Jeff correctly identified the reference -- "the rag and bone shop" -- as a metaphor from W. B. Yeats' "The Circus Animals' Desertion."

Congratulations, Jeff!

In my other life (as opposed to my writing life), I'm the president of the Southern New England Chapter of the Society for Industrial Archeology. Officially, we're dedicated to exploring, studying, and sometimes preserving America's industrial heritage; in practice, we're a motley crew of engineers, archeologists, historians, academics and enthusiasts (I'm in the last category) who just have to see how things are made, how things run, why things are.

Two weekends ago, my chapter hosted our annual symposium at Higgins Armory, a strange and wonderful collection of arms and armor in Worcester, Massachusetts. Two years prior, we had hosted a similar event with disappointing results; at most, we had about 30 attendees. This year, we had close to 100.

What made the difference? Well, the location was strong, a good central point for a membership base distributed across Massachusetts, Connecticut and Rhode Island. And the venue was intrinsically interesting -- museum admission was included free as part of the registration package. Plus, we threw in a free lunch.

But one of the keys to success came out of a simple piece of research we had conducted in response to our frustration two years ago. After we had scratched our heads wondering why turnout had been so poor, we used an e-mail survey tool (Beeliner) to poll the attendees and, more importantly, the much larger number of members who chose not to attend. The survey was short and simple -- no more than 10 questions -- but the results successfully uncovered one clear culprit: A failure to send out sufficient advance notification of the event. Without a previous "save the date" announcement, many of our members had already made plans by the time the official registration form arrived in the mail about a month before the event itself.

For this year's symposium, we got the word out early. In late August 2004, we sent out a calendar of upcoming events that highlighted the February gathering as one to watch for. At the next two chapter events, we reminded members that the symposium was approaching. Finally, we followed up the initial registration mailing with a quick e-mail that scooped up almost as many registrants as the mailing itself.

So, getting the word out early proved important. Simple, right? But getting to these simple nuggets often isn't so simple. When it comes to improving response, few things are as frustrating as the nagging suspicion that one simple thing might make all the difference in the world. But which simple thing?

Good marketing is rarely easy, but I think my chapter's experience with attendance offers some clues:

1) We need a willingness to set aside assumptions in favor of active digging.
2) We need to dig, preferably with simple tools we can use quickly and efficiently.
3) We need to apply what we learn in our next round of marketing.

Anyone else have a "simple, yet not so simple" story to share? E-mail me if you do.