Kranz Communications

Hello, may I pierce your head with a spike? To me, that’s what the following message (a real email from a real enterprise) really says:

So I’m going to accept a challenge posed by a copywriting and autoresponder expert,
[xxxx], and write an auto responder (also called lead nurturing email) every day
(not including weekends) for the next 30 days.  I will be writing about all sorts of things -
focusing on the world of online and B2B marketing.  They could include things about
my life that somehow pertains.  Who knows?!

There will be no sales pitches in any of these emails — just my thoughts and experiences,
focused on the world of marketing and my perspectives.

My question to you is this:  Would you like to receive these emails?  The experiment
needs an audience so we can see what works and what doesn’t — and I’d love your feedback
and replies as we go along.

So if you’re up for it — getting an email from me every day for the next 30 business days -
click the link below and let me know you’d like to receive them.

What am I missing here? I can understand why the author of this email would want to promote this 30-day tsunami of spam — but why would anyone want to be on the receiving end of it? (To get “things about my life that somehow pertains”?) And why would this email author expect anyone to be excited about this “opportunity”?

Please, I’m serious. Enlighten me. If you see something I don’t, let me know.

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This week, Conde Nast announced the shuttering of four magazine properties. Of these, one was something no one ever heard of (Cookie? What the heck is — or was– that?), and two were brides magazine, which aren’t really magazines at all, but fantasy catalogs with editorial thrown in.

But the fourth is one of the most famous magazines of all time, Gourmet. Not only was Gourmet the first and foremost among foodie mags, it was one of the leading luxury/lifestyle pubs in the world.

In the wake of declining ad revenues, however, Conde Nast used McKinsey & Co. as a screen for jettisoning an unprofitable property. There it goes, under the waves, pearls and all.

Here’s the irony: In an age when marketers are encouraged to behave like publishers (i.e., create content), shouldn’t the reverse apply as well? If the people at Gourmet had thought of themselves as marketers, rather than just publishers, could this still-esteemed brand have been saved?

Think of it this way: What if Gourmet had repositioned itself as a lifestyle consultancy service, a kind of online concierge to the rich? What if they had developed and leased mobile applications for finding superior restaurants and hotels, and for making reservations? What if they continued to create branded Gourmet editorial, but put it up for for a la carte sale to other media outlets/brands?

I could go on and on, but the point is this: if Gourmet had defined its value beyond ink and paper, it may have found other ways of making real money. But as long as it was locked into one way of thinking, as a publisher, it was doomed.

As many publishers are doomed. Unless they start thinking of themselves as marketers.

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I missed this one when The New Yorker arrived a week ago, but this morning, while on vacation and desperate for something to read with my Shredded Wheat, I returned to an old issue and found something that nearly made the coffee come out my nose: a full-age advertorial on page 17 with the kicker, “The [not just "a," but "the"] American Story: No Stimulus Dollars. No Corporate Greed.”

Headline: “May 17th was a great day, a great day to be Jim Justice.” To underline the greatness of the day, and the man, the headline is captioned with his signature — one that’s only slightly more modest than John Hancock’s.

Now, if you’ve ever attended one of my workshops, you know that I’m a big believer in telling stories. But this is one story that has gone very wrong. Essentially, it’s about a guy buying a resort hotel that’s about to hit the skids. So far, so good.

But the opening subhead tells us that even if the hotel is saved from the skids, this story is about to run off the rails: “Chapter One: Hometown Boy Makes Good.”

Then it gets better. Allow me to allow you to drink deeply from the copy. This is the part when the hotel president announces the new ownership:

Immediately, the tension of the moment turned to smiles, tears and jubilation. Because they all knew this man. All 6’7″ of him. He coaches their girls in basketball at Greenbriar East High. He’s the president of the Beckley Little League. And his reputation as entrepreneur and businessman is legend in this state, thanks to a stunning history of success in everything from coal to agriculture to golf courses.

“Coach Justice,” one woman whispered aloud, incredulously, just before the entire room erupted in cheers, applause and a surge of affection. 

What next? The hemorrhaging woman but touches the hem of Jim Justice’s suit jacket and is healed?

Obviously, the self-serving focus of this piece is no way to tell a successful story. But what really slays me is the context. Maybe, just maybe, this advertorial could’ve worked in the Sunday supplement of West Virginia’s morning paper. (Though I doubt it.)

But in The New Yorker? You can hear the guffaws rising from wine bars all over Manhattan. And for once, a snide, derisive chortle would be on the side of all that’s good and wholesome in the world.

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Okay, this one is rich. I just received my credit card statement from my provider. Inside, there’s this helpful message from the good, caring people at the bank: “Reduce clutter and save trees — switch to Paperless Statements!”

The punch line? This promotion, plus the generic “We appreciate your business” statement on the following statement sheet, added two additional perforated sections to the overall statement, increasing the dead-tree load by a full 25%!

Doh!

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