MIKROLEKCIJE

492 words on Noticing: Jennifer Roberts teaches art history at

Harvard. Oliver Burkeman writes about her methods in his excellent
book on time management, Four Thousand Weeks. “When you take
a class with Roberts, your initial assignment is always the same,”
he writes, “choose a painting or sculpture in a local museum, then
go and look at it for three hours straight.” No screens. No phone for
any reason. Just take the time and look. Roberts does this exercise
herself. Once, she picked a painting called Boy With A Squirrel by
John Singleton Copley. She explained her experience to Burkeman:
“It took me nine minutes to notice that the shape of the boy’s ear
precisely echoes that of the rough along the squirrel’s belly—and
that Copley was making a connection between the animal and the
human body,” Roberts said. “It took a good 45 minutes before I
realized that the seemingly random folds and wrinkles in the
background curtain were actually perfect copies of the boy’s
ear.”Burkeman also does the exercise. He chose a painting called
Cotton Merchants in New Orleans by Edgar Degas.The longer he
looked at it, the more the painting gave him, opening wider,
unveiling itself and its subjects and their circumstances. “Before
long, you’re experiencing the scene in all its sensory fullness,”
Burkeman writes, “the humidity and claustrophobia of that room in
New Orleans, the creek of the floorboards, the taste of dust in the
air.” The exercise—called “slow looking”—has since spread beyond
Harvard. It’s a movement now, no doubt spurred by the breakneck
speed of modern life, the instantaneity of it all. Because when
everything is fast, it feels good to ease off, to be thoughtful and
intentional. The change of pace is hard at first, tedious and irritating,
but eventually, the discomfort abates, giving way to the true benefit
of slowness: Noticing the details.How To with John Wilson is part
documentary, part collage, part poem. It’s a collection of random
happenings captured in New York City. John Wilson films, narrates,
and edits the show, which was born out of slow looking in a different
context. “My first job out of college was actually working for a
private investigator,” said Wilson. “I had to comb through hours and
hours of the most banal footage you can imagine and try to find one
little incriminating moment,” he said. “It really trained me to notice
the little details.” Noticing the details is a skill. And you develop it by
slowing down, embracing tedium, and accepting that “things take
the time they take,” as Burkeman puts it. Time illuminates the
details. Details give way to connections. And connections are the
basis of creativity, a cornerstone of copywriting. So, to be a good
copywriter—and a creative person, in general—you must take your
time. You must allow yourself to decelerate to the speed your work
demands.

____

163 words on Being creative:

“You can’t take nothing and make anything,” said copywriter
Eugene Schwartz. “You’re not God.” You’re not. You’re just a
person. You can only create anything from something else. “What
you are doing when you are being creative,” said Schwartz, “is
trying to connect two separate ideas that logically would not go
together up until that moment.” When you are being creative, you’re
making new connections.Nothing more. In fact, according to
Schwartz, a better word for “creativity” is “connectivity” because
everything is derivative. Everything comes from something else,
something older. So don’t put pressure on yourself to create
something completely original. It’s a trap. You’ll fail. Instead, put
pressure on yourself to seek out and experience various places and
people and perspectives that are new to you, interesting to you,
compelling to you. Then, ask yourself: “How can I connect this
place or person or point of view to my product in a compelling
way?” If you’re doing this, you are being creative.

____
411 words on Horrible, horrible copy:
July, 1992— Me and my grandma, my babushka, were walking,
holding hands. I was small, oblivious. I didn’t know I was about to
see a miracle. It was hot, and home was far away. My mouth was
dry. “I want water,” I said. “I need water!” Babushka didn’t have
water. “You want water?” she said. “Yes.” “Well, I only have a
Thermos with tea.” She knew I loved tea. “Do you want tea
instead?” “Uh-huh. ”“Then make me a cup with your hand,” she
said. “I need somewhere to pour it.” Babushka tucked down my
thumb and curled my fingers around it. “Now hold still,” she said.
She knelt down and picked up the Thermos. “Hold very still.” She
poured the tea into my tiny fist. I waited, timing it, then frantically
motioned for her to stop just before the invisible liquid spilled over
my hand. Babushka stopped pouring. I drank. It felt so good. “It’s
not too hot?” she said. “No, it’s iced,” I said. “Oh, it’s iced tea?” I
nodded. “Okay then, drink up,” she said. “I love you.”April, 2007— “I
love you,” I said. My mouth was dry. My grandma couldn’t talk. The
tubes. She just blinked and squeezed my fingers. I leaned into her.
“I love you very much.” She blinked again. The sliding door
whooshed open, and my family walked in. “We love you, Mama,”
said my dad. My mom was crying without sound. I could feel her
tears. The sliding door whooshed again. The oncologist walked in
and looked down, her lips pursed, her hands folded over a
clipboard. “We’ll be right back, Ma,” said my dad. “Right back.”
Outside the ICU, the doctor told us her condition worsened
overnight. “I’m so sorry,” she said. Silence. Nobody spoke. I turned
around and looked through the glass.May, 2007— After Babushka
died, things were quiet for a few weeks. Quiet, quiet. Then I walked
by an ad. It was downtown, glued to a poll. The copy was in all
caps. Oh, so you quietly cured cancer? I ripped it down and
crumpled it up and threw it in a trash can with the other garbage.
Seth Godin said, “Crafting a story that tricks people into making
short-term decisions they regret in the long run is the worst kind of
marketing sin.” Ads make promises. Promises bring people
hope.Don’t mess with a person’s hope.
____

202 words on Sailing:

“Ken—” said Bob. “Yes?” said Ken. “What’s the greatest thing you
learned after all your time working with Gene?” “Gene” is Eugene
Schwartz, widely considered one of the best directresponse
copywriters of the twentieth century. “Ken” is internet marketing
pioneer Ken McCarthy. “Bob” is prolific copywriter Bob Bly. He’s
moderating a panel of copywriters, all of whom worked closely with
Eugene Schwartz. The panel assembled to honor his career after
his death. Ken took a beat. “Bottom line,” he said, “the most
important thing Gene taught me: copywriters don’t create demand.
We channel existing demand.”
“Ah,” said Bob. “Yes.” “We’re not paddling,” said Ken, “we’re sailing.
We put up our sails and let the wind take us. So many businesses
make the fatal mistake of trying to ram a product down the throats
of a market because they think it’s a great product. It never works,”
he said. “What does work—and what produces phenomenal
results—is getting to know the demand and the needs and wants
and dreams and desires of people, then crafting products that
satisfy those needs and crafting ads that speak to those needs.”
Copywriters are sailing. We don’t create demand for products. We
channel it. This makes selling easier.

____

111 words on Markets:

I watched Biggie: I Got a Story to Tell, a documentary about rapper
Biggie Smalls. An interview with D Roc, Biggie’s videographer,
stood out to me. He said his boss gave him some direction one
night. “You know what,” said Biggie, “every time a song drops, tape
the audience. I wanna see their reaction,” he said. “So when we
double back and put our show together, I know what songs are
strongest, where I get the most reaction.” “So our shit was always
the crowd,” said D Roc. “It was never us. We always liked to see
what the crowd was doing.” Marketers work this way, too. We follow
the market.

____

211 words on Happiness:

Kels and I go to Home Depot. It’s June, 2020. “Line starts here,”
says the guy. We stand in line, masks on. Mine is black. Kelsey’s is
paisley. It’s hot. Breathing under the mask is difficult. “You can go
in,” he says. “Thanks.” Inside, we get flowers, herbs, and dirt.
“Fifty-three even,” says the cashier. At home, Kelsey makes lunch
while I toil outside and drink beer. I plant the flowers and the basil.
I’m sweating, and dirt is sticking to my forearms. The plants look
good. I look up. Kels is smiling at me through the window. I smile
back. She smiles bigger. Fact is, I did not pay fifty three dollars for
flowers and herbs and dirt. I paid for this moment with Kels, for this
feeling I’m feeling. In Mad Men, Don Draper says something
profound: “Advertising is based on one thing,” he says, “happiness.”
“Happiness is the smell of a new car,” says Draper. “It’s freedom
from fear. It’s a billboard on the side of the road that screams
reassurance that whatever you’re doing is okay,” he says. “You will
be oh-kay.”Happiness is catching your wife smiling at you in the
garden. And an ad for Home Depot can be a simple scene, just like
this.

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126 words on Using your life:

When VeryGoodCopy developed a following, I realized people
everywhere felt connected to my writing. Thousands of miles away,
people resonated with my experiences and worldview. This was
remarkable to me. Yes, I write simply. I use small words and short
paragraphs and I generally try to make my work accessible. This
helps. But more importantly: I tell stories about human things. Love
and fear, gain and loss. I describe scenes and images from my life
that are at once personal and universal, recognized by all,
understood by all. Because at a certain level, we are all the same.
“Put yourself into your work,” said copywriter David Abbott. “Use
your life to animate your copy. If something moves you,” he said, “it
will touch someone else, too.”

____

166 words on Deadlines:

One of my first copywriting jobs was at an agency. It was a small,
busy shop and I was constantly swamped, always behind. One day,
I approached my boss. “I’m behind,” I said. I had a campaign due
the next day. “I can’t ship this tomorrow.” My boss looked up at me.
He took off his glasses. “Oh,” he said. “Well, I can—” I hesitated,
“but I shouldn’t.” “How come?” I pursed my lips. “It’s not where it
needs to be, I guess.He leaned back in his chair. “Then don’t ship
it,” he said. I wasn’t expecting this. I was expecting something else.
“Yeah?” I said. “You’re okay with that?” “Ed,” he said, “if the
campaign is on time and doesn’t work, we’ll get fired.” He leaned
forward. “But if it’s late and it works, all good. They’ll forget it was
ever late in the first place.” I nodded. My boss put his glasses back
on. “Take your time,” he leaned back. “Get it right.”

____

260 words on Having something to say:

Me and Kels watched CODA after it won the Oscar for Best Picture.
CODA is an acronym. It stands for Child Of Deaf Adults. The movie
is about a girl from a Deaf family who lacks confidence. Her name is
Ruby. She joins her high school choir, but when the teacher, Mr.
Villalobos, asks her to sing, she can’t. She leaves abruptly. The kids
snicker as the door closes behind her. Later, Ruby and Mr.
Villalobos speak. “Are you any good?” he asks, referring to her
singing ability. “I don’t know,” Ruby says. “Why did you run out of
my class?” “I got scared.” “Of what? Other kids?” “Maybe,” she
says. “Or maybe finding out that I’m bad.” Mr. Villalobos nods his
head and takes a beat. “Do you know what Bowie said about Bob
Dylan? A voice like sand and glue,” he says, referring to Dylan’s
nasally, gritty vocals. “There are plenty of pretty voices with nothing
to say. Do you have something to say?” “I think so.” “Good,” he
says. “Then I’ll see you in class… Bob.” Bob Dylan’s voice isn’t
conventionally beautiful. But his songs still resonate with the world
because his lyrics are meaningful, important. Style will only get you
so far. But if you have something to say— value to add, knowledge
or wisdom to impart—you can make a difference and earn an
audience. Your style will come with time, effort, and commitment.
It’s a process, and if you’re slogging through the beginning or
struggling somewhere in the middle, ask yourself: “Do I have
something to say?”

____

104 words on Originality:

Artist Andy Warhol is in front of a camera. There’s a microphone in
his face. “Andy,” says the reporter, “a Canadian government
spokesman said that your art could not be described as original.”
She takes a beat. “Would you agree with that?” Andy doesn’t
hesitate. “Uh, yes.” “Why do you agree?” “Well, because it’s not
original.” “You have just then copied a common item?” “Yes, mhm.”
“Well, why have you bothered to do that?” says the reporter. “Why
not create something new?” “Uh,” Andy smiles, “because it’s easier
to do. Originality is an illusion. As they say, everything is a remix.
Proceed until apprehended.

____

96 words on Copying:
So many seminal artists learned by shamelessly copying. The
Beatles started as a cover band. Edward Hopper replicated famous
paintings. Hunter Thompson transcribed classic novels on his
typewriter. Producing derivative work will help you find your own
style. Because in emulating your heroes, you’ll not only learn the
craft, but you will also gradually tweak their work to align with your
tastes, your preferences. And the more adjustments you make, the
less glaring your influences become. Until, eventually, the work is
your own. And then others will begin to emulate your style—your
decisions—and the cycle continues.

____

258 words on The copywriter’s lifestyle:

Someone named “Allen” emailed me. “I would love it if you could
share how you got access to so many unusual and unique stories,”
he wrote. “How do you find them?” “Don’t just walk the dog,” said
copywriter John Carlton.
“Stop and talk to the other dog owner,” he said. “Talk to the people
who are not walking dogs and find out what they don’t like about
your dog. Go to a bar. Don’t get drunk. Don’t become an alcoholic.
God knows we have enough of those in the business. Go to places.
Go to the watering hole. And again, you don’t have to drink liquor.
You can just drink 7-Up. And talk to people and listen to them.
Listen to them in all their different states. Go to bowling alleys. Go
to stores and interact with people. Live a fairly substantial life. Go
on vacation. Get involved in relationships. Deepen those
relationships. Explore the parameters of the relationship. I’m a
stone-cold introvert,” he said, “but I get up in front of rooms with
hundreds of people and interact with the audience. Put yourself out
of your comfort zone every day, half the day.” Great copywriters
share a common set of habits and values. They pursue new things,
unusual things, first experiences. They speak to strangers. They
open themselves up. “Yes,” they say, “I’m in.” “The preparation for
becoming a great copywriter is a lifestyle,” said direct marketer Joe
Sugarman. “It’s a hunger for knowledge, a curiosity and desire to
participate in life that is broad-based and passionate.”
____

163 words on Listening:

The title of the sensational true-crime documentary, Don’t Fuck With
Cats, was not conceived by the film’s writer and director, Mark
Lewis. It was spoken off the cuff, during an interview with one of the
film’s subjects, Deanna Thompson. “On the internet there’s an
unwritten rule,” said Thompson. “It’s unwritten, but it’s understood.
Rule Zero. And Rule Zero is don’t fuck with cats.” It came out
extemporaneously, in a moment of passion. Lewis heard it, liked it,
thought about it, and ultimately decided to make this spontaneous
turn of phrase the title of his film. Copywriter Eugene Schwartz once
listened to a client talk about their product for hours. He recounts
writing the ad after the meeting: “About 70 percent of the copy was
the client’s own words,” he said. “And the headline was a direct
quote!” The ad pulled well, the product sold out, and the client was
delighted. “You don’t need to have great ideas,” said Schwartz, “if
you can hear great ideas.”

____

138 words on Relevance:

Copywriter Eugene Schwartz said you can’t write an ad until you’ve
identified the market’s “Level of Awareness,” or what your prospects
already know about the problem your product solves.
There are five levels:
1) “Unaware” prospects don’t realize they even have a problem.
2) “Problem Aware” prospects know they have a problem, but don’t
fully understand it.
3) “Solution Aware” prospects understand their problem and are
aware of solutions similar to yours, but they’ve never heard of your
particular product.
4) “Product Aware” prospects know of your product, but haven’t
purchased it yet. They’re still researching and weighing their
options.
5) “Most Aware” prospects are almost customers.
Where do your prospects land? If you don’t know, how can you
appeal to them? How can you compel them? To be effective,
advertising must meet people where they are. It must tell them
something relevant.

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145 words on Standing out:

In the 1960s, beauty brands began running full-color print ads.
Revlon. L’Oréal. Helena Rubinstein. They all ran vibrant, vivid,
colorful ads. This was unprecedented for the time. The work looked
alive. It was new and beautiful—and the industry embraced it. Color
became the standard. Meanwhile, Estée Lauder, co-founder of her
namesake brand, saw an opportunity. “If we run full-color ads, we’re
going to blend in with our competitors,” she said. “Let’s try
something different.” The brand’s next print campaign ran in sepia,
a classic, reddish-brown tone. Her competitors scoffed at this. They
called it “ugly” advertising. Ah, call it what you like, but coupon data
showed those sepia ads pulled about 30 percent more sales than
Estée Lauder’s previous full-color campaigns. A remarkable lift. So,
what happened? Copywriter Eugene Schwartz put it best: “The ugly
thing in a world of beauty,” he said, “stands out.

____

203 words on Pain vs. pleasure:

When I traveled to India, I stayed in Jaipur, the capital of Rajasthan.
“They call this the Pink City,” my host told me, “because look at the
bricks.” I looked around. The buildings were all the same distinctive
color. Under the sun, Jaipur glows like Mars. We walked by a brick
kiln.
We stopped to watch. The workers were using donkeys to move the
bricks from the ovens to the stockpile. My host told me donkeys are
effective beasts of burden at dawn and dusk, when it’s dark and
cool, comfortable. But in the heat of the day, they slow down. To
compel the animal forward, a worker dangled a carrot in front of its
face. This worked until it didn’t, until the donkey got too hot, stopped
caring about the food, and dug its heels. This is when the worker
produced a wooden rod. “Chalo! ” said the worker, striking it.
“CHALO! ” “Getting hit always makes them move,” said my host.
“Pain is a great motivator.” Something to consider next time you’re
writing an ad: If given the choice between avoiding pain and
attaining pleasure, people, like animals, will almost always choose
the former. We jog to pleasure, but we sprint from pain.

____

246 words on Free ideas:

My friend Brandon is talking. He’s a dermatology resident at Loyola,
and sometimes this gives him the right. “I never talk to Uber
drivers,” he says. The four of us are sitting in my living room.
There’s me and my wife Kelsey and Brandon and his wife Katie.
They took an Uber to our house for drinks. The TV is on, but
nobody’s watching it. We’re talking. “Never?” I say. “Never by
choice,” he says. “I mean, I’m polite. I don’t pretend I’m on a work
call,” he looks at Katie, “like someone I know.”
Katie smiles. “Sometimes I really am on a work call.” She looks
down and drinks some beer. We all chuckle. “Well—” says Kelsey,
“Eddie loves talking to Uber drivers.” I shrug. “It’s his thing,” she
says. “He talks first.” The group laughs. “You do?” says Brandon.
“You initiate?” “All the time,” my wife interjects. “He asks questions.”
“Like what?” “I dunno.” She knows. “Just, like, random open-ended
questions.”
“People don’t seem to mind,” I say. “They love talking about
themselves. And the more I ask, the more they tell. And sometimes,
they say incredible things.” Brandon has some beer. “The man
loves talking to strangers,” he puts down his glass. “Must be a
copywriter thing.” “You bet,” I say. “Free ideas.” “What do they say?”
says Katie. I look at her. “You said they say incredible things.” I look
at Kelsey. She smiles. She knows the story I’m about to tell.

____

332 words on Branding:

In 1996, upstart basketball apparel brand AND1 had a singular
mission:
beat Nike.
“Nike was the company we emulated the most,” said co-founder
Tom
Austin.
“And they associate themselves with great talent.”
So, AND1 signed future Hall of Famer Stephon Marbury as their
first NBA
ambassador.
And then, disaster.
In his very first game, Marbury busted his ankle and collapsed on
the court,
toes up, AND1 sneakers on. The brand’s NBA sponsorship was
over before
it began.

“Two weeks later, we got this tape,” said co-founder Seth Berger. “It
had
been around our office. There were a couple of interns and they
were
always watching it. The video blew our minds,” he said. “I’ve seen a
lot of
basketball. I’ve never seen this before.”
The video, a grainy VHS tape, was a “streetball” game, a patently
different
version of basketball than what the professionals played.
“Real streetball is style,” said Seth. “It’s a style where you just let
your
imagination flow. It was more poetry in motion. It was more trickery
and
sorcery. Streetball is hip hop, graffiti, breakdancing, all in one.”
Streetball is a subculture with a unique set of values.
It’s about artistry, not results. Winning has nothing to do with
streetball. It’s
everything the NBA is not.

“So I realized what’s on this tape,” Tom said. “It’s just pure, like,
self-
expression. And that’s when I started to understand this is the
essence of

AND1, who we are. We’re playground. We’re grassroots. We’re

everyman
basketball. We’re attitude, we’re raw expression, we’re art,” he said.
“And
this is a strategic position Nike can’t touch.”
Brand positioning boils down to one thing:
Differentiation.
And one way to be different is by aligning with a unique set of
values.
AND1
did this, aligning with the values of streetball: attitude and creativity.
Nike,
meanwhile, aligned with elitism and rigidity.
And it forced people to choose: pro or street?
It forced people to choose: Nike or AND1?
It forced people to choose. And they did.

____

334 words on Rebranding:

“Vile! ” said the man. He was one of a dozen focus group members
trying a new beverage product. The year was 1986. “I’m sorry,” he
said, “but this tastes horrible.” Others in the group nodded. “What
the hell is it?”
“It’s called Red Bull,” said the facilitator.
The man sniffed the liquid and recoiled. “It’s truly vile,” he said. “I’m
sorry, it is.”
Meanwhile, an Austrian marketer named Dietrich Mateschitz looked
on through a two-way mirror. Mateschitz created Red Bull in 1984
after visiting Bangkok, where he tried a similar drink, an “energy
tonic” called Krating Daeng. Full of caffeine, sugar, B vitamins,
taurine, and a carbohydrate called glucuronolactone, Krating Daeng
was traditionally used by the Thai working class to stay alert,
focused, and productive. Thick and sweet, like medicine, the drink
was utilitarian. It was popular because it worked. In Thailand,
Krating Daeng was about the effect. It promised energy, not taste. It
was about purpose, not pleasure. In Thailand, Krating Daeng was a
tool. But in Europe, where Mateschitz wanted to bring it to market, it
was a “vile” drink. So, he set out to change this perception.
Mateschitz changed the name, among other things, including:
✔ The packaging. (A short, thin aluminum can stood out on the
shelf.)
✔ The tagline. (“Red Bull gives you wiiings” made a promise.)
✔ The price. (At more than double the cost of soda, Red Bull was
positioned as an expensive, functional alternative.)
Only the logo—two muscular, charging red bulls against a yellow
sun— remained the same.Also, in a stroke of genius, he partnered
with The Dolomitenmann. Billed as “the world’s toughest team
race,” The Dolomitenmann was a combination of running,
paragliding, kayaking, and mountain biking. In 1988, it was brand
new and seeking sponsorship. Mateschitz won the bid, putting Red
Bull’s logo on every piece of equipment, aligning the brand with the
pillars of extreme sports: vitality, flight, energy. Millions across
Europe tuned in and received a clear message: Red Bull isn’t just a
drink, it’s a tool.
____

205 words on Copyresearching:

Copywriter Eugene Schwartz wrote over 30 sales letters advertising
wellness books by mail. His letters sold an unprecedented 8 million
copies,
generating over $200 million.
In 1994, Schwartz spoke at a seminar about his process.
He said step one was reading the book cover to cover and
highlighting
every claim, or promise, that he found. He would then use the most
valuable claims to assemble a compelling sales letter, which he
always sent
to the author (often a doctor) for review.
Once, an author made only a single edit to Schwartz’s letter: He
omitted the
word “eggs” from a subhead.
Schwartz called him. “Hello,” he said. “My name is Gene Schwartz.
I’m
writing the ad for your book.”
“Hello.”
“I have to ask why you crossed out the word ‘eggs’ on page 212, in
the third
subhead?”
“Ah—” said the doctor, “because it’s false.”
“But Doctor,” said the copywriter, “on page 164—” Schwartz quoted
a line
supporting his claim about eggs.
The doctor laughed. “Wow,” he said. “You’re right.”
Schwartz told the seminar audience:
“I want to know the book as well as or even better than the author!”
he said.

“This is what makes marketing success.”

“Copywriting” is a misnomer.
“Copy researching” is more accurate.

____

181 words on Inspiration:

Copywriter Eugene Schwartz famously sat at his desk for 33
minutes and
33
seconds at a time. He set a timer, sat down, and followed a simple
rule:
don’t get up until the alarm goes off.
“Inspiration is for amateurs,” said artist Chuck Close. “The rest of us
just
show up and get to work.”
You can’t always wait to feel inspired before you write.
Especially if you write for a living. Inspiration is a luxury, not a
reliable
strategy.
When it’s time to write, whether I’m feeling creative or not, I do what
Schwartz did. I set a timer for 33:33 and sit down at my desk. If the
words
come right away, great. I write. If they don’t—and this is usually the
case—
I stay put. I sit there, study the brief, and wait.
Something almost always comes to me before the alarm rings.And
if it
doesn’t—if I hear the alarm and the page is still blank—I get up. I
walk
away for a few minutes, do something else, and let my brain
incubate.
Then, I try again.

____
391 words on Letting your brain wander:
I used to walk to the train. There was nothing in my ears, no music,
no
podcast. I just walked, chin up, looking around. This was before the
pandemic, before the masks and everything else.
I tapped my train card on the turnstile sensor until the light turned
green.
Then I pushed through the metal and went up the stairs to the
elevated
tracks.
There were people up there, sometimes hundreds of people. We
were all
going to work.
I pushed through the crowd, too: “Excuse me... ope, sorry, sorry
about
that...

excuse me... ope, sorry...thank you, thanks...sorry, sorry about

that.”
I pushed through to the back of the platform, where it was more
open,
calmer.
I’d wait there. Sometimes, I took out my phone, but this was rare.
Usually I
just stood there, leaning on the railing, people-watching, thinking.
My brain wandered.
I thought about my next meeting. I thought about food. I thought
about a
recent argument, replaying it, fantasizing about what I should’ve
said. I
thought about where I’d land if I tried to jump the tracks. I thought
about
the third rail, about losing a limb. I thought about how cold it was. Or
how
hot it was. Or how nice it was. I thought about my wife.
And when I got to work, I began writing almost immediately. And it
made
me resent the commute, the wasted time, the gray time, the nothing
time,
the downtime.
I thought getting this time back would make me more productive.
Then work told us to stay home. And my commute went away. And
so did
the gray time, the nothing time.
After the pandemic hit, I got up, washed my face, poured my coffee,
and
got to work. And for a while, inexplicably, I struggled: I sat at my
desk and
cursed the cursor, rubbing my eyes and scratching my neck,
exhaling. I
didn’t write.
“Maybe you should go outside?” Kelsey said. “Get some air.”
“Yeah,” I said, “alright.”
I grabbed my coat and walked out the door. It was April, still cool. I
went to
the park, found a bench, and plopped down. Nothing in my ears, no
music,
no podcast. I just sat, chin up, looking around.

My brain wandered.
I let it go.
Then, suddenly, it came to me.
I smiled, took out my phone, and began to write.

____

205 words on People-watching:

A “swipe file” is a collection of ads. Most copywriters keep one for
inspiration.
Copywriter Eric Betuel, however, keeps two.
One is his physical file, full of classic promotions and campaigns.
The other
is entirely in his head, a mental repository of people-watching.
“You need to observe people,” said Betuel. “When you sit in a
restaurant
and look out the window and see an old woman getting out of the
car, and
her daughter getting out of the car, you look at the face of the
daughter—

and you see she’s tired. You look at the granddaughter—and you
see she’s
impatient.
You look at the old woman—and you see she’s grateful.”
(Can you see it?)
“You see these people, and you can imagine what they’re feeling,”
he said.
“And that’s a swipe file, too.”
Every copywriter should keep this “second swipe file” and add to it
daily, a
scene here, a face there. It’s good storytelling practice, empathy
practice.
Because we’re all at the center of our own universe, consumed by
our own
lives, our own feelings, aspirations, successes, and shortcomings.
But people-watching makes us forget ourselves.
This is such an important habit to cultivate for anyone, but
especially folks
who persuade others for a living.

____

194 words on Swipe files:

I open an email from a friend.
It’s very short, one word: “Plagiarism?”
There’s a link. I click it and start reading. Someone did, in fact,
copy/paste
my writing and pass it off as their own.
Having someone take credit for your work feels bad.
Of course it does. It’s theft. Nobody likes being stolen from. But
then the
person who lifted my copy verbatim is ultimately on the losing side
of
things.

One, because karma.

Two, because successful campaigns target a specific audience with
a
specific message during a specific moment in time. And when this
moment
inevitably passes, it can take the market—its perceptions, its needs
and
wants—with it.
If the market changes, the message must, too. Therefore, swipe
files,
misused, can be dangerous.
Just because an ad worked then doesn’t mean it’ll work now.
And now—today, this moment—is everything in marketing.
A swipe file is a repository of once-well-timed approaches and
angles. It’s a
tool for learning and inspiration, not a copy catalog to casually pluck
from.
And yet so many people use it this way, like a silver bullet.
But there are no silver bullets in copywriting, I’m afraid.

____

253 words on Stealing from people:

I love author Raymond Carver’s minimalist style. His writing is
sparse and
terse. Every word is intentional, deliberate, functional. A
copywriter’s
delight.
But his ability to find and illuminate humanity in the smallest of
moments is
perhaps his most remarkable gift.
Carver wrote about people, mostly.
He wrote fiction about ordinary people in typical situations and
circumstances. His portrayals were accurate and poignant. They felt
honest
on the page, authentic. I often wondered where his stories came
from.
Then, I listened to an interview with Tobias Wolff.
Wolff is a writer, too, a memoirist. He was friends with Carver. The
interviewer asked him about Carver’s storytelling:
“He was a great listener, very sympathetic,” said Wolff. “And he’d
make all
those kinds of old lady noises when he listened, and he’d shake his
head
and say, ‘ No!’ and ‘ I don’t believe it!’ and ‘ He said what? ’And I
mean,
all that stuff people say over the back fence, you know? And he
wasn’t
putting it on...that’s the way he talked—and that’s the way he was,”
explained Wolff.
“But my God, people would just spill their guts to him. It was
unbelievable.
And then later, he’d be absolutely ruthless about using anything he
heard at
all.”
Oh. I see.

Carver was a thief. He listened, and he stole. Somebody would tell

him
about a happening, and he’d ask, in earnest: “How did that make
you feel?”
Then he’d write down what he heard and it would feel so real, in
large part,
because it was.

____

121 words on Feelings:

“In the factory, we make cosmetics,” said Charles Revson, founder
of
Revlon. “In the store, we sell hope.”
Revson, a student of advertising, understood makeup was a means
to an
end, a bridge to something bigger and intangible. He understood
the people

who bought Revlon products weren’t buying lipstick, eyeliner, or

blush.
They were buying a sense of confidence or normalcy or, as Revson
put it,
hope.
Understanding this principle helped him position his products, their
value—
and it helped him connect with his prospects, their desires. This is
why
people, not products, were the focal point of his ads.
Revson wasn’t selling makeup.
He was selling a mood, a feeling—and your advertising should
almost
always work to sell a feeling, too.

____

226 words on Reflecting:

“I want you to meet someone,” said Bruce Gelb. He was speaking
to a man
in a suit. In the 1960s, Gelb was the president of Clairol, the beauty
products company. “Please, meet Phyllis Robinson,” he said. “She’s
the
genius behind our latest campaign.”
Back then, Robinson was the lead copywriter at DDB, an
advertising
agency.
She had pitched Gelb on an idea, a marketing initiative she thought
would
increase sales of Clairol’s Nice’n Easy hair coloring product by
tapping into
what she called the “Me Generation.”
She called the campaign, which became an incredible success, It
Lets Me
Be Me.
The man in the suit shook Robinson’s hand.
“Pleasure to meet you, Phyllis,” he said. “Tell me, how did you think
of the
Me Generation idea? How did you invent it?”
Robinson smiled. “But I didn’t invent it,” she said. “It was already
there—
and I just recognized it, and I pointed it out to Bruce, and I showed
him the
signs of it.”

And therein lies a profound marketing concept:

Rather than create a mood, advertising can reflect one.

It Lets Me Be Me reflected the self-involved tendencies of Baby
Boomers.
Robinson didn’t make this up. Like she said, it was already
there—this
feeling, this perception—in the zeitgeist, omnipotent and
omnipresent. She
just put it into words.
Sometimes, that’s all a copywriter needs to do.

____

446 words on Workaholism:

“And do you still get these urges?” said Clara.
I see Clara every few weeks. She’s older than me. Maybe twice my
age?
Her office is nice. Lots of wood and brown leather. No windows,
though,
which bothered me until it didn’t.

When I see her, she sits behind a desk, listens to me, and makes
eye contact.
I reciprocate unless we’re talking about something that makes me
feel
strange or self-conscious. When I feel this way, I look down. Or I
look past
her at the wall with her diplomas.
Or, sometimes, I zone out.
“Eddie?”
“Sorry.” I come back. “What was that?”
“I said, do you still get these urges?”
“Oh,” I say, “about the lights? Turning them off and on?”
“Yes,” she says, “about the lights.”
“No.”
“And when did that go away?”
I take a beat. “High school?”
Clara makes a note. “And did anything take its place?” she says.
“Any other
thoughts, compulsions?”
I look up. Some pictures on the wall are hanging crooked. “I guess I
knock
on wood a lot.”
“A lot?”
“Yeah.”
“Like when?”
“All the time.”
“But does something trigger you?”

“Oh, I see,” I say, thinking. “Bad thoughts, I guess.”

“Bad thoughts?”
“Yeah.”
“Like what? For example?”
I cross my arms.
“You’re gonna laugh.”
Clara doesn’t say anything.
I take a breath and tell her about what happens in the sauna, about
how I
can’t stop thinking the rocks on the heater will get so hot they’ll
explode,
like grenades, puncturing my face and chest and legs, burning me
from the
inside out, disfiguring me.
“That’s not funny at all,” she says.
I don’t say anything.
“It’s a bad thought,” she says. “Very bad.” She pauses for a
moment. “Do
you think it’s rational?”
I shake my head. “No, but I can’t help myself,” I say. “Knocking
makes me
feel better, like I’ve neutralized the risk, or the thought, or whatever.”
Clara makes a note. “And if you don’t knock?”
“And if I don’t knock, I feel tense, like something bad will happen.”
Clara
makes another note. “I know it won’t,” I say, “but it still feels like it
will.”
“Mm,” she nods, “and do you feel this irrational tension anywhere
else? In
another context?”
I take a beat.

“Sure, yeah,” I say, “when I’m at work, writing.”

“Tell me about that.”
“If I don’t write—” I say, “or if I can’t write...I feel it.”
“And what if you knock on wood? Does it go away?”
“No,” I say, “it’s there every day until I start working.”
“Does this bother you?” she says. “Would you rather spend your
time
elsewhere?”
“Yes,” I say, “with my family.”

____

364 words on Balance:

I watched a video of Brian Dyson, the former CEO of Coca-Cola,
give a
commencement speech at Georgia Tech.
He left the graduates with some advice that affected my work—and
life—
more than any creative technique or principle. It’s not specifically
about
advertising, but it applies to the folks who work in this discipline
because
creative work can be so personal and, of course, demanding. It can
engulf
you, if you let it, swallowing your time, relationships, thoughts,
everything,
all of it. It can take and take until there’s no sense to the structure of
anything.
What he said changed my perspective, which changed everything.
Dyson asked the audience to imagine life as a game of juggling five
balls—
Work, Family, Health, Friends, and Spirit—and the objective is not
to let
any of them fall.

All the balls are glass except the Work ball, which is rubber. If the
rubber
ball falls, it will bounce back intact, unaffected. But if one of the
glass balls
were to fall, “It will be irrevocably scuffed, marked, nicked,
damaged, even
shattered,” said Dyson. “It will never be the same,” he said.
Reflecting on my own life—the missteps and blunders, the mistakes
at the
office, at home, and everywhere else—Dyson’s analogy rings true,
remarkably so, painfully so. After all the follies and failures, all the
breaks
and interruptions, my work always rebounded. But when a glass
ball
became damaged, it was impossible to make whole again. The
cracks
forever visible, the chips forever vacant space.
Yet so many creative people, consciously or otherwise, prioritize
their work
—and not for livelihood but for legacy! For pride!
“Don’t undermine your worth by comparing yourself with others,”
said
Dyson. “Don’t set your goals by what other people deem important.
Only
you
know what is best for you. Don’t take for granted the things closest
to your
heart. Cling to them as you would your life,” he pleaded, “for without
them,
life is meaningless.”
I remember this wisdom often.
Especially since we had Beau, our first—and now, since welcoming
our
second, Sofia, I remember it constantly, obsessively.
It’s given me a path to what’s perhaps the only source of true
happiness,
wealth, and peace: balance.

____

226 words on Writing with ADHD:

“Hello,” said the nurse.
“Hi,” I said.

We were in school. There was a bed and curtain in the corner.

“What hurts?”
“Nothing.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I dunno,” I said. “I can’t focus.” I told her I zone out when I read.
“It’s like
my brain is reading, but I’m somewhere else—” I said. “Far.”
“Oh,” she said. “And what do you think about?” I looked at the bed
in the
corner. “Are you anxious?” I was sleepy. The bed looked good.
“Eddie—”
I snapped back.
“Are you anxious?”
Years later, I still go Far.
Mostly when I’m tired or bored or overwhelmed. And sometimes, it’s
to my
detriment. It’s frustrating, painful. But sometimes, it’s helpful. When
I’m
brainstorming, for example—just sitting there and thinking about a
problem
—if I go Far, I lean into it and embrace the randomness.
I have ideas this way.
Most are bad or half-baked, but that’s fine. Because copywriting is a
numbers game. The more bad ideas you have, the more good ones
you’ll
get.

Sometimes they come so fast I get a high, a rush, part excitement

and part
relief that it’s there, in front of me, the thing, the idea. It’s there! I
have it!
I have it.
And I’m glad I have it.
“I’m not anxious,” I said. “I’m just thinking.”
Yes, years later, I’m glad I have it.

____

199 words on The scariest thing in the world:

Two kings make a bet.
“I bet I can keep you forever,” says King Abbott.
“Same bet,” says King Billow.
They shake on it.
Abbott goes first.
He commissions an enormous labyrinth. It’s huge, the size of a city,
with
countless dead ends, forks, and impasses. Billow walks inside.
Years go by.
Finally, he stumbles out.
Billow goes next.
He commissions nothing. Instead, he sends Abbott into a desert.
It’s vast, an
ocean of sand, with no stairways, doors, or walls to keep him
contained.
Years go by.

Abbott dies in this desert, scared and free.

You can’t escape a borderless place.
Because you don’t know when to turn. Or when to double back. Or
even
when you’ve made it out. As copywriters, we need walls and forks
and dead
ends that force us to make decisions, to go left or right or up or
down.
Restriction saved King Billow. And as a copywriter—or anyone else
working in a creative discipline—it will save you, too.
Limit your time, format, word count, and audience.
Restrict yourself!
Restrict yourself, lest fear paralyzes you.
Restrict yourself, lest freedom enslaves you.
The scariest thing in the world (to a copywriter) is a world of
possibilities.

____

200 words on A revelation:

I have an idea.
I unlock my phone, open a new Word document, and lean back into
the
couch. And then—and then, and then, and then— nothing. I sit
there,
watching the cursor blink, blink, blink—
“Awuheadie?”
I look up. My wife is by the door, shoes on, lips pursed, glaring. She
repeats
herself. “Are you ready?” she says. “We’re gonna be late.”
“Coming,” I say, “sorry, coming.” I lean forward. “Just wanna get this
idea
down—”

Kevin Kelly is the founding editor of WIRED.

“What I discovered,” said Kelly, “which is what many writers
discover, is
that I write in order to think. I’d say, I think I have an idea, but when
I begin
to write it, I realize I have no idea—and I don’t actually know what I
think
until I try to write it,” he said. “That was a revelation.”
It’s true, ideation and writing are symbiotic, interdependent.
“What idea?”
I look up at my wife, then back down at my phone, at the cursor
that’s still
taunting me, blinking, blinking, blinking, blinking, blinking—
“Actually,” I stand up, “it’s nothing.” I grab my coat.
“Write to get ideas,” said Kelly, “not to express them.”
A revelation indeed.

____

138 words on Style:

An interviewer asked Gilbert Gottfried, the comic, about his unique
style.
“Your delivery,” he said, “when did you first develop that?”
“It’s like, you know, I don’t know,” said Gottfried. “I just went on
stage,
you know, a few billion times, then one day I woke up and said, ‘Oh,
I seem
to be like that now.’”
I can relate to his answer because it applies to any creative craft,
really, but
especially writing.
Most writers find their style eventually and accidentally, not
immediately
and purposefully.
I know I did. I know I just showed up often, did what felt right, and
tried to
stay present, emulating my heroes and enjoying the work day by
day. And
slowly, surely, my style began to take shape, my shape.
It’s a process and we’re all going through it.
Keep going.

____

159 words on Being close:

You write something, anything—and you like it.

It sounds good to you. So you let it sit. Then you come back to it.
You read,
edit, read again, edit again. Then it sits again. Then you come back
for
another read, another edit. Then it sits some more. Then you’re
back,
reading, thinking, tinkering.
Then, something inexplicable happens.
Suddenly, randomly, the words sound distorted, off. You read it
again, but
now you’re pursing your lips and shaking your head. You
disapprove. You
don’t like it anymore. Was it bad all along and you’re only realizing it
now?
Probably not. After all, consider how much time you’ve spent with
the
work.
All the reading and editing and agonizing.
You’re too close.
The sentences have carved a path through your brain, making it
hard to be
objective. You are close, but The Reader isn’t. You’re close, but
she’s as far
away as possible.
Something to consider next time your enthusiasm wanes.

____

205 words on Contrast:

Almost every episode of Breaking Bad begins with a “cold open,” a
short,
standalone sequence designed to immediately captivate the
audience.
These openers typically use flash-forwards or flashbacks to create
suspense
and draw you in. But an episode called “Fly” uses another
technique.
All you see is zoomed-in footage of a house fly. It’s ultra-close.
It’s cleaning itself,
the way flies do,

meticulously,
moving quickly and deliberately.
It’s horrid.
All you hear, meanwhile, is a woman’s voice in the background.
She’s
somewhere far away.
She’s reciting a lullaby,
the way mothers do,
gently,
singing slowly and softly:
Hush, little baby, don’t say a word/
Mama’s gonna buy you a mah-king bird/
It’s soothing.
It’s at once soothing and horrid—and you can’t stop watching it.
This is remarkable because, on its own, footage of a fly cleaning
itself isn’t
necessarily captivating. Neither is audio of a lullaby. But put them
together
and some strange alchemy happens. One plus one equals three.
This is
because contrasting things—words, concepts, colors,
images—create
drama, tension, energy.
Great creative work often happens when opposite things and
concepts
intersect:
Loooong + shrt
Clean + diRtY
Dark + light

BIG + small
New + old
Together, each works to highlight the other, commanding your
attention in
the process.

____

87 words on Time, money, and reputation:

Podcaster and author Tim Ferriss asked actor and producer B.J.
Novak an
interesting question.
“How do you repeatedly choose the right fork in the road?” said
Ferriss,
alluding to Novak’s charmed career, which includes major roles in
The
Office, Inglourious Basterds, and numerous other mega-successful
projects.
Novak didn’t hesitate.
“Any time I’m telling myself, ‘ But I’m making so much money,’ that’s
a
warning sign that I’m doing the wrong thing,” he said.
“Ah,” Ferriss agreed.
“Money can always be regenerated,” said Novak. “Time and
reputation
cannot.”

____

333 words on Analog vs. digital:

I felt blocked. I couldn’t write. So, I cut a man’s face out of a
magazine.
I used an X-Acto knife. I cut out some mushrooms, too. Then I took
some
green paper, traced it with a bowl, and cut out the circle with very
small,
sharp scissors. Then I arranged all the pieces, stood over it, and
took a
picture.
I did this cutting and arranging on a white drafting table, which sits
next to
my writing desk (also white). I showed it to Kels.
“Interesting,” she said.
I showed it to Beau. He didn’t say anything, just sucked his pacifier.
“Does it have a name?” Kels said.
I studied it. “I’ll call it ‘Rich Girl,’” I said, “after the song I listened to
on
repeat while making it.”
My drafting table has pens and #2 pencils, construction paper,
scissors and
glue, old magazines, old books, a banker’s lamp, a cutting pad, and
a small
wooden box containing several X-Acto handles and blades. There
are other
non-digital things, too. It’s an “analog” space. No electronics.
The electronic things—my computer, mouse, printer, and
phone—stay on
my writing desk, a “digital” space.

Having two distinct work spaces helps me break through common

creativity
problems:
Blocks, lethargy, imposter syndrome, boredom. I learned this
concept from
artist Austin Kleon.
“I have two desks in my office,” he said. “One is analog, and one is
digital.”
He said he uses his analog station for craft time, work you do with
your
hands. He said this analog work gives him energy and inspiration,
which he
then takes into his digital work. “When you start to lose steam,” he
said,
“head back to your analog station and play.”
Kleon calls this the “analog-to-digital loop.”
It lets you create things without a screen, which, if you’re constantly
looking at screens, is a form of rest. And rest is good.
Rest begets productivity:
I felt blocked, so I cut a man’s face out of a magazine.
Shortly thereafter, I wrote this.

____

215 words on Writing insurance:

Someone sent me a message.
“Your writing is inspirational,” they said. “You never run out of
ideas.”
This made me happy and, of course, grateful. I read it and smiled.
But the
feeling was fleeting because it’s not true. I’m actually consistently
out of
ideas, constantly looking at a blank page and a blinking cursor and

wondering, Now what? And usually, nothing comes to me. I just sit
there,
biting my nails, picking the skin off my thumb.
Eventually, I get tired and go to “The Well.”
It’s a digital folder with hundreds of documents, each containing an
idea, a
kernel, the very beginnings of an essay. The more I scroll through
The Well,
the less anxious I feel and the more in control I am.
Want to be more in control when you write? I’ve some advice:
Become
excellent at recording your idea s as they come
to you.
Write them down the moment they arrive. I do this. I’ve made
putting ideas
in The Well an unbreakable habit. I pause movies. I wake up at
night. I
derail conversations. It’s strange behavior but the payoff is huge
because
having this folder—this vast repository—is a form of writing
insurance.
When I have nothing, it helps me get started, fast.
And starting is the hardest part.

____

145 words on The voice of copy:

Copywriter Eugene Schwartz encouraged his students to read the
tabloids.
“Required reading for you is all the junk magazines,” he said. “Go
out
tomorrow and buy The National Enquirer and read every single
word in it.”
He also encouraged them to watch blockbuster movies. “If a movie
does
$100 million—especially if a movie does $200 or $300 million—I
would
see it two or three times.”
Why?
“Because there is your audience!” Schwartz said.
“There are your people! There are your headlines!”
Blockbusters and magazines use clear, simple language—small
words and
terse sentences—to appeal to a huge, diverse audience. As a
copywriter, you
must watch these films and read these publications, even if they
don’t
inherently interest you.
Treat it like an exercise:
Note the writing, the word choice, the clarity and simplicity.
This is the language of the people.
This is the voice of copy.

____

322 words on Authors who write like copywriters:

In college, I took a course dedicated to the study of only one novel,
James
Joyce’s magnum opus, Ulysses. My class spent an entire semester
analyzing
this strange text, dense with obscure references, allusions,
innuendos, and
red herrings. What’s more, each chapter takes on a different theme.
One is a
play.

Another is saturated with literary devices, like onomatopoeia and

alliteration.
And the last chapter, believe it or not, is almost entirely stream of
consciousness, thousands of words punctuated by only eight
periods.
“I’ve put in so many enigmas and puzzles,” Joyce said, “that it will
keep the
professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant.”
Joyce purposefully made his authorial intent unclear. His intention, it
seems,
was to puzzle The Reader, to make her think and hypothesize and
put the
pieces together, one by one, slowly, meticulously, until the
reference, the
chapter, the book itself suddenly clicked. He didn’t want The Reader
to
immediately understand. Joyce wanted her to earn each moment of
clarity.Reading copy must never feel like work. It should always feel
easy, even

effortless, because people won’t endure a confusing ad. They won’t

push
through. They won’t go back and reread and try to understand it.
They’ll
simply move on.
“If you confuse them,” said marketer Donald Miller, “you’ll lose
them.”
My advice to developing copywriters:
What you read during this formative time will inform how you write.
So
avoid Joyce, Burroughs, Faulkner, and other verbose, cryptic
authors lest
their style rubs off on you. I speak from experience:
“You write like a fire hose,” said my first editor after college. “You
need to
be a nail gun.”
In the meantime, I recommend reading more accessible authors:
Kurt
Vonnegut and Charles Bukowski and Ernest Hemingway, Joyce
Carol Oates
and Sandra Cisneros and Sally Rooney. These authors write clear,
concise,
simple sentences.
These authors write like copywriters.

____

203 words on Energy:

The clip is short, only 30 seconds. The camera is on Robert De
Niro. He’s
filming a promo for the upcoming Tribeca Film Festival.
“When we created Tribeca,” says De Niro, “we wanted to capture all
the

emotion, all the energy, and all the power of a movie.” His voice is
even-
keeled, steady, and low. “See for yourself, Tuesday on FOX.”

He takes a beat, then looks past the camera. “Do another or is that
alright?”

“One more,” the director says off-camera. “Maybe you can try one
that’s
just generally more—” he clears his throat, “more energetic?”
De Niro looks at him. “I’m sorry—” he says, “that’s energetic—” he’s
shaking his head now. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It is?” the director says. There’s tension.
“Yes, excuse me,” says De Niro. “I’m not selling cars, okay?”
The director thinks saying something LOUDER makes the message
more
compelling.
So, he asks for more energy, for an exclamation mark! But De Niro
knows
better. He knows exclamation marks are cheap. He knows the
energy—the
power—is in the message itself.
If your message is inherently relevant and interesting to the
audience, you
don’t need to shout it. In fact, it’s better if you don’t.

____

356 words on The most powerful element in advertising:

I was mid-sentence when the client raised his hand.
“Sorry to cut you off,” he said, “I’m just noticing something—”
I stopped talking and leaned into the screen.
“—looks like you replaced a lot of exclamation marks with periods?”
I nodded and leaned back. “Yeah, I think I removed all of them,
actually,” I
said. “I was gonna suggest replacing them with periods.”
“All of them?” he said, his tone incredulous. “I’m not arguing, by the
way.”

He showed me his palms. “I did hire you to edit this thing.” He took
a beat.
“I’m just curious because I liked them, you know? I thought they
created
energy?”
“The most powerful element in advertising,” said creative director
Bill
Bernbach, “is truth.”
And exclamation marks are, very often, less “truth” and more
contrived
enthusiasm, hype. And, very often, The Reader sniffs this out,
resenting the
manipulation.
Years ago:
A direct marketer named Michael Senoff did a fantastic interview
with
copywriter Ben Settle.
“One question people ask,” Michael said, “is how can you avoid
sounding
too ‘hype’ in your copy without losing the impact of the big promise,
of the
benefits?”
Ben didn’t hesitate.
“One way to do this really, really fast,” he said, “is just to either get
rid of
all the exclamation marks or use them really sparingly. That alone
will kind
of take away that ‘hype’ feeling, especially if what you’re saying is
true,
which it should be anyway. If you’re saying something that someone
really
needs to hear, it doesn’t really matter how you say it, so much as
just saying
it,” said Ben. “Just saying it alone makes it exciting.”
Truth is the ultimate exclamation mark.
Put something truly valuable, truly beneficial in front of the ideal
prospect,
the ideal market, and you won’t need to shout to make it
compelling. Just
saying it—with a period—makes it exciting.
I leaned into the screen again.
“Honestly,” I said, “it’s a great question and thank you for asking it.”

The client nodded. “Really, I’m just curious,” he said. “I’m sure
there’s a
reason.”
I sipped my coffee. “So,” I said, “have you heard of Bill Bernbach?”

____

210 words on Truth:

Big Dairy spends millions annually advertising milk. There have
been many
campaigns over the years, some more popular than others.
Let’s look at a couple:
This slogan produced a commercial depicting a small boy who
becomes
physically transformed after drinking milk. He takes a sip and
immediately
grows taller. He takes another sip and his biceps, chest, and
shoulders swell.
He looks like a bodybuilder now.
“I guess that’s okay,” says the boy, examining his new physique,
“but I’m
more interested in having fun.” He sips again. This time, his head
turns into
a balloon, and he floats away.
This slogan produced a spot depicting a man with an intense
craving for
cereal, only to realize he’s out of milk just as he sits down to eat.
The difference?
The former has never happened and will never happen. The latter,
of course,
happens countless times each day—and this, in part, is why the
“got milk”
slogan is iconic, famous the world over. The campaign ran for
almost 20
years.
“A great ad,” said creative director Jeff Goodby, “is a mirror you put
in
front of your audience.”
Indeed, great advertising starts with the truth.

____

328 words on Emotional writing:

Paul Harvey, the iconic radio broadcaster, was an animal lover.
So much so, he wrote The 10 Commandments for a Responsible
Pet Owner,
a surprisingly poignant constitution written from the perspective of a
pet.
Now, imagine your dog or cat—or any pet, really—saying these
things to
you:

1. “My life is likely to last 10-15 years. Any separation from you is
likely to
be painful.”
2. “Give me time to understand what you want of me.”
3. “Place your trust in me. It is crucial for my well-being.”
4. “Don’t be angry with me for long, and don’t lock me up as
punishment.
You have your work, your friends, your entertainment. But I have
only
you.”
5. “Talk to me. Even if I don’t understand your words, I do
understand your
voice when speaking to me.”
6. “Be aware that however you treat me, I will never forget it.”
7. “Before you hit me, before you strike me, remember that I have
teeth that
could easily crush the bones in your hand, and yet I choose not to
bite you.”
8. “Before you scold me for being lazy or uncooperative, ask
yourself if
something might be bothering me. Perhaps I’m not getting the right
food, I
have been in the sun too long, or my heart might be getting old or
weak.”
9. “Please take care of me when I grow old. You, too, will grow old.”
10. “On the difficult journey, on the ultimate difficult journey, go with
me,
please. Never say you can’t bear to watch. Don’t make me face this
alone.
Everything is easier for me if you are there.
Because I love you so.”
I showed Harvey’s 10 Commandments to Kelsey.
She read it and choked up and called for Sydney, our pup. Then
she hugged
her. “These are all so true,” she said.
Want The Reader to feel something? Sadness? Anger? Joy?
Anything? Then
write something The Reader perceives to be absolutely accurate.

____

167 words on Writing while emotional:

I’ve always felt things deeply, but I’ve never felt pride as readily and
as
intensely as I do for my kids, Beau and Sofia.
Even the little things—and they’re almost all little—affect me: It’s
beyond
feeling warm in the chest and face. It’s beyond tears. It’s hearing
“This Magic Moment” playing in my brain as I watch my son hug his
sister.
It’s hearing Lou Reed sing “Everything I Want, I Have...” so loudly I
fear
there’s too much sound for the room to hold, much less my head.
Like the
walls will splinter and the ceiling will buckle if I stay and watch them
do
something typical for one more second, just one more.
So I kiss them, leave them with Mom, go upstairs, and write.
And when I do, the words flow out in a straight line.
And the act feels good, very good, better than usual.
And The Reader, I’ve found, can tell.
Indeed, I write better when I’m emotional.
Maybe you will, too?

_____

176 words on Relaxed writing:

Copywriter David Ogilvy once wrote a memo to his employees.
“Write the
way you talk,” he advised them, “naturally.”
Ogilvy was, in fact, famously cool and natural.
In 1983, he appeared on The Late Show.
“His latest book is called Ogilvy on Advertising,” announced
Letterman.
“Please welcome, David Ogilvy!”
The camera panned out. The audience cheered. Ogilvy stepped out
from
behind the curtain and Letterman stood up to greet him. The men
shook
hands and sat down.
“The book is very informative,” said the host. “Anyone interested in
a
career in advertising should certainly do themselves a favor and
take a look
at that thing.”

Ogilvy didn’t hesitate. “Damn right,” he said.

Even on national TV, he was cool, natural.
To write naturally, relax your tone...
Use the active voice:

“Sydney, the Corgi, was walked by Kelsey.”

✔ “Kelsey walked Sydney, the Corgi.”
Use contractions:
“you will”
✔ “you’ll”
Use abbreviations:
“Television”
✔ “TV”
Use colloquialisms:
“going to”
✔ “gonna”
Relaxed writing makes reading easier.
And this is never a bad thing.

____

268 words on Transcribing:

“How do I write more naturally?” said the new copywriter.
I sent her a link to Reach for the Sun by Charles Bukowski. “You
can try
transcribing this book,” I said.
Bukowski’s novels and poems are so simple—simple words, simple
sentences, simple ideas—and yet so vivid and relatable,
memorable. Reach
for the Sun, however, isn’t a novel or book of poetry. It’s a collection
of
personal letters.
This one is to his daughter:
I love this letter. It’s tender and sweet yet void of tender, sweet
words. And
it’s natural. It reads like how Bukowski talks. I hear his voice when I
read
it. I appreciate this quality about his writing, so I took some time to
transcribe this letter (and many others) by hand.
This is called “copyworking.”

Coined by copywriter Gary Halbert, copyworking is an efficient way

to
learn another writer’s voice and style.
Try it.
Select a book by any author you admire and transcribe the first
page. Then
the second. Then the third. Doing fine. Page a day. Keep going.
Someday
soon, you’ll read your writing and smile at how far you’ve come.

____

456 words on Copyworking:

“Ed,” he said. “Close the door. Have a seat.”
I closed the door and sat down. My editor sat across from me. Days
earlier,
he had hired me. It was my first copywriting job. I was a year out of
school.
“I read your draft,” he said. “It’s good—”
“Thanks.”
“—for an English major, I mean, nice and flowery,” he said. “But
you’re
not in college anymore.”
I didn’t speak.
“You’re a professional copywriter now.” He held up my contract.
I didn’t speak.
“I guess I saw this coming,” he said, “based on your samples.” He
pursed
his lips. “You know, you can’t write like this anymore, all
long-winded like
you’re some Alexandre fuggin’ Doo-mah.”
I didn’t speak.
I sat there, blinking, bracing myself.

“You’re a copywriter,” he said. “Copywriters keep it tight.” He

pressed a
key on his laptop. “I just sent you an email,” he said. “Please go
read it.”
I went back to my desk and opened my email. There it was: Ed, I
like how
you think. It’s why I hired you. But you write too long, like the books
you
studied in college. This won’t do. Sorry. I need your writing to be
clear and
concise. Here’s how you can get where you need to be.
In his email, my editor included links to classic sales letters by
several
direct-response icons, including Gary Bencivenga, Gary Halbert,
and John
Caples.
He asked me to transcribe these letters by hand.
Transcribing another writer’s work is called “copyworking.”
It helps you internalize the writer’s syntax and diction, her
punctuation and
cadence, her voice. It’s all there for the taking. You just have to slow
down
to absorb it.
“Do you understand why I’m asking you to do this?”
I looked up. My editor was there, leaning on my cubicle wall.
“Yeah,” I
said,
“I understand.”
“You have to be more concise,” he said. “You write like a fire hose.
You
need to be a nail gun.”
I nodded. “Can I type it?”
“No,” he said. “If you type it, you’ll go too fast. It defeats the
purpose. You
need to transcribe it by hand, word by word, deliberately, slowly.”
So, I did.
And you can, too.

If you want to learn how to write great ads, then copyworking—

transcribing proven headlines, subheads, and even entire sales
letters—
should be part of your daily routine. But you should
know...handcopying
long chunks of text will feel like a waste of time. You’ll want to stop
every
few minutes. This urge will likely be intense and distracting. Don’t
quit. Be
gritty. (It may not seem like you’re making progress, but you are.)
When you’re done, walk away. Do something else. Rest.
When you write again, you’ll see the difference.

____

318 words on Writing short, but thorough:

Usually, short writing isn’t thorough—and thorough writing isn’t
short—
but there’s a way to marry the two.
This is my process:
1) Commit to a final word count (say, 318 words).
2) Brain dump a 4X first draft (1272 words).
3) Cut the first draft in half (636 words).
4) Cut the second draft in half (318 words).

Take it a sentence at a time, using a few pointed questions to help

guide
your editing decisions. Ask yourself:
“Does this edit express the same idea, but faster?”
If you can say the same thing in fewer words, you’ve made your
writing
better.
“It’s my ambition,” said philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, “to say in
ten
sentences what others say in a whole book.”
Let this be your ambition, too. Fetishize brevity.
“Is this word absolutely necessary?”
Every syllable should be purposeful, necessary to make your point
or create
imagery or conjure emotion. Anything else is fat. Trim it as though
you’re
being paid a day’s wage per word.
“Writing is 1 percent inspiration,” said actor Louise Brooks, “and 99
percent elimination.”
Be draconian. Your severity will be rewarded.
“Do I really like this?”
As a writer, you are also your work’s first reader. So you must pay
attention
to how you feel about this word or that sentence—and you must
trust
yourself when something sounds strange to you, off. You must key
in on
your emotions, your gut, because if it doesn’t move you, chances
are it
won’t move someone else. You must affect yourself first.
“No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader,” said poet Robert
Frost. “No
surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.”
This is true, of course. And it happens to be an excellent way to
detect and
omit needless passages.
Do it enough and this process will become second nature,
automatic.
And automatically writing this way—short, but thorough—is an
invaluable
skill, especially as a copywriter.

____

607 words on Feedback:

In the 1970s, copywriter Gary Bencivenga co-founded an ad
agency. To get
business in the door, he took out an ad that made a remarkable
offer in its
headline:
ANNOUNCING:
An ad agency that guarantees to beat your best ad by at least 10
percent, or you pay us nothing.
He even promised to return the ad spend if his version failed:
“You test us,” Bencivenga wrote. “If we don’t win, not only won’t you
pay
us anything, we will pay for whatever you spent to run the test. In
other
words, if you take out an ad in The Wall Street Journal and spend
$10,000
on our half of the test—and our half loses—we’ll give you $10,000.”
It was a bold claim, especially for a new agency, but Bencivenga
was that
confident. In part because he used an undeniably effective system
for
collecting feedback and refining ad copy:
The CRIT system.
I’ll explain, but first, I should warn you...this system s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-s
out
the writing process, making it longer and more tedious. It can also
be
extremely uncomfortable because it cuts to the core of your copy’s
issues.
Bencivenga himself described it as “odious” and “sadistic” and
“devastating” and “weird” and “cumbersome.”
“But when it’s finally finished,” he said, “your client will have a
campaign
they could run for years and out-pull virtually anything else they’ve
ever
run unless they were very lucky beforehand.”

(By the way, “CRIT” is not an acronym. It’s short for critique.)
Bencivenga explains:
“It was a system by which the writer would distribute his copy to
everybody
working in the ad agency,” he said. “The receptionist, the account
executives, the art director—and anybody else who could be
persuaded to
read it. And everybody would take their best crack at ripping it
apart. All
the people involved in the process would do their best to rip the
copy
apart,” said Bencivenga, “to point out holes in the argument.”
Critics would call out everything from grammar mistakes and
spelling
errors to psychological follies. They would identify readability
issues, word
choice issues, sentences and paragraphs without smooth
transitions.
Anything strange got the Red Ink. Also, terse, biting notes were
encouraged
(for emphasis):
✔ “I don’t believe this claim!”
✔ “Get to the point...”
✔ “I’m confused.”
✔ “So boring...”
✔ “But why?”
Bencivenga asked folks to “rip the copy apart” because it invited
honesty
and, most importantly, volume: dozens, even hundreds of notes and
comments.
Volume, ultimately, is the secret.
Because volume illuminates overlap, which reveals patterns,
themes.
For example, if only one out of 12 people said the headline
confused them,
you have an outlier. But if 11 out of 12 people called the headline
confusing, you’re getting close to a consensus. And while it’s painful
to

hear a critical consensus about your work, it’s also invaluable

because now
you know what to focus on, what to be thoughtful about, what to
rewrite.
Now, practically speaking, Bencivenga did this decades ago,
pre-internet, so
his employees were his only option. Things are different now. If you
don’t
work in an agency or otherwise don’t want to bother your
colleagues with
CRIT, you don’t have to. You can instead solicit mass feedback on
social
media. Or, if you want feedback from a more targeted audience,
you can
use one of the many dedicated testing platforms. (Just remember:
don’t
focus on
individual opinions as much as themes.) In any case, this feedback
system
—this method, validated by one of our best copywriters—has never
been
more accessible. It’s not fancy, nor is it necessarily easy or
pleasant, but it is
proven.
It will shine a spotlight on your copy’s problems.

____

191 words on Writing decisively:

Parkinson’s law states, “Work expands so as to fill the time
available for its
completion.”
This means if you give yourself four hours to write something,
anything—
an article, an email, a landing page—Parkinson’s law says you will
take all
four hours to complete it. But if you give yourself only two hours to
write
the same thing, it will only take you two hours. It will.
Try it.
Challenge yourself to write something in half the time it normally
takes
you.
If you’re serious—if you set a countdown timer and treat it like a
bomb set
to explode at 00:00—you will finish. You will.

Maybe you’ll even have a final draft? More likely, however, you’ll
have a
first draft, something you can build upon and refine. Either way,
you’ll be
further along than when you started—and you will have arrived
there
efficiently because you were forced to keep the work simple.
Simplicity, ultimately, is the secret.
When you’re in a time crunch, you don’t allow yourself to complicate
things.
Consciously or otherwise, you don’t procrastinate or second-guess
yourself.
You make a decision and you move on.
You write decisively.

____

287 words on Writing faster:

The longer you focus, the more focused you will become. Focus
long
enough and you’ll eventually tap into something called “deep work,”
a
phrase coined by Dr. Cal Newport, who wrote a book on the
subject.
“Deep work,” explains Newport, “is a state where your mind is free
of
attention residue and, therefore, is operating at the highest level of
intensity
that it can.”
“Attention residue” is, basically, lingering thoughts. When you move
from
one activity to another, your focus does not fully transition. Some of
your
thoughts stay with the last activity—the last text you sent, the last
conversation you had, the last video you watched—and those
residual
thoughts linger in your brain, hindering your focus.
Focus is the key to writing faster.
This sounds obvious—like common sense—but given how most
people
write, myself included, it’s apparently not. Most of us write with
multiple
tabs open, with the door open, with the phone resting screen-up on
the desk.
Most of us write amid constant distractions.
Start, stop.
Start, stop.
Start, stop.
This pattern is hampering your productivity.
Every time you stop focusing, attention residue floods your brain
and takes
its toll. Every time you abandon your writing to momentarily do
something
else—anything else—you’re forfeiting your concentration and
speed. It
might not feel obvious, but when you get back to work, you’re
always less
focused, less there.
“Until that residue clears out, which could take half an hour,” writes
Newport, “you’re operating at a reduced cognitive capacity.”
When you’re writing, write.
Create an interruption-free environment for a set period of time.
Close your tabs.
Close your door.
Mute your phone and put it out of sight.
If you want to maximize your writing speed, minimize your
distractions.

_____

360 words on A simple, versatile, proven copywriting formula:

Ever struggle to start writing copy?
I did, constantly, especially at the beginning of my career.
Back then, starting was difficult because I didn’t know how to
organize my
thoughts on paper. I didn’t have a method. I did my research and
had ideas,
but didn’t know how to assemble them, which was frustrating.
Eventually, I
began anticipating this frustration. And I dreaded it, the uncertainty.
It made
me anxious. And this dread, this anxiety, made me procrastinate. I
missed
deadlines and blew opportunities. All because I wouldn’t—nay,
couldn’t—
start.
Then I learned a copywriting formula, which forever changed how I
work:
Problem-Agitation-Solution, or PAS.
I use it constantly. It helps me write articles, landing pages, emails,
social
media posts, banner ads, and radio scripts. Almost anything, really.
How it works:
One, introduce a problem. Ask a question or make a statement that
identifies The Reader’s issue:
“Ever struggle to start writing copy?

I did, constantly, especially at the beginning of my career.”

Two, agitate the problem. Tell a relevant anecdote—a story The
Reader
recognizes—to demonstrate the consequences of the issue: Back
then,
starting was difficult because I didn’t know how to organize my
thoughts on
paper. I didn’t have a method. I did my research and had
ideas, but didn’t know how to assemble them, which was frustrating.
Eventually, I began anticipating this frustration. And I dreaded it, the
uncertainty. It made me anxious. And this dread, this anxiety, made
me
procrastinate. I missed deadlines and blew opportunities. All
because I
wouldn’t—nay, couldn’t—start.
Three, offer a solution. Give The Reader an out, a clear and
preferably easy
way to avoid the issue:
Then I learned a copywriting formula, which forever changed how I
work:
Problem-Agitation-Solution (PAS) is classic.
Because it’s simple. Just three straightforward steps.
Because it’s versatile. You can use it to create short copy, like social
posts
and product blurbs. Or long copy, like sales letters and articles. Just
expand
or contract the formula’s content to fit your space requirements.
Because it’s proven. The formula is old because it works.
Copywriting
greats
—from David Ogilvy to Phyllis Robinson to Joe Sugarman—used it
to
powerful effect.
Now you can, too.

_____

337 words on Writing with your ego:

“The fewer ideas you have,” Scott Dikkers once told me, “the more
weight
each idea holds in your mind.”
Dikkers is an author, screenwriter, cartoonist, and the founding
editor of
The Onion, the satirical newspaper. (Years ago, in Chicago, I took a
class he
was teaching and we’ve worked together since.)
I asked him about the ideation process in The Onion’s writers’
room.
“I knew from my own experience that over 95 percent of anyone’s
ideas are
garbage,” he said. “In order to get the best ideas out of anyone, that
person
had to generate a lot of ideas. All writers brought 15 to 20 ideas in
total.
Sometimes hundreds of ideas would be read at every meeting. At
the end of
the meeting, only a handful of jokes would be moved to the short
list, where
they might still be cut later by an editor.”
Dozens of world-class writers work at The Onion, yet only a small
fraction
of their ideas—one out of twenty—become articles. The vast
majority never
see the light of day.

“When a writer has only one idea, their soul feels crushed when
someone
critiques it in a way that makes them doubt themselves,” said
Dikkers.
“They link that idea with their personality and, in turn, take any
feedback as
a personal slight against them.”
Don’t do this. Don’t fetishize your only idea, your “darling.”
Don’t write with your ego.
Stifling your ideation prevents you from doing your best work.
Instead,
have many ideas, many options. Don’t start with only three or four
or five.
There’s not enough there, not enough slack. You’ll be forced to
settle,
which is counterproductive. Better to start with 20 or even
more—and pare
down. The more you cut, the better. Eventually, you’ll start cutting
ideas
you actually
like. This is the mark of true progress.
“Kill your darlings,” said Stephen King.
“Kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little
scribbler’s
heart,” he said. “Kill your darlings.”
It’s the only way to produce your finest work.

____

55 words on Fancy letters:

A “drop-cap” is an oversized capital letter you put at the beginning
of a
paragraph to add style and emphasis. David Ogilvy used these
“fancy
letters”
in his advertising—including his famous Man in the Hathaway Shirt
campaign—to great effect.
“When you start your body copy with a drop-cap,” he said, “you
increase
readership thirteen percent.”

____

221 words on When to stop writing:

Screenwriter Aaron Sorkin explains how he started writing The
Social
Network:

“I spent a lot of time pacing around, climbing the walls, trying to

figure out
how to start,” he said. “And once I knew what I wanted to do and I
kind of
had a beat on the scene, I then wrote it in roughly the amount of
time it took
to type it. You know you don’t know what you’re doing if the lines
are
coming out like honey dripping from a jar—a line here, then you
gotta wait
half an hour for the next line,” he said. “Stop. Put it down. You don’t
know
what you’re doing yet.”
This approach is refreshing, I think, because it rejects the typical
“tortured
writer” narrative: don’t stop, stay in the chair, work through the
block.
This isn’t necessarily the wrong way, but it’s not how Sorkin writes.
Sorkin writes when it’s easy.
And the more research he does, the easier it gets. Of course,
research is key
to all writing, but especially copywriting, because knowledge breeds
opportunities to make connections, the core act behind creativity.
So, if
you’re struggling to make those connections, it’s possible you’re just
not
ready.
It’s possible you simply need to stop, step away, and give yourself
more
time to read the brief, ask questions, and think.

____

130 words on when to stop editing:

“A poem is never finished,” said poet Paul Valéry, “it is only
abandoned.”
You can always edit more. You can rearrange the words forever:
tniekrnig,
teinrknig,
tinkering,
tkrninieg,
trkninieg down the staircase of perfection until you reach the
bottom, where
you’ll lose interest, give up, and move on. (If only you had stopped
tinkering sooner, somewhere in the middle.) Jerry Jenkins has
published
195 books.
He started writing on a typewriter. Now, he uses a computer:
“Because of technology, you can make something different all day,”
he said.
“It’s about getting your writing to the point where you know you’ve
made it
the best it can be—and you’re not simply making it different, you’re
making it better. Once you’ve hit that point,” he said, “you stop
editing and
move on.”

____

200 words on Writing first drafts:

Christoph Niemann has illustrated dozens of covers for The New
Yorker.
When he was featured on an episode of Abstract, a docuseries
about design,
the producer asked him a question:
“It almost seems like the creator of your pieces and you as editor of
your
pieces are two different people?”
“Yes,” said Niemann. “I need to be in control, and I need to have a
very
clear sense of why something’s working and not working. On the
other
hand, I’ve realized that being more free-spirited is necessary,” he
said. “I’ve
found that I need to develop these two personas separately, to be a
much
more ruthless editor and a much more careless artist.”
This applies to copywriters, too.
Writing is pushing. Editing is pulling. You can’t do both at once. So
strive
to write now, carelessly, and edit later, ruthlessly—and never the
twain
shall meet.

To avoid this folly, especially when you’re writing a first draft, try
following a couple of rules:
One, don’t stop writing until it’s done.
Two, don’t start editing until it’s done.
This is challenging, of course, but the clarity and momentum you’ll
get
from having a finished first draft will make it a worthwhile effort.

____

110 words on Rewriting first drafts:

Sometimes, I’ll write something and ship it without making any
edits, but
this is rare. Usually, I’ll edit my first draft, get some distance, then
come
back for another round. Sometimes, I repeat this process dozens of
times
until I’m satisfied (or, more likely, until my deadline arrives).
“The only kind of writing,” Hemingway said, “is rewriting.”
Indeed, when it comes to the quality of my copy, these three
words—
written on an old Post-It, yellow and frayed, hanging on the edge of
my
monitor—
have helped me more than most:
Write It Again!
Yes, write it again, many times over, because your first draft will
almost
always be your worst draft.

____

252 words on Big promises:

“I have a question,” said the lady. She was speaking to copywriter
Bob Bly.
“It’s about headlines.”

“Sure.”
“Do you think headlines need to be outrageous to capture
attention?”
“Outrageous?”
“Yeah,” said the lady, “like, ‘ How The Broke, Homeless,
28-Year-Old
Became a Millionaire in 6 Months’—or something like that?”
“Well,” said Bob, “it depends on the market niche and the industry,
but my
simple answer is no, I don’t think they need to be outrageous or
absurd. I
do, however, think they have to make or imply a fairly big promise.”
“I see,” said the lady. “Do you have an example?”
“Sure,” said Bob. “Ever heard of Day-Timer?”
Day-Timer makes physical productivity products, including
planners,

calendars, and organizers. Years ago, Bob was writing for one of
Day-
Timer’s competitors. He was hired to create a new direct-mail ad
the
company would test against their “control” version, the ad currently
pulling
the highest response rate.
This was the client’s control headline:
How many times have you told yourself:
“Next week I’m going to get organized...”
This was Bob’s alternative headline:
Inside: Now you can get at least one more hour
of productive time each day than Day-Timer or other planning
systems
can give you—
guaranteed.
Much better.

First of all, the promise of “one more hour of productive time each
day” is
compelling on its face. Also, the word “inside” suggests instant
gratification.
Finally, the word “guaranteed” de-risks the claim. The control,
meanwhile,
is completely missing these elements, which, in part, explains why
Bob’s
version beat it by 50 percent.
“My headline wasn’t outrageous, was it?” Bob said.
“No,” said the lady, “it wasn’t.”
“But it did make a clear, specific, big promise,” he said, “and this,
among
other things, transformed the response.”

____

41 words on small promises:

In copywriting, the colon punctuation mark is akin to a small
promise.
It promises more information:
An answer, a reason, or something else that closes the loop you
opened
before the colon. Use it to propel The Reader through your copy.

____

142 words on reading more:

If you want to cultivate better reading habits, author Ryan Holiday
has some
advice.
“Stop thinking of it as some activity that you do,” he says. “Reading
must
become as natural as eating and breathing to you. It’s not
something you do
because you feel like it, but because it’s a reflex, a default.”
Your excuses for not reading are your own:

No time? “Carry a book with you at all times,” Holiday says. “Every
time
you get a second, crack it open.”
No money? “Reading is not a luxury, it’s a necessity,” he says.
“Books are
an investment.”
No motivation? “The purpose of reading is not just raw knowledge,”
he
says.
“It’s that it is part of the human experience.”
Want to read more?
Change your mindset. If you want to cultivate better reading habits,
change
how you think about reading.

____

95 words on confident writing:

This sentence is in the passive voice: “The car was driven by Jim.”
You can
tell because the subject (Jim) is at the end, which shifts the focus of
the
sentence to its object (the car).
This sentence is in the active voice: “Jim drove the car.” You can tell
because Jim, the subject, is doing the action.
Passive voice is still grammatically correct.
But it almost always weakens your writing, making it wordier and
harder to
read, awkward.
Active voice, on the other hand, makes your writing more concise
and clear,
confident.
Use it.

____

215 words on connecting:

January 19, 2:12 pm—
I’m writing this from my home. I’m in my office, sitting at my desk.
The
window in front of me is pouring in light. There’s a bookshelf behind
me
and a brown couch to my right. The fan is on. The door is open. I
hear
Kelsey talking to Sofia downstairs.
“One more bite,” says my wife. The baby grunts. “One more bite?”
she
asks.
Sydney is with me. She’s asleep under the desk, her back against
my ankle.
I can feel her breathing, her body rising and falling.
Kelsey’s talking again. “All gone,” she says, “all gone, Soso.” The
baby
grunts again.
Copywriter Gary Halbert often did two things to quickly connect with
The
Reader:
One, he dated the copy, as though writing in a journal or diary,
leading with
the date and time.
“It makes the letter a little more personal,” said Halbert. “I think this
way of
doing things bonds the writer and The Reader closer together. It
also gives
our transmission the quality of immediacy.”
Two, he described the setting, creating a picture, a moment in time.
“To achieve a bond of intimacy and immediacy in your letters,”
Halbert
said,
“describe where you are and what you are doing as you are writing
the
letter.”
Easy.

____

195 words on storytelling, simplified:

Anthony Bourdain is filming his travel show, Parts Unknown. Behind
the
camera, a producer asks him a question:
“How would you describe yourself?”
“I would describe myself as a lucky cook who tells stories,” says
Bourdain.

“And I think any other, uh—” he searches, “I’m certainly not a

journalist,”
he says. “I’m not a chef anymore. I’d like to flatter myself by saying
I’m an
essayist. But I’m a storyteller. I see stuff. I talk about it.”
I take out my phone to record his quote.
“I talk about how it made me feel at that time,” he says. “If you can
do that
— honestly—that’s about the best you could hope for, I think.”
I love this simplification.
Because there are plenty of ways to tell a story...
The Hero’s Journey:
Departure › Initiation › Return
The 3-Act Structure:
Setup › Confrontation › Resolution
The 5-Act Structure:
Exposition › Rising Action › Climax › Falling Action › Dénouement
There
are other formulas, too.
All proven, all good. But there’s something refreshing and
comforting about
this boiled-down approach...
The Bourdain Structur e:
See stuff › Talk about how it made you feel › Be honest

It’s storytelling, simplified.

____

108 words on open-endedness:

Roadrunner, the posthumous documentary about Anthony
Bourdain, is full
of compelling anecdotes about creativity and storytelling.
For example, while working on his show, Parts Unknown, Anthony
Bourdain was disappointed with the rough cut of an episode. It
lacked
subtext, he thought, and spoon-fed the audience all meaning, all
significance. So, he wrote a candid email to Chris Collins, one of
the
show’s producers:
“People aren’t as stupid as your minions clearly believe,” he wrote.
“They
don’t need the truth pounded home with meaningless platitudes or
bland,

generic sum-ups. They’ll get it.”

Embrace ambiguity.
“Open-endedness,” said Collins, reflecting on his experience with
Bourdain,
“is where all the answers are.”