"It's, um, what's his name, he bought, um, some product"

It's easy for us direct response folk to get fooled by cool. Yes, we want results, but we also want to do amazing ground-breaking work. We want awards. We want to be funny. We want millions of views on Youtube. And we view work, even direct response work, through that lens.

By that standard, the most effective and perhaps longest running TV spot in Canadian history doesn't measure up.

Yes. "It's Patrick, he bought life insurance!"

When it aired, it was pretty mainstream in terms of the clothes, the lighting, the announcer-y stuff, so it didn't feel like the museum piece it does to you now. But it sure as hell didn't break any ground culturally or artistically. (For some reason, I think it was adapted from Belgian creative.)

It just made so much money for Norwich Union insurance that they kept running it, year after year; the variations and tests ran well into this millennium. It was mind-bogglingly successful.

Why? I can only hypothesize a weird combination of things. It's built on classic direct response structure with straighforward technique; it's a tutorial in how to do a DRTV spot. But it's not the only spot in history that's been well-executed, so that can't explain everything.

I think it's the small hiccups that actually stuck with people, and made it memorable: the quickness and bizarre excitement with which the first guy says the immortal words, "It's Patrick, he bought life insurance." (Has anyone ever had a personal conversation that started out with insurance?) The way the Asian Canadian testimonial woman jumps in and cuts off her husband as he talks. The way the announcer's "2" in the "20" he scrawls on the whiteboard seems so rushed and sad. Maybe it's just me, but details like that remind me of the Sham-Wow spot; very strong selling with just enough personality and weirdness to be memorable.

The only thing I can compare to it is that Canadian Tire "creepy neighbour" campaign early this decade with the couple who explained products – mini-infomercials really. People seemed to hate those damn things, they got made fun of mercilessly by shows like This Hour Has 22 Minutes and Air Farce. Yet the flipside of that is that everyone knew them, everyone watched and knew the products. They look to CT for information, and went to CT when they wanted to buy. I have no data of course, but I've read CT folks saying that they worked insanely well.

CT ended the campaign because they wanted to be cooler, oh, I'm sorry, more "relevant"; I'm sure the CEO got sick of his/her family and neighbours making fun of them. So we've seen a couple of campaigns since they ended the "creepy neighbour", and maybe a couple of different agencies. Yeah, cool worked really well, didn't it?

I know the creative team who did the Norwich Union spots; amazing people all of whom I've worked with and for, and from whom I've learned virtually everything I know about direct marketing, direct mail, and DRTV. And yet none of them talks much about it, and I don't think any of them list it on their résumés, or have it in their books.

Which is sad, but I understand why. Cool, not effectiveness, still seems to rule.

"Beware of thinkers whose minds function only when they are fueled by a quotation."*

"The greatest glory is won from the greatest dangers."

Now, this is just ancient Athenian for "When the going gets tough, the tough get going." But I think Pericles said it better than Knute Rockne (or whomever deserves attribution for that nugget), and as it turns out I'm reading "Lords of the Sea", John Hale's history of the Athenian navy and its role in Athenian democracy. Pericles led Athens through its golden age and fought off Sparta for the first years of the Peloponnesian War. His predecessor Themistocles (pictured) created the Athenian navy, won the battle of Salamis and helped defeat one of the largest empires in history.

Based on their noble examples, when the concept that was oh so close to getting approved gets killed, as it did today, I know there's only one thing to do – come back with a better concept. And win one for the Gipper. 

Maybe after a big glass of wine I'll have recollected other clichés which will inspire me in the week ahead.

*A quotation from Romanian writer Emil Cioran.

welcome to copywriting – may I see your passport, please?

The first time I wrote an ad reminds me of the first time I went to Japan.

Let me explain.

After an 8-month stint in Eaton's photography sample room (which was better than being laid off from my previous proofreading gig), I didn't have much with me when I arrived at my cubicle into the writers' area. There was a Mac SE and a phone on the desk, and some spent pens and paperclips in the drawers, and some push pins in the orange fabric walls.

At some point that first morning, I think, I got a docket – literally a large manila-type envelope which contained everything about the job from start to finish. At each stage of the work the job docket went around the floor from department to department: creative, proofreading, typesetting, assembly, media.

Inside was the "brief," which was more of an order form. There was space for the buyer or assistant buyer to list all the features and benefits of the product, as well as info about the size of the ad and what papers it was running in. There was nothing about demographics or psychographics, or a selling idea, or strategy. It was, after all, retail.

I remember pulling out all this info (I wish I could remember what product it was actually for, but no such luck) and mulling it for a while, then turning to the screen with an open writing template and placing my fingers over the keyboard and...

Being completely and utterly terrified at how baffled I was. I had no idea what to do next. Sure, I'd proofread hundreds of these copydecks, and I'd messed around with some spec ads in order to get the job, but this was different. I actually had to write the copy first. I had to fill up that big blank space with words, and Lord knows, maybe even an idea, and I didn't have a clue how to start.

The only thing I can compare it to was landing at Narita airport for the first time and realizing that not only could I not understand what people were saying (I didn't expect the Japanese to be talking English) but that none of the signs were in familiar letters, so I couldn't decipher anything around me. It's overwhelming to have that kind of disconnection from your surroundings. I couldn't get any bearings. I literally didn't know which direction my next step should be.

In Japan, I very quickly got good at finding any signs written in Latin characters, to give me some sort of basis for guessing what was going on and where I needed to go. And if I still needed help, I could ask questions in my mangled 10-word Japanese vocabulary and usually get an answer I could understand – even if it was only pointing.

In my cubicle, trying to write that first ad, I took a deep breath and decided that the first thing I wrote didn't have to be perfect. I could write anything and if I didn't like it, I could just hit "delete."

It might not seem like a big thing, but that realization was pretty powerful. I discovered that I didn't have to have the concept "solved" before I started working. That my work started when I started to play.

And it's been my first principle ever since, even as I've moved to paper as my first step, instead of electrons. No matter how little inspiration I have, no matter how little I understand about where an ad should go, getting anything down on paper is the essential first step in understanding where I can go.

hey, at least they don't throw frozen tomatoes any more

At Queen's there's a savage initiation ceremony for engineers called the Grease Pole, and I seem to have witnessed it at its worst in 1984. In a large crater in the middle of a field, a tall thoroughly greased pole was erected, and freezing water and other, um, liquids were poured in the hole. Then the frosh engineers (one of whom was a good friend from high school) were invited into the hole and asked politely to claw each other's eyes out and get to the top of the pole. (I vaguely remember there being something on top that had to be retrieved, but I could be wrong.)

The figurative cherry on this hellish sundae was the fact that there were a couple of hundred upper year engineers surrounding the hole and, as they cheered on the frosh, whipping frozen food objects into the melee. Tomatoes, oranges and apples were popular, and I recall some melons arcing into the pit.

It was about as close to a medieval experience as I'd come, until travelling to Mali last year.

Naturally, it's already occurred to you that I'm using this as a metaphor for advertising.

Now, if you're a junior, I don't share this to be patronizing. (In spite of the fact that it will probably read that way anyway.) I share it to try to demonstrate that me, along with almost everyone else I know who's senior in this business, has also been paid barely enough to survive; I know that life isn't glamorous.

Very early in my career, I had up to four roommates, rode my bike to work 12 months a year, took rolls of toilet paper from work instead of buying them, and drank in the cheapest-ass places I could find. (Grossman's being one of the few that's still around.) And I was ridiculously in debt, maxing out what little credit I could get. Whatever talent and ability I had took years to pay off.

During this time money really mattered, day in and day out. I knew how much I had in my pocket, and how much was in my bank account, because if I didn't keep track I couldn't make rent. And money did come, more slowly than I would have liked. 

I say this because if you're starting out you're likely in a similar position, and I want you to know that things will get better if you have talent and you stick it out. But the industry expects you to keep working like a maniac and learning and being positive until that money moment happens. A sense of entitlement because you know you're talented or feel like you have huge potential is a massive impediment. (I'm sorry that sounds condescending. But it is true.)

Because, unless you're an NFL draft pick or highly rated Junior A prospect, you don't get paid for your potential. You get paid because the people who sign the cheques know you can do the job.

it's strictly business

Marketers, especially creatives, like to complain when their clients don't understand the difficulty we have in understanding and solving the marketing issues those same clients pay us to deal with.

"Why don't clients understand that they need to offer something unique to consumers?" we wail. "Why can't they tell us what their USP is? Why can't they tell us something really meaty about their customers, something we can hang our hats on? Don't they get it?"

And we do the best we can, and later unleash our complaints over that second pint, and maybe a third.

It's taken a long time for me to realize that clients aren't coming to agencies with marketing problems. It would be nice if they did, so convenient for us, and probably set us up to win all kinds of awards for cool, unique and oh so creative work. But they don't, because most clients don't have marketing problems.

They have business problems.

They have sales that stink and need to be boosted, or new products to launch against competitors with better products, or whatever other non-ideal circumstances you can think of. (And if you're reading this blog, chances are you've got as many stories of non-ideal circumstances as I do.) Marketing is only a means to an end. The copy and layout are only ends. The concept is only an end.

The challenge of writing a good brief is to ensure that in articulating a marketing problem, it does so in a way that addresses the underlying business problem. The creative challenge, after you've come up with a bunch of ideas that meet the brief, is to think about those concepts in the context of the business problem – and sell them that way to the client.

I know that creatives especially can't function that way every day, as part of their internal process; they need to be focused on ideas and images and words.

But Michael Corleone was onto something when he told Sonny that it wasn't personal. Some business awareness would leaven every creative's work, their client relationships, and their understanding of what it is they really do. Besides, it is after all what we do is all about.

the toughest creative challenge there is

I know what you're going to say when I tell you what I think the hardest job in this business is. (And what you say *is* going to be bad.) But I've thought a lot about this over the years and time and again the truth of this seems to bear out.

I think the toughest thing to do well in this business is the outer envelope (OE) of a direct mail (DM) piece.

I know, I hear you.

"Scott, you're fucking crazy. An OE is the hardest thing a creative can do?!?"

But wait a sec – think about it.

With TV spots and banner ads, you're likely seeing them in the middle of a show or a site who's content you're actually interested in. More than merely knowing something about the person's vague prediliction for the content environment, you know that they're probably more or less enjoying it. There's an expectation of entertainment or engagement both from the content the audience is there to get, and from the ads (TV or banner) that you're serving up.

And you're probably sitting down as you experience each one, on either a couch or an office chair; you're physically comfortable.

On radio, whether you're in the car or at home, it's a similar experience. You're listening to a station whose music or talk you probably already like, and the audience is predisposed to liking you, or at least not immediately punching one of the other station presets.

Billboards don't get the same help from their environment, and they have to work in no more than 3 seconds, but again at least you're relatively comfortable while looking at one.

With a DM package, you don't get any of that help.

When your target audience member is grabbing their mail, they've just got home from work. Maybe they're  a little pissed off, or just exhausted, either from their day or from the commute. (Hey, I'm just trying to paint a typical picture of what happens when people first get in the door.) They may still have a computer bag or purse in their hands, and they're juggling keys and maybe a shopping bag too. They're desperate to get their coat and shoes off, and as they approach the kitchen counter with a fistful of other mail like credit card applications and bills (which really get them in a positive mood)... that's the moment when they may first see the OE of your package.

It better be damn strong.

Your OE has to reach through all that psychic crap and say something to the person holding it, in less than 3 seconds, because the person holding it is likely standing very near something called a garbage can or recycling bin. Months of work can disappear in the blink of an eye.

The creative, the offer, the spelling of the person's name... and the recipient's experience of the brand... they all have to work magic together for that second or two, just to have a hope of being opened, and engaged with, and just maybe responded to.

That, my friends, is a hell of a challenge.

breaking news: Lot's wife and Tom Scholz tear the rear-views out of their sedans

I can't stand my work.

Hmm, maybe I should clarify. Let me say that, once it's done, all I can see in the work that I've touched is all the stuff that I'd change if only I had a little more time or foresight.

All the stuff that I've posted, for instance. Each piece filled me with dread as I was looking at it, shooting it, writing about it and posting it. Each one reverberated with choices I wish I could have back. 

And that's true for the stuff I really like, the pieces that are smart or push the edge.

The Ascenda spot for instance. As much as Ted is a good actor, as much as we got so much of what was in my head onto film, as much as I love the in-situ product benefits, I simply can't stomach the music. I have no idea what we were thinking. It's bad. It so overwhelms the spot for me that I almost think it was the track, rather than the end of the tech boom, that killed the campaign.

I'm glad I can't remember who did the track for us, because I could never work with them again. I seem to have blotted out the entire post process of that spot.

Or the Smarties box design contest microsite. It really bugs me that we didn't put a skip intro button on the flash intro. We sure as hell should have. I must have been so enamoured of the flash that I violated pretty much everything I believe about usability to force people to watch it over, and over, and over...

Sigh. I've come to accept the fact that there's always going to be something I want to fiddle with, something that's not right, or not good enough, even after it's live or on air on in mailboxes.

Doesn't make it any easier. So, I guess, don't look back. Really.

my last damn post about briefs (for at least a while)

As much as every agency obsesses about their briefing document, there's really so much more to it than the words written on whatever Word template you're using.

For all the intelligence, thought and labour that can go into creating the briefing document, we all have to remember that there's a human being on the other end of that doc: one who may not realize how clever you've been, or who may not understand that your efforts are supposed to inspire them to write a great brief, or who hasn't been trained in dealing with the doc, let alone the art of writing a great brief.

Thanks to my freelance era, I've worked with many of the agencies in Toronto. I've found that most agencies have similar anxieties around the subject of their culture – we all want to be different and special, after all – and have created by and large similar processes and documents to articulate it.

So, another way of looking at the briefing document is as a vehicle for capturing a snapshot of an advertising culture as it begins a particular job. And as much as that culture can live across an entire agency, it's much more likely, in my experience, to be embodied within an individual team. If your account director and creative director are committed to the work, they will be committed to the brief, and that's a crucial starting point. But similarly throughout the team, everyone has to understand the commitment – that great creative starts only with a brief that inspires that process to happen.

What matters is the vision of the person writing the brief.

What matters is the advice, patience and discipline of the people approving the brief.

What matters is the questioning of it – and subsequent faithfulness to it – by the team you're briefing.

What matters is the dedication of everyone to the idea that the brief is foundation upon which everything is built, the roadmap for the journey you're about to embark on. If it changes, everything which follows is open for change.

Which I guess is the long-winded way of saying, again, that people matter most.

in shorter

Continuing my soapbox declarations from earlier this week, I uncovered the item below from a list of great agency sites that someone quite smart sent me today; it was originally posted on Digital Kitchen's blog.

It's a letter from Mick Jagger to Andy Warhol, about the cover of what would be Sticky Fingers. Apart from being an amazing artifact of a really interesting time, it's an amazing creative brief:

Simple, strong, direct. This is every creative's fantasy brief: here's the assignment, here's a bunch of stuff you can use in any way you see fit, try not to make it too complicated... but what the hell, do whatever you want. And please tell us how much money you'd like.

Short of getting a letter from Pope Julius II saying he needs a ceiling painted, this is as good as it gets.

A creative can dream.

"I know it when I see it"

So I'm looking at creative tonight, a revision to some outdoor. The art director has incorporated a bunch of feedback and done a great job. Except there's something that's not quite working right.

Something indefinable.

Unfortunately, that's not a phrase you get to use in this end of the business. Unlike, say, Supreme Court justices dealing with pornography, it's our job to define this kind of stuff in an actionable way.

Clients get to say, "I don't know why, but I don't like it." Sure, we don't want them to say such things, but it's been known to happen; and because they pay the bills, there's not too much we can do about it.

Account people don't really get to say it, but it's also been known to happen. They often don't have the vocabulary to discuss pictures and words, but good suits will get their point across, even without the right technical terms.

Creatives have to be able to say why. They have to be able to put real, articulate sentences together in a way that others in our peculiar profession can understand and respond to. You have to know why this collection of words and pictures work together better than that very similar collection of words and pictures. If you can't do that, you're not going to be much good in the natural back and forth that making creative takes. And chances are, you won't be much good at selling stuff to clients, either.

So I had to spend a fair amount of time tonight figuring out why my gut was telling me whatever it was telling me, then coming up with words that made sense of that. Sure, sometimes it sounds like you're making excuses for whatever goofy biases you're prone to. But you're often smartest when you listen to your gut, because in the long run it seems to have sensory apparatus that aren't hard-wired to your brain.