WHY LEAVING OUT IS AS IMPORTANT AS PUTTING IN
Of all the writers who have ever asked me to look at their copy and provide feedback, only one has never argued with me. (About writing, that is.)
That writer is my wife.
There are two reasons we don't argue about whether copy is correct.
One: if she thinks I'm wrong, she doesn't say anything and just does it her way. (Smart woman.)
The other reason, IMHO, is standup comedy.
We've each been writing copy for decades. But both of us, before we knew each other, also spent several years writing and performing standup comedy.
I KNOW, I KNOW, I CAN HEAR IT NOW
"But Blaine, you're just not that funny."
Yeah, well.
Neither are you. So stow it before I bring out my Don Rickles set and start bludgeoning you verbally. I don't want to have to hurt you.
Here's the deal with standup.
The empty stage with the lone microphone is an intense proving ground for a writer's work.
When you go out there, alone in front of a crowd, delivering your words, here's the one thing you find out for certain...
What words work and what words don't.
IT'S A BRUTAL TEST OF THE WORDS YOU CHOSE
What you learn by doing this is how word selection, phrasing and editing are all vitally important.
If you go to an open mic night and see new, never-before-been-on-stage comics, one of the things you get to experience is sitting and cringing while these newbies parade out their overwritten darlings.
You sit and watch and (if you are prone to empathy) you feel for them as they meander through huge tracts of verbiage in an attempt to map their way to the punch line, which is usually weak and frayed and unlikely to hold up under the weight of the words around it.
If you're not prone to empathy, you sit and hurl invectives until one hits him right in the heart and he leaves the stage.
Writing advertising is much like writing standup comedy.
In standup, you're looking for one, single reaction: laughter.
The laugh proves that the psychological intent of your joke is sound.
In advertising, you're looking for one, single reaction: sales.
The sale proves that the psychological intent of your ad is sound.
TIGHT WRITING MATTERS
I would posit that one of the best comic writers of our time is Steven Wright.
"I went to the 24-hour store. The guy was locking up. I say, 'I thought you were open 24 hours.' He says, 'Pht. Not in a row.'"
Steven Wright's bizarre, existential comedy stands entirely on the strength of its writing. No silly gestures. No acting out. He is the anti-Robin Williams--a minimalist with a solid foundation of tightly crafted material.
Steven Wright would not be funny if the writing were loose and flabby like the novice open mic comic.
Every laugh Steven Wright gets is the product of a ruthless efficiency--not in merely selecting the words, but in knowing what words to leave out.
To painfully paraphrase Michelangelo, it's an exercise in leaving out everything that doesn't look like a joke.
WOOF!
The opposite of a tightly crafted standup joke is the shaggy dog story. The teller drags it out and embellishes it and can spend several minutes setting it up so that when he finally reaches the rather weak and un-amusing punch line (often a pun), you have the predictable reaction.
You groan.
A shaggy dog story will not happen in a standup routine. The audience has no interest in or attention span for that. They want a set up and a punch line, a set up and a punch line, a set up and a punch line. (Larry Miller's iconic "5 Stages of Drinking" routine is 8 minutes long--with a punch lines every 10 seconds or so.)
Similarly, shaggy dog copywriting will not sell anything because, again, the audience has no attention span.
Each psychological barb--especially in a broadcast ad--must be firmly attached to the arrow of the selling proposition.
It's the flight of that sales arrow that matters. Weigh the arrow down with items not designed to improve its flight, and it will not fly straight.
EVERY WORD THAT DOESN'T BELONG CREATES A NAVIGATIONAL ERROR
If I'm selling ice cream, I want my prospect thinking about ice cream--or something directly associated with ice cream.
If I start talking about peanuts or popcorn or crackerjack, I might do it beautifully--but I'm steering the ice cream sales arrow away from the prospect's heart.
If you're as suggestible as my wife and start talking about crackerjack in an ad for ice cream, she will immediately go and look for the crackerjack. She'll never make it to your ice cream.
In the Steven Wright joke about the 24-hour store, nothing is wasted or diversionary. There could not possibly be fewer words in it, because it would no longer work.
But if it had more words in it, about things not directly related to the scenario of the guy locking up the 24-hour store, it wouldn't be as funny. It might not die as a joke, but it wouldn't be as potent.
One of the most extreme examples of an irrelevant, psychologically misguided ad is one Dan O'Day has used in his presentations. It's 60 seconds long, and spends about 50 seconds talking about a woman's relationship with the ideal man, and how before you can have all this in a relationship--he has to call you back.
Then, it's an ad for athletic shoes.
If you spend the bulk of 60 seconds talking humorously about the relationship I'm never going to have (as a woman), then say, "BTW, buy our running shoes," you're hosed.
Most ads don't do this.
But many ads wander around in self indulgence, doing clever things not calculated to light the sales fire.
YES, OVERWRITTEN ADVERTISING CAN STILL WORK
This is one of the benefits of repetition.
Even badly written advertising can benefit from a strong schedule or strong placement.
But better-written advertising in the same place will do better.
This is one of the reasons hardcore direct marketers constantly test ads that are already proven to work.
If changing a headline can make the ad pull better, they want the increased ROI.
If changing the way the offer is phrased can generate more calls, they want the extra bodies on the phone.
But the one thing you will never see a DR expert like a Dan Kennedy or a Jay Abraham do is include a darling.
You know: The Darling. That little turn of phrase that makes the writer's ego happy and which he protects and nurtures like a real, live tribble--even though he is actually supposed to take it out back and put down with a merciful blast from the pump shotgun he keeps for home protection.
If you've ever watched the original Star Trek reruns, you know what ultimately happens if you let tribbles thrive. (If you don't, Google it.)
And so ends this morning's meandering, untargeted and unlikely-to-sell-anything missive. Have a lovely day. ("Thank you, Blaine, but I have other plans.")
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