Like An Animal Foraging for Food

Monday, March 29, 2004 – You look up at the clock and realize you’ll be lucky to get home in time to see the last few minutes of The O’Reilly Factor. It’s been another long day at the office. But you’re not exhausted, you’re exhilarated and enthused, because you’re feeling good about the work and you know that everything that’s worth anything is never a walk in the park. We’re not talking about brain surgery, of course, but we are talking about quality and excellence and other such superlatives you want associated with your brand. So after you hit the wall with your writing, you switch gears for a while and read articles on everything from Hispanic marketing to direct mail design to the etymology of tuna. And you’re still only halfway through your in-box. You’ve crossed the T’s and dotted the I’s on your 1,600-word article for the IBS newsletter. And you’ve tied up any loose ends on your presentation for NEMICE. Yet you’re still wondering if there’s anything else that can’t wait till tomorrow. You look up at the clock again and realize that these are the hours you’ve always kept in your career. This is the effort you’ve always put forth. You leave no stone unturned, nothing left to chance, because you’re like an animal foraging for food, only you’re hoarding experience and making sure to put it to good use.

Salesman, Fundraiser, Actor, Mystic

Thursday, March 25, 2004 – A growing percentage of our business here is rooted in the world of higher education, either helping development officers raise funds or working with alumni associations to grow their membership files. If you’re familiar with agency parlance, you’ll know what I mean when I say this is one of our strongest vertical markets, an offering we’ve already established as one of a handful of our core competencies. We’ve run successful campaigns so far for clients such as Ohio University, the University of Texas and Southern Methodist University, just to name a few, which has led to a number of new engagements recently, including the University of Houston and Florida State University. As a creative guy, I couldn’t be happier with these assignments. Each one is a step back in time for me, a blissful reminder of days gone by, when I was just an optimistic, young student in search of my own bright future. Each one takes my imagination to another corner of the country — to another whole world, really — where, on some beautiful campus somewhere, the wide-eyed innocence of youth is introduced to the rigors of academics and the complexities of real life. This is what I enjoy so much about my role as a direct mail copywriter. I’m a salesman. I’m a fundraiser. But I’m also an actor, putting myself in the shoes of my signatory. And I’m part mystic, too, asking myself how would I feel if I were on the receiving end of my appeal.

A Good Offer Squandered

Monday, March 22, 2004 – Denny, our production artist, has performed yeoman’s duty in helping me prepare for my appearance next week at the 18th Annual New England Meetings Industry Conference and Exposition in Boston. He’s scanned dozens of direct mail packages for me, each one illustrating one of the points I’ll be making in my presentation, “The Shoestring Secrets of Well-Heeled Direct Marketers.” It’s a thankless job, all this R&D leading up to a speaking gig — but the extra effort now makes everything that much easier come show time. A couple of the packages I’ll be sharing with my audience speak to the importance of your mailing list — that is, a bad offer to a good list is better than a good offer to a bad list. Case in point: I received a letter in the mail recently that told me that I had been chosen to receive an application for the 2004 National American Miss Massachusetts Pageant. Now if I’m a “girl with dreams,” as the copy on the outside envelope so dramatically puts it, I’m all over this offer (no comments from the peanut gallery, by the way)! The list wasn’t bad, per se. Someone neglected to do a gender select, that’s all. The truth is that my step-daughter, Sophie, is a high school cheerleader, and she subscribes to American Cheerleader magazine. But I paid for the subscription, and took it out in my name. Clearly, the National American Miss organization used the American Cheerleader list — the whole kit and caboodle — overlooking the fact that it might contain at least a few errant records. Not a big deal. But a perfectly good example of a good offer squandered.

The School of “Emo” Copywriting

Thursday, March 18, 2004 – In the latest edition of the I-Copywriting Digest, “moderator” Nick Usborne suggested that online marketers are becoming less and less personal online. “Why,” he asked, “are we retreating into that familiar territory of corporate-speak, when we would do better to step forward and touch our readers one by one?” I must say his commentary struck a chord with me, as I’ve always been partial to the school of “emo” copywriting. Show some enthusiasm. Express your emotions. Don’t be afraid to open up to your audience and connect with them personally. They’ll respect you for it. And respond affirmatively. That’s what I say. And that’s what I did say — for the most part — in a letter I wrote back to Nick (agreeing with him wholeheartedly), which reads as follows:
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March 17, 2004

Dear Nick,

I, too, have noticed that precious few online marketing initiatives today are written in a personal, conversational tone of voice.

But this doesn’t surprise me. Clearly, many of the so-called copywriters and authors who ply their craft on the Web aren’t well versed in the principles of direct marketing. If they were, they would know that an email or electronic newsletter provides them with the perfect opportunity to speak to their audiences on a very intimate, one-on-one level. That has always been the hallmark of the good, old-fashioned direct mail letter. Its strength lies in the fact that, ideally, whoever receives it is led to believe that it’s been written to him or her — a “dear friend” — exclusively. And, of course, the best-case scenario is that a relationship ensues.

The irony is that it should be even easier to make that connection in the online world, an environment in which more and more consumers are congregating daily. Given the right tactics, the Web can make your messaging almost impossible to ignore.

Unfortunately, those organizations that are “retreating into that familiar territory of corporate-speak” are taking a big step backwards and reducing their chances of future success as marketers. Their loss!

Not everyone who writes online is afraid to be themselves, however. At Yellowfin Direct Marketing, we’re going to great lengths to reach out to our constituency on a very personal level in a blog called A Fine Kettle of Fish. Featured on our home page, this blog is our way of harnessing the power of the Web to open ourselves up to the widest possible audience, one person at a time.

Sincerely,

Bob Cargill
Senior Creative Director
Yellowfin Direct Marketing
www.yellowfindirect.com

The Sleepless Spring Tour

Monday, March 15, 2004 – Howard Dean had the Sleepless Summer Tour. We have the Sleepless Spring Tour. At least, that’s how I’m envisioning — and referring to — the next several months. You could say that Yellowfin is like a candidate running for office, with a voice — a reason d’etre — just begging to be heard by the largest possible coalition. I would say that Yellowfin, as a brand, is a best-kept secret — when it ought to be top-of-mind. But we know better than to just clutch at straws, articulating our platform for anyone within hearing distance. We’re not going to be accused of “interrupting jaundiced strangers,” the fundamentally flawed marketing model that Seth Godin refers to in his groundbreaking book, Purple Cow. We’re going to establish a continuous, mutually-beneficial dialogue with an audience that’s as impassioned about fundraising, committed to direct marketing and dedicated as we are to achieving success through the dissemination of ideas, insight and information.

Esprit de Corps

Wednesday, March 10, 2004 – Included among the list of stops in my career was a brief stint at a dot-com, where it was all about the Web, all the time. We were a so-called “pure play,” an organization whose business model is grounded solely in the online world. Well, you know the rest of the story (e.g., the company went belly-up). But while our obituary was only in the draft stages I was like a sponge to water, soaking up all I possibly could about how to use the Web to build relationships and spur interactivity. That was then. Now I’m looking at an opportunity to use those lessons learned at the dot-com to help us here at Yellowfin garner some attention in the marketplace. A Fine Kettle of Fish is a step in the right direction. Right now it’s being hosted on Blog*Spot. But it will likely be situated on our own Web site soon, prominently displayed for all visitors to read and, hopefully, enjoy. In keeping this blog, I’m being true to myself, doing what I like to do as honestly and openly as possible within a framework that is obviously still business, first and foremost. Which is why I’m also thinking strategically, taking pains to write what I would want to know about this agency if I were an outsider. Yup. With Fine Kettle, I’m hoping to engage a community of folks who are genuinely interested in not just what this agency has to offer, but more importantly, what this agency is all about – its culture, its personality, its esprit de corps. Only time will tell whether or not I’m successful.

True Believers

Monday, March 8, 2004 – The similarities between politics and entrepreneurialism have always intrigued me, so it only makes sense that I found a Howard Dean documentary (True Believers: Life Inside the Dean Campaign) on CNN last night so engrossing. It was right up my alley. Of course, it was disillusioning to see the Dean campaign crash so hideously, but there’s no question it struck a chord with many Americans, thanks in large part to the indefatigable Joe Trippi, Dean’s campaign manager and the central character in True Believers. I don’t know what Joe has more of, energy or insight, but his supply of both appears infinite (even though his guy went down in flames). No wonder Dean was able to build an online community of some 600,000 constituents (including yours truly), raising approximately $18 million in just nine months. Joe Trippi is a brilliant communications strategist who helped his boss break new ground in the worlds of politics and fundraising, leveraging technology and leading with his heart. But then the bubble burst.

Two Crocodiles Intertwined

Friday, March 5, 2004 – The last three days I have had my nose to the grindstone, working at a feverish pace with Sarah and one of our freelancers to put together several different fundraising packages, all for schools, each under a tight deadline. The good news is that we are only at the rough stage on these projects, so we don’t have to flesh out every single detail. But the due dates still loom nonetheless. At the same time, we’re also working on a catchy, new ad campaign for Yellowfin, using the concept of fish (surprise, surprise) as a recurring theme. And finally, I’m working on an article about direct marketing for one of our suppliers. They called the other day and asked me to write something for their company newsletter. David joked that they had never asked him to be one of their authors. And he’s known them for years. Why should I get all the glory? What made me so special? Uh-oh. The last thing a new employee wants to do is upstage the boss! I think I mitigated the situation, though, by citing the old Ghanaian proverb about two crocodiles intertwined. No matter which one of them eats food, it goes to the same stomach.

Bob, Mike and George

Tuesday, March 2, 2004 – When I had my own business, Cargill Creative, in the early ‘90s, I was a very active member of the New England Direct Marketing Association. I enjoyed the camaraderie of the meetings — the deep, lasting friendships that were formed, the vast network that was built — so much so that for ten straight years my attendance was nearly perfect. After my term as president in 1999-2000, however, the NEDMA experience became almost anticlimactic for me, and my participation in association activities slipped precipitously. I’ve still shown up for the annual awards show and conference, but like a fair weather friend who always seems to have something better to do, I’ve only made it to a couple of regular meetings each year. My bad. Tonight, however, it was just like old times. I was one of the diehards, the zealots, the denizens of the direct marketing world. I was one of less than a dozen NEDMA loyalists — along with Mike Quinn, VP of Sales and Marketing at Yellowfin — who were enthusiastic enough to show up at a tavern in Boston called George for a networking party. And even though I was disappointed with the relatively small turnout, chatting it up with old friends like Bob Rotchford rekindled my passion for all things NEDMA and reminded me that I have always done everything I could to make the most of this long, strange trip of a career.

Purple Ketchup

Monday, March 1, 2004 – We have our first all-hands-on-deck staff meeting this afternoon, at which I plan to resurrect my story about green and purple ketchup. I’ve told this story on a number of different occasions in the past, whenever I want to make a point about creativity and change. I’ll ask my audience to put themselves in the shoes of H.J. Heinz executives the first time someone suggested the company offer its traditional red ketchup in both “Blastin’ Green” and “Funky Purple.” Of course, such a notion must have seemed farfetched, almost foolish, at the time. But just a few years later, young, impressionable children — including my own two boys, Scott and Ben — couldn’t get enough of these two new shades of the condiment. Now I’m not going to suggest we change the name of our agency to Purplefin, but I do plan to join forces with my colleagues here to help effect change and squeeze out every ounce of our creativity.