OBVIOUSLY, THIS IS A DUMB MISTAKE

Write with more impact!

More punch!

More zip and zest!

More verve!

But, how?

What magic must there be in making words sizzle on the page, and perhaps leap from an announcer’s lips as if frantic newts scampering away from a hot griddle of garter snakes?


Obviously, you have no idea.

But one of the first, obvious things to do is stop using a word like, “Obviously.”

Want to see?

Look at how much punch is in this one line after removing the adverb:

You have no idea.


That word is obviously standing between your idea and your reader.

We’re going to call that word a “crutch word.”

It’s one of those words that we lean on every day because it’s there and it’s easy and we got used to it when we were small children.

Another word we got used to as even smaller children was, “Goo.”

As in, “Goo goo.”

We stopped saying that one.

Is it not time we stopped goo’ing up the works using words that don’t move things along? Should we not stop allowing our words to slump and slumber? Shouldn’t we stop dragging our fat sentences across the page like lead-filled plaster casts of broken body parts? Instead, why aren’t we vaulting into the air on vital, rippling musculatures of verbal lean?


And is that preceding paragraph awful?

Yes!

But you’ve read this far. Why?

Two reasons. One, there’s an initial promise of something better and more profitable.

Two, that paragraph was not expected. It’s fast. It flies. It surprises. And it doesn’t do that by leaning on crutch words like, “Obviously.”

As has been established in previous episodes of this missive, one must write fast—even if it means committing grammatical transgressions like “fast,” which ought to correctly be an adverb like quickly or (less correctly) “fastly.” (Good grammar is optional if the impact is more important.)

Write! Write as quick as silver streaks across a red hot skillet. Whatever that means. It sounds fast.


Then, after writing, one must edit. Edit it. Ed-it. Edit.

Let’s say you’re writing a 60-second radio script. That needs to be about 150 words of comin’ out swingin’.

It might be swingin’ like a punch-drunk fighter in what will be an unfortunate face-down situation on the canvas.

Or it might be swingin’ like a big band in front of a floor full of hep cats cuttin’ a rug to all that jazz, daddio.

Or it might be swinging like an old tire at the end of a knotted rope tied to the branch of a grandaddy oak tree on a steamy summer day where the only respite from the swelter is in the shade of that green, leafy canopy while mom makes an icy pitcher of lemonade and a lazy banjo plinks away in the background.


Three different ways to swing. But not one of them says, “Obviously, you want to swing.”

Or, none of them says that right now, that is. Earlier, a crutch word may have been in there, back when your relentless scribe was in a speed-writing brain dump onto the page in an effort to puke up anything that might make sense here.

After the dumpage, I went back and used my pen like a surgeon’s scalpel, slicing away the fat and bother.

If you want more punch in your prose, you can’t saddle it upon the threadbare horse blanket of words that don’t spur it into action.


What words are they?

We’re talking about words like, “Obviously,” “Actually,” “Basically,” “Literally,” (which is literally almost never used properly), “So,” “Well,” “Look,” “Awesome,” (almost always never true), “Seriously,” “Totally,” “Essentially,” “Really,” “Just,” “Right,” and “Very.”

Oh, and let’s not forget that super-annoying crutch word of the 21st century...

“Super.”   

AUUGGHH!


There, I said it. Super awesome or what?

Write your brain-dump blather draft.

Then, make it make more sense.

After that, go through it again and ask yourself about every single word, “Do I need this?”

You will often find yourself loaded up on crutch words standing in the way of actual impact, magnitude, swagger or sizzle.


Cutting out such words helps your other words talk smack.

And while you’re at it, be certain to kill, kill, kill your darlings.

There will always be some kind of cuteness in there, all fuzzy and fun and rolling around right in the way of getting things done.

And you adore it.

Crush it! Squash it like a bug! Execute it with extreme prejudice!

What exactly is a darling and how doth one spot it?

Good question for another time. I have already overstayed my welcome.

Words good. Edits better. 
Cheers,

Blaine Parker
Your Lean, Mean Creative Director in Park City
 
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WORDS GOOD! BANG BAD?
 
Screamer. Startler. Gasper. Shriek. Pling. Bang.

There is a single, potent mark that goes by many names like these.

Are you inserting that mark into your writing as a tool of emphasis?

And if so, are you plinging yourself in the eye, screaming at your reader, startling your message off the page, gasping with every word, eventually shrieking into the void, and banging yourself into oblivion?

Each of the aforementioned words (pling, et al) is a synonym for what is one of the most declarative and most overused pieces of punctuation in contemporary English: the “!”.

It is also known as the exclamation mark or exclamation point.


Granted, this is probably not be about you and your writing.

But guaranteed, you know such a writer. You? You are more likely a victim of this punctuational assault on the senses.

And it can help to know a little about the weaponry of one’s adversaries in an effort to disarm them.

One great place to start is with the great F. Scott Fitzgerald, contender for Great American Novelist status as author of The Great Gatsby.

Fitzgerald was mentoring Hollywood journalist Sheila Graham, who had literary aspirations. She asked Fitzgerald to look at something she had written. According to Ms. Graham, Fitzgerald read the piece, edited it, and told her…


“Cut out all these exclamation points. An exclamation point is like laughing at your own joke.”

In other words: Ah-ha! Ah-ha-ha-ha! Ah-ha-ha-ha--ha-ha-ha! HA! HA!!

Nobody needs that.

The person who needs it least is the joke teller.

When you tell a joke that way, you lose the telling and become the joke. And the comedy is not pretty.


That said, the exclamation point has a colorful history. Really!

It has been places and seen things.

It may have originated in Latin, evolving from “io,” which was an exclamation of joy. Medieval copyists would write “io” at the end of a sentence to express joy. Gradually, the “i" was moved on top of the “o”. And eventually, the “o” evolved to a dot, and the rest is history!

It’s possible that you’ve used an old manual typewriter that has no exclamation point key. Instead, you were required to type an apostrophe, backspace and type a period. (That should give you some idea about how frequently one was intended to use the mark.)


Back in the day, secretaries and proofreaders called the mark by perhaps the most glorious of its many names.

And that name was, “Bang.”

Why bang?

The fun option is that it’s a reference to comic-book style, where a gunshot is indicated by “!”.

Computer hacker slang has borrowed the “bang” descriptor, and also uses the words “shriek” and “pling” to indicate “!”.

And yes, “!” has become a fixture in social media and in texting.


But I’ve even seen it used to excess in BUSINESS EMAIL!!!!!

HOLY COW!!!!!!!

Let’s revisit the word “pling” for a moment.

It’s a lovely word. It sounds like the barest tap of a tiny hammer on fine crystal.

That sound, used once, can be pleasing.

Less pleasing is when that tack hammer BANGS that crystal over and over until there is breakage and crashage and a gigantic mess of epic proportions.


Yes, from joyful to junk with just a few keystrokes.

When used with relentless abandon, the exclamation point stops being a mark and becomes the message.

The message is, “I have nothing to say. Words escape me. But I possess a giant bag of hammers and I will use them all right here and now.”

The “!” is a single kiss. But some writers are sucking face in the backseat with their date and nobody needs to see that.


The problem of the “!” is a problem of emotion.

A writer might have powerful feelings, but mistakes the mark for conveying those feelings with power.

Not so.

Excessive use of the mark is thrashing about in a cage, the emotion imprisoned by a lack of verbal control and command.

Replacing the mark with potent wording is far superior in conveying meaning.

Let’s express this as succinctly as a tweet, shall we?

“I hate exclamation points!!!! They suck!!!! Stop doing it!!!!!!!”


OK. But what about…

“Every time you use the mark, it’s a dagger thrust into the heart of your reader. Each exclamation point kills your message, your reader and you just a little bit more.”

Each of those thoughts will fit Twitter. But one of these things is not like the other.

THE FIRST ONE IS SCREAMING ABOUT ME!!!!

The second one is about someone more important, and the injury being done to them.


Persuasion does not come at the end of a bang!

Persuasion doesn’t scream, shriek or pling.

Persuasion comes at the end of phrasing that matters.

Try turning the scream into a whisper. It’s easier to hear. 
Cheers,

Blaine Parker
Your Lean, Mean Creative Director in Park City
 
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DON’T BALTER ABOUT, YOUR BEER-SOAKED BABOON!

Yes, today’s Good Word is “balter.”

The word "balter” means to dance artlessly, without grace or skill.

In other words, it's dancing like a lot of geeky guys do at their junior prom.

It might even be how we dance in this missive. Words Good does not claim to bring any particular art to you or your writing. But it does bring a great degree of clumsy enthusiasm. And occasionally, it offers up a fun word without any clear need for that word.


However, with a word like “balter,” is "need" really the issue?

Balter is about the fun, the thrills, the joy of lex.

Words? Good!

Balter? Better!

As great as they are, you can’t run around plugging big, unusual words like “brobdingnagian” into your everyday conversation.

But a word like “balter” can find a home in your daily chatter.


Let’s say your friend Walter gets drunk and tries to dance yet again.

You can call him Baltering Walter. Perhaps he was even that beer-soaked, baltering baboon at the top of the page.

“Balter” is a good enough word that you could even start a whole movement about it.

You might start printing and selling T-shirts that proudly proclaim, “Balter on!” and it becomes a thing.

As an alternative to the annual spring debutante ball, where fresh young flowers are introduced to society, you’ll begin seeing that annual satirical rite, The Annual Autumn Balter Ball, where besotted balterers celebrate the death of the season among the brown, crunchy leaves of another wasted summer.


And just by the way, speaking of trees…

Whilst researching “balter” for your dining and dancing pleasure, Google informed me that “People also ask, ‘What is a Dendrophile?’”

I had to ask, too. It sounds like something the cops might be able to run a sting for. "Let's nail those disgusting dendrophiles, damn it!"

Indeed, knowing something about the word “dendrites” did not inform any further understanding of dendrophilia, which sounds just a little bit dirty.

Seems a “dendrophile” is a tree lover.

So very quickly, while baltering about with Google, your artless scribe succumbed to the juvenile joys of fabulous phonemes with no regard for usefulness or practicality.


Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Anyway, Words Good Good Word for Daily Use is “balter,” to dance artlessly, without grace or skill.

Bet you can find a place for it. 
Cheers,

Blaine Parker
Your Lean, Mean Creative Director in Park City

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​THE BLANK PAGE IS AN IDIOT.

It will not do as you tell it. If you try asking nicely, it just scoffs.

You can try threats.

“Hey, paper boy! There’s open flame over here. I have matches, a lighter, even a gas cooktop. I can toss you in and watch you go up in flames and smoke like some kind of inhuman sacrifice to the saints in a witch trial by writers who hate the blankness of your pagery!”

Guaranteed: the page will merely look back at you, blankly.


It has the upper hand and it knows.

“Say something!”, you yell.

Nothing.

If only you could find the fight that makes this passive ass cooperate in a way that lets you both get on with it and move on to bigger, more profitable problems.


This vignette brought to you by Everything Is Nice. But it’s better when it’s not.

Do you want to make your writing more interesting? Immediately?

Throw it against the wall.

Stomp on it.

Yell at it.

And let it fight back.


One reason why so much writing is so flat is that there is so no conflict.

People (thankfully) try to avoid conflict in daily life.

But one place to embrace the fight is on the blank page. And it doesn’t even need to be the good fight, It can be the nastiest, pettiest, most mean-spirited little spat you ever had.

Have a tug of war.

Have a battle of wits.

Recount a witlessness in which you’re forced to participate.


Pine for someone you love who hates you back.

Recount the tale about how you use your Jedi lightsaber in heavy traffic against New Jersey drivers. (If you’re from New Jersey, no apologies. Your drivers are offensive zipnods.)

Write about the time you were banging heads with someone and it led to blood and stitches.

Write about a fistfight and how it feels--especially if you’ve never had one.

Fight with sleep and let sleep lose.


Writing an advertisement? Describe the deep-seated hatred you feel for the advertiser’s product.

When the blank page is mocking you, turn it around.

Mock the page back. Show it who’s boss, especially if you feel you’re not. Fake it.

Bring the fight and turn the page’s mockery into full cooperation.

The blank page is a bully, and a weakling at that.

Don’t fight the page. Fight ON the page.

Be strong and it will bend to your will. 

And write more than you need to. It will share the abundance of gems you never knew you had at hand.
Cheers,

Blaine Parker
Your Lean, Mean Creative Director in Park City

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The client’s missive popped into my mailbox.

I was concerned.

Had the script done what was needed?

And was he happy?

Not just happy enough, mind you. Was it no-exceptions happy?


He’d know the difference between good and great.

This is a man whose entire life has been big radio. Did my writing render the result he required?

Click.

Read.

“I love the script.”

Phew.


That reaction made the hours sweating over a dozen details of 167 words all worthwhile.

For days, the script had been 97% good.

The last 3% was being a beast.

You keep struggling with it.

Pushing it.

Kicking the thing.

And resisting a change to something you know, deep in your heart, is wrong.


A key word in the copy was “Neuroscience.”

Thematically, this word is the lynchpin for his message about human behavior.

But the two beasty words were: “In action.”

In an effort to emphasize the point that neuroscience is the hero, I had trotted out the phrase “Neuroscience in action.”

Over several days and twice as many tweaked drafts, that phrase began poking at me.


It was not a glaring, “LOOK AT ME!” darling.

Nor was it an error of great and grievous proportions.

But every time I tried to cut it loose, my head kept second-guessing me.

“We need it there. It brings action. Literally!”

The tactical writer inside me kept rationalizing it.

Then, the executioner inside me said, “This must end. Kill it now.”


With a single swing of the ax, those two words rolled away, forever separated from neuroscience.

The prepositional phrase that had been pestering me evaporated with a keystroke.

“Neuroscience” suddenly stood up its hind legs.

It now had gravity.

It brought the force of its own four syllables to poke at the listener’s gray matter and make the connection.

It was now putting the “awe” in authority.

(Did I really just write that? Eegad.)


Anyway, here’s the point for you, the writer who must create compelling copy…

Finding the right word and the right phrasing matters.

It takes time and doesn’t always leap forth from the keyboard as if yet another verbal Athena from the head of a thesaurical Zeus.

Writing well a process.

We can do things to accelerate that process.

But sometimes, we let ourselves stay stuck.


This is why good writing is rewriting.

Solid copy needs the opportunity to solidify.

What seems like cured concrete today can jiggle like unset gelatin tomorrow.

As important as it is to listen to the words, it’s also important to listen to one's writerly superego.

It will say things like, “Is that really right?”

Or, “Should that maybe go?”


Or, “Perhaps we should see how it sounds without that one thorny little oyster of a phrase.

“Maybe the pearl is already out of the shell.”

Whack!

And, voila!

It worked. All of sudden, it was 3% better.

In the aftermath, I was pondering the process of finding just the right word. So I asked Prof. Google.

I typed in, “Just the right…”

And the professor finished the phrase for me.

“Word.”


I was looking to see if there’s any scholarly insight into the kind of wrestling that happens in making the page right, or if I’m just a hardy fool.

Or both.

I stumbled upon a quote from that old, often cancelled rich white guy of immense ego and equally immense support for the common man, the underdog and the worker bee.

Mark Twain said, “The difference between the almost-right word and the right word is the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.”

Mic drop, Mr. Twain. Thank you. 
Cheers,

Blaine Parker
Your Lean, Mean Creative Director in Park City

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“Everybody already knows what we do.”

Unless you are Roto-Rooter, Chevrolet or Hostess, that statement is a bald-faced lie.

Please, do not make this mistake born of hubris—a fitting word, as it has its roots in Greek tragedy.

In fact, I went to The Source Of All Knowledge, Wikipedia, for a quick lesson in Hubris. Seems it describes the following:

…a personality quality of extreme or foolish
pride or dangerous overconfidence, often
in combination with (or synonymous with)
arrogance. The term "arrogance" comes
from the Latin adrogare, meaning to feel
that one has a right to demand certain
attitudes and behaviors from other people.


Hmm. I’ve seen that before.
 
That actually describes a whole lot of what has been happening in American politics over the last few years.

But for the moment, let’s stick with marketing.

The hubris of which we’re speaking regards a kind of attitude that one is immune from doing smart things.

For more than a decade, I made my living writing radio advertising for businesses of all sizes, from local garage-door companies to GEICO.

Frequently, when an advertiser was struggling, it was largely because they were unbranded.

They would invariably be offering a “me-too” parity product or service. There would be no clear brand and no clear way that the prospect was supposed to feel about the business.

The solution would be simple enough.


I would suggest solidifying the brand position and running a branding campaign that gives the advertiser a higher profile and a clear position.

The response was often, “That’s not necessary. Everybody already knows who we are.”

That might be one of the most self-aggrandizing attitudes imaginable when you’re the same person who’s saying, “The advertising isn’t working.”

In the course of a busy day in a busy life, who can possibly make room for every advertising message from every advertiser who wants the prospect to care as much as they do about what they sell?

But, you know what most people can make room for?


An advertiser who’s surprising, who commands attention, and who wants us to know what they stand for.

If I’m not in the market for a car, your car dealership’s great prices this week only are irrelevant to me.

But if you make me believe that your car dealership is like a club for your  customers who drop in just to say hi, and you have legions of ecstatic fans up and down the state, I might think, “Wow. I need to go there when I’m ready for another car.”


One reason I’m addressing this problem right now is that it’s epidemic across this nation.

Having driven several thousand miles in the last three weeks, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen this:

A big billboard.

A silly headline.

A visual joke.

A non-descript business name.

And zero idea of what the advertiser sells, how I’m supposed to feel about them, and what they think they’re accomplishing with that billboard.

Saw one today. A silly word. A goofy guy in a superhero outfit. A smiling woman. And no other information.

Hunh?


There’s a guy in my home state who has billboards with his name and the tagline, “One call, that’s all.”

It took me years to figure out the guy was a personal-injury attorney.

That’s because I finally saw one of his TV commercials.

“But everyone knows what I do. The billboards are just supporting the TV that everyone knows.”


Dude, not everyone knows.

The irony here is that I’ve often compared an advertisement to an argument in a court of law. Present a case that makes the prospect feel the right way, and they’ll decide in your favor.

If your advertising is struggling, or if your client’s advertising is not working, back away from the hubris.

Do not end up in a Greek tragedy that ends with a plummet from grace because someone believes they’re above good strategy.

Traditional media are struggling. Advertising is a struggle. The world is more competitive than ever.

And there is no competitive edge in hubris.

Not everyone knows wo you are.

But everyone is desperate for something to believe in. 

Cheers,

Blaine Parker
Your Lean, Mean Creative Director in Park City
 
LIGHTNING BRANDING ON AMAZON
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Word Of The Month: Vernacular!

This is the tagline from a roadside advertisement. A local diner boasts:

“Where good food originates!”

Know what I love about this tagline? The same thing I love about the word “vernacular.” No customer will ever use those words. Never.


"Vernacular" is a fancy word for the idea of, “How folks say it round these parts.”

The only person I can remember ever using the word “vernacular” was one of my college professors. It was part of his personal brand.

He was a little, bald, German man who wore tinted glasses and stank of chocolate pipe tobacco.

In his delightful, heavily accented English, he loved to condescend to the lowest of his low-level students for whom who was dumbing down the simplest possible course material.

During the course of said condescension, one of his favorite phrases was always uttered with ex-cep-tion-ally pre-cise dic-tion:

“As we like to say in the vernacular…”

Somewhat later, he was indicted for fraud. But I digress.


In advertising, "employing vernacular" is a fancy way of saying, “Speak in the language of your customer.”

A roadside diner saying, “Where good food originates!” is like Motel 6 saying, “We illuminate your accommodations!”

That tagline was probably written by the owner of the diner or someone near him. This person was probably thinking, “How do I make this thing sound clever?”

“I know! We can say that this hole-in-the-wall joint in this tiny town in this cozy corner of Appalachia is where good food originates! Done! Phew! Let’s go get us some griddle cakes!”


Line up the competition along the highway and decide for yourself.
 
“America’s diner.”

“I’m lovin’ it.”

“Be your way.”

“Where good food originates!”

Nope. Fail.


Doing something even slightly better doesn’t require deep thought.

Let’s assume we can’t come up with a qualifier more evocative than “Good food.” The client says, "That's what people know us for!" It's non-negotiable.

How about saying, “Good food for happy travels.”

“Good food, fast and friendly.”

“Good food for going down the highway.”

“Good food that gets you back on the road.”

“Good food for getting where you’re going.”

In less than a minute, that’s five possible alternatives. None of them are brilliant. But all of them are (yes) vernacular.


That means (ahem) speaking to the customer as the customer would speak.

Once upon a time, Honey and I were in one of our favorite small towns in the American south. It’s a simple place from a different time.

There was a new restaurant in town, a fancy Italian joint with foodie pretenses.

We were talking to a local lawyer friend about this new restaurant. We asked him how he liked it.

As he took a tipple from his adult beverage, he said in his inimitable southern drawl, “I believe they are firing over the heads of their customers.”

“Vernacular” is a word that fires over the head of the customer.

“How we speak” might be on the nose, but it’s clear and it leaves the light on for you.

If ya know what I mean.
Cheers,

Blaine Parker
Your Lean, Mean Creative Director in Park City

LIGHTNING BRANDING ON AMAZON
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King of the crumbling road!

In celebration of President Joe Biden’s The American Jobs Plan, a multi-trillion-dollar initiative to restore the nation’s self-esteem through gigantic infrastructure blender drinks, the Fabulous Honey Parker and yours truly are utilizing the original national infrastructure project that helped Make America Great In The First Place.

(MAGIFP! Put that on a hat!)

We are grateful that this antique infrastructure project has not collapsed enormous Appalachian mountains upon us upon us nor dumped into the mighty Mississippi River.

Honey and I are driving cross country on the Dwight D. Eisenhower National System of Interstate and Defense Highways.  


You may know that system by its more prosaic name, the Interstate Highway system.
 
Or, as the kids call it...

That crumbling stretch of road to nowhere flanked by endless cornfields.

One of the great things about the Dwight D. Eisenhower National System of Interstate and Defense Highways is the examples of advertising genius that it offers us.

Billboards, billboards, billboards!

The only thing more plentiful than billboards is corn stalks!


Advertising greats like Howard Gossage and David Ogilvy were notorious for their hatred of billboards.

Yet billboards remain, a scourge, a pox, a blight upon the nation’s countryside.

So let’s make the best of them and see what genius they have to offer us.

For us, today, it is this tagline that came from a billboard in Somewhere, Ohio.

Ready?


“We’re good at what we do!”

I’d love to tell you what that’s a tagline for.

But I can’t.

I don’t remember. Neither does Honey.

What we do remember is reading it, having a great laugh, and then applying it to every possible advertising campaign we could think of.


McDonald’s. “We’re good at what we do!”

Ford Trucks. “We’re good at what we do!”

Legal Zoom. “We’re good at what we do!”

Pampers. “We’re good at what we do!”

Though, in fairness, maybe the latter should be, “We’re good for what babies doo!”

And this tagline has replaced (at least for the moment) our other favorite, all-purpose tagline, to wit...


“It doesn’t smell like urine!”

That’s the punchline to a long story of advertising from a long time ago in a land far, far away.

Yet, it still resonates for us and periodically makes us laugh because we often exhibit the same, sophisticated sense of humor as adolescent children hopped up on Pop-Rocks and Coca-Cola.

But I digress.

That notwithstanding, roadside advertising lesson of the day is…


If your tagline is so generic that it can easily be applied to any business, it’s not a tagline.

McDonald’s. “We’ll leave the light on for you.”

Ford Trucks. “We’ll leave the light on for you.”

Legal Zoom. “We’ll leave the light on for you.”

Pampers. “We’ll leave the light on for you.”

Doesn’t work on any of ‘em, does it?


But when you apply it to a chain of budget motels with a folksy demeanor, things change.

And suddenly, you feel better about that cheap motel.

Here’s to feeling better about your advertising and infrastructure and national self-worth in the wake of Easter Sunday.

More roadside advertising glee to come…
Cheers,

Blaine Parker
Your Lean, Mean Creative Director in Park City
 
LIGHTNING BRANDING ON AMAZON
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Romance, Meet Marketing. And weep.

The action in New Zealand right this minute has little to do with a pandemic, and everything to do with a sickness.

At the moment these words are flowing onto the page, it’s the final day of the 2021 America’s Cup racing in Auckland.

By the time you read this, the America's Cup will belong to either New Zealand (again), or Italy.


You probably don’t care. Most people don’t.

If you’ve seen any of the footage on NBC or the interwebs, you know that it’s all speed, all black, all inscrutable.

When did yacht racing become a sport filled with crash helmets?

The Fabulous Honey Parker asks, "Where are the cup holders?"

Yes, this form of sailboat racing and the boats that race in it look a lot different today than they did in 1851.

Ah, the romance of sailing.


“I don’t like what America’s Cup has become. All the romance is gone!”

I’ve heard people say this. What happened to the romance?

White sails.

Graceful sloops heeling over in the sun as the water does a diamond dappled sparkle in the waters off of Newport.

Strapping young men with suntans grinding winches. Loud, middle-aged men barking orders from the helm.

Smiling, suntanned women handing over trophies and bottles of frothing-over champagne.

Those were the days.

You know what?


Be not fooled. Like advertising, America’s Cup yacht racing has always been about money.

Romance has always been irrelevant.

Today’s space-age yachting war of technology and determination is a place where exotic materials meet systems engineering, and it’s all seasoned with towering black sails, crash helmets, and big-money corporate sponsorships.

It’s a great metaphor for the culture at large.


And yes, the ostensible romance of advertising is also gone.

The good ol’ days of advertising have sailed over the horizon.

We are left slogging through a morass of technology and terminology.

The 21st century digital culture has little to do with writing a message and everything to do with believing that the real message is the delivery system.


“If you’re not marketing on social media, you’re missing the boat!”

I saw a headline like that just this morning. It made me shake my head.

While advertising has never been about romance, it was always easier for the poets to be seen.

Writers were the visible heroes of advertising.

But at the end of the day, it was never about them, either. Advertising was (and will always be) about money.  

It’s just that some romantics in the business think they can raise the bar and make people feel something less crass.


America’s Cup racing is the same way.

The first race in the 1800s was not the product of any romantic notions beyond making money.

A group of six New York millionaires formed a syndicate.

In case you were wondering, “syndicate” is not a word that has any romantic intent.

The millionaires in this syndicate formed it to build a technologically advanced yacht. The six titans of industry involved sat in their offices in New York while a professional crew sailed the yacht to England.

The millionaires later followed as first-class passengers aboard a very comfortable steamship.


Their mission was to win money in yacht races.

These men were gamblers, pure and simple.

It also didn’t work out in their favor. They failed in their mission.

But their effort spawned the multi-billion-dollar madness that now happens every few years in some part of the world not New York or Newport.

The days of white sails with no advertising and the pretense of gentlemanly sportsmanship are over.


Yes, the visual poetry and thematic fabrications are gone.

The game has become such a huge, technology-powered cash vacuum that it requires more sponsor dollars than anyone ever knew existed.

And at the end of the day, then as now, it’s still about people who want to make money.

It has just left any possibilities of sailing romance as we know it behind.


And so it is with advertising.

Sales messages are ubiquitous.

Maybe there’s no hope for bringing back the romance of America’s Cup yachting that never really existed.

There’s also probably no hope of bringing back the romance of the glory days of Madison Avenue, which also never really existed.


But it is possible to remember the one thing that never changes.

Romance is just one of many thematic components that inspire customers to buy.

Maybe romantics like us can push past the ignorance of media chauvinism and aim for the juicy center of the person to whom we’re selling.

Maybe then, we can all feel better about selling better by making people feel better about buying.

And we can all feel like we’re sailing on the wings of a more poetic day of gentle waves and sea breezes with nary a black sail in sight. 
Cheers,

Blaine Parker
Your Lean, Mean Creative Director in Park City
 
LIGHTNING BRANDING ON AMAZON
The Kindle edition of our new book is now available at Amazon for the bargain price of $19.95.
 
For details about our new Lightning Branding courses, both do-it-yourself and we-do-it-with-you editions, click here. (There's even a video of us!)