Stupid words.

For years, decades, I earned my daily bread in the advertising trade, working in advertising agencies. My job was on the creative side, developing strategies that would most effectively lure customers, then turning them into ads in whatever media was required. The goal was always to use ideas and words and pictures and music to arouse interest and keep viewers or readers or listeners watching or reading or listening long enough to absorb whatever message we wished to convey. We always believed the audience deserved some level of respect in exchange for our intrusion into their lives.

But most people in the advertising business, like most people in most businesses, do not care all that much. They don't care if the advertising is creative or entertaining or inventive or unexpected. They are just putting in the time, putting their emphasis on looking and sounding good in the endless supply of meetings, both within the agency and with clients. They do not want to rock the boat; “give the clients what they want,” is the force that motivates them.

And that is why most advertising falls somewhere between invisible and inane.

That is why some guy in a tie somewhere decided that holding a “sale” is no longer good enough. That the public is no longer interested in discounted prices. That calling a sale a “sales event” would excite the audience (for whom they have little respect) into showing up in frenzied droves and parting with their money. After all, isn’t the very idea of an “event” exciting? Wouldn’t it deserve three—no, four—exclamation points in social media?

While this earth-shattering development has little effect on audiences, it somehow resonates with advertisers. So it’s, so long to a “sale,” and hello to a “sales event.” Car companies, in particular, have made adding “event” to a “sale” mandatory, it seems. And “sales event” has disseminated, propagated, and circulated until it is ubiquitous.

Most people probably don’t even notice it, just as they don’t notice most of the dumbed-down, simple-minded advertising messages that interrupt every aspect of their lives. But no one, I daresay, is so excited, so electrified, so hypnotized by a “sales event” as opposed to a mere “sale” that they rush right out and gleefully part with their money.

I could be wrong. I haven’t been in a client meeting in years. But one thing’s for sure—somebody is stupid when it comes to “sales events.” It could be me.

My Favorite Book, Part 2

 

Long, long ago in a year that had a nine and a seven in it, I was working at a small television station in Idaho. I was a master control switcher, directed newscasts and interview shows, put together local commercials, dubbed videotapes, and performed various other production tasks. One day a coworker, who worked downstairs and wrote local commercials, left for a job in radio.

“You have a degree in journalism,” the boss said. “You must know how to write. Do you want to write commercials?”

I said yes. But I knew nothing about advertising—how and why it worked, who did it, where, how, or any of that stuff. Learning that stuff seemed like a good idea, so I visited the library and started home-schooling myself.

One of the books I read was From Those Wonderful Folks Who Gave You Pearl Harbor, by an irreverent and accomplished New York City advertising agency copywriter (and later agency owner) named Jerry Della Femina.

He made the advertising agency business sound fun—and frustrating, challenging, annoying, and exasperating.

But mostly fun.

The book led me to pursue work as an advertising agency copywriter. I’ve been at it nearly forty years since; now part-time. While not as glamorous as Madison Avenue, working at agencies in Idaho, Nevada, and Utah has been much as Della Femina described it in that influential book I count among my favorites.

Besides all the fun, the job hasn’t involved much heavy lifting and seldom requires breaking a sweat. And, somehow, it led me to wonder—after writing advertising for some twenty years—if maybe I could write a poem.

Now look.

Lies They Tell Writers, Part 19: Writing is a Business.

Why write?

There are probably as many answers as there are writers.

At one end of the spectrum are those for whom it’s just a job—a way to make a living—a business. For those at the other end, it’s an art—self-expression—a creative outlet.

Those at the “business” end of the spectrum don’t always care what they write so long as it makes money. Those at the other end write whatever they want and don’t much care if they get paid for it. I have known both types and, at the extremes, each type seems equal in its disdain for the other.

As is usually the case in life, I believe there’s a middle ground. Getting paid for what you write is not necessarily “prostituting your art.” Nor is putting art before commerce always unrealistically idealistic.

In fact, I believe most writers, in their heart of hearts, are driven to some extent by idealism—the urge to create something beautiful, original, and self-satisfying. And they work to develop the skills that allow them to do so. If they can sell it, so much the better. So we search for that point somewhere toward the middle, where the scales balance.

Then again, what do I know?

For decades, I have worked at a different kind of writing—advertising copy—penning innumerable words whose sole purpose is persuading people to part with money. And getting paid to write it.

The other stuff I write these days—poems, short stories, novels, history, essays, magazine articles—I write because I want to, and it doesn’t pay nearly as well.

Call me crass, but even though I don’t write that stuff just to make money I wouldn’t mind it one bit if more people were willing to part with their money to read it.