Ink on the Soul: The Psyche of a Copywriter

Okay, so where am I?

I sitting in my hotel room staring at a keyboard that doesn’t move and won’t move as a wrestle with my inadequacies that only copy can deliver to an imperfect mind. It both frightening and paralyzing. I have four books in print, countless commercials still on air, and a straight from Korean theater to DVD movie I’ve penned and yet, one client shakes her head at some ad copy and I freeze up.

But why?

Digging around the mind of anyone in this odd cricket-herd we call advertising and marketing is a virtuous way to see some bizarre and dreadful things. So, to poke a manicured finger into the hornet’s nest that is your own professional essence is less the subject of a quirky column and more the act of a dodgy madcap.

Nevertheless, the psychosomatic makeup of the regular Joe copywriter comprises the kind of struggle, hallucination, and outright hysteria that coerces us to peel away the aluminum foil helmet and renders the delirious truth. (I’ll warn you though, this column contains a daring amount of wild generality and no trivial degree of hypocrisy).

In most copywriters there exists an abnormal sense of privilege. Not that we demand a powder blue dressing room filled with green M&Ms, pricey writing instruments, and precisely-chilled Perrier, but more a obligation to be listened to. The very nature of the job is to be, not the loudest voice, but the most gripping – to say something predictable and common in a way that feels extraordinary and compulsory. How often have you seen a copywriter punctured by a message that, within the promotional vortex, whines timidly to be noticed?

We’re also guilty of a festering exasperation, a moral disrespect for those who believe that anyone with fingers, eyes and direct access to ink or Microsoft Word is capable of writing serious prose. And, we see these characters everywhere, even prowling in the shadows of our finest and most fruitful client relationships.

A sentiment that our contribution isn’t quite as valued by some as we know it should be is perhaps the energy fueling another common apprehension: a compulsive, crippling, infuriating conscientiousness. Leave some copywriters alone with a flawlessly erected headline and they will rip it to shreds, splattering the walls with a spray of progressively unsatisfying substitutes. I’ve met many a writer chase down a final draft on its way out of the door, paralyzed by a fear that there may be not enough, or indeed too many, commas.

Your typical, well-fed copywriter is also unsettlingly contented with their own professional schizophrenia. We are personas with endless voices and takes clattering around in our minds, with the aptitude to debate for, and against, any exact point with identical persuasion. And yet, while we’re capable of nurturing all kinds of dissimilar voices, we never truly release our own. Even in that 2200-word manual for a digital camera, our own unique style clicks quietly around the onscreen shutter speed menu.

We are, I suppose, beasts of inspiration trussed inescapably to authenticity. We define success by artistic genius, knowing ultimately it is only properly defined by commercial performance. And amongst all this, we bungee jump in and out of an offbeat state of absorption – spellbound by a brief about insect repellant, or chewing gum, or coffee drinks all the time knowing that none of it really exists. Writing, like advertising, is the art of sculpting fog.

That’s just a few of the phobias and idiosyncrasies I can identify in myself and other writers with whom I’ve interacted. There are some of us who share these, just as there are some with no recognition at all, for this somewhat lumbering picture of our vocation. There are some, I’m quite sure, with an even more complex relationship with the job.

Whether it’s the foundation of abnormality that the job that sends our way, or whether it’s our inherent foibles that direct us to this weird working life, I’m unsure.

Ink on the page, ink on our hands and, without doubt, ink on the soul.


AD OF THE WEEK/MONTH/WHATEVER
The Olivetti girl


Advertising legend George Lois crafted the “Olivetti girl” ad for electric Olivetti typewriter in the mid 1960s. But just who is the Olivetti girl? (From the George Lois website:)

WE HAD TO MAKE THE OLIVETTI TYPEWRITER FAMOUS FOR SECRETARIES TO ACCEPT IT.

Olivetti, the great ltalian typewriter, had been advertised in America with a primary emphasis on the beauty of its design. Among industrial design cognoscenti, Olivetti was always synonymous with beauty, but most people wouldn’t recognize good design if they tripped over it. Sales of Olivetti’s splendid line of electric typewriters had gone stagnant while mighty IBM had the market locked up. IBM was so dominant that purchasing agents of large corporations would rarely even consider buying another brand. We had to breakthrough the IBM barrier. To plot our strategy, Jim Callaway interviewed many key buyers and found that while they regarded Olivetti as a top-notch typewriter, their hands were tied. Secretaries, they explained to Jim, felt that IBM gave them status. So we conceived the Olivetti Girl, who would out-status everyone. We told secretaries that Olivetti was the typewriter to type on. And we were putting across a message that was being seen by her boss, her girl friends, and all those reluctant purchasing agents. We produced six ads and nine TV spots that showed the Olivetti Girl as the star performer in her office, as the secretary who typed faster, neater, sharper, as the girl most I likely to succeed. (One of our headlines summed it up: “When you want to do something right, give it to the Olivetti Girl!”) In a few weeks, brand awareness of Olivetti leaped, and sales of Olivetti typewriters went through the roof.

THE NATIONAL ORGANIZATION FOR WOMEN VS. BROADWAY JOE NAMATH

Believe it or not, these ads were the genesis of the first #TimesUp movement.  The Olivetti campaign burst on the scene in 1972, just as the National Organization for Women was flexing its muscles. NOW attacked the campaign for stereotyping women as underlings (they were furious that only men were shown as bosses while only women were shown as secretaries), and they called me a male chauvinist pig.

They picketed the Olivetti building on Park Avenue and sent hecklers up to my office to un-n-n-nerve me. Something had to be done. Who can fight a woman’s fury? I capitulated. I would do an ad and a TV spot, with a woman executive giving orders to a male secretary. I cast an actual woman exec (not an actress) as the boss. I cast Jets great Joe Namath as the secretary (because he could type).

Lois invited the women of NOW to view the spot, but when they saw the boss ask her secretary for a date at the conclusion of the spot, they were aghast. (You do very good work, Joseph. By the way, what are you doing for dinner tonight?) “It’s an old story,” I said. “The boss always tries to make the secretary.” They cursed Lois, walked out, and never bothered that male chauvinist pig again.

From “Rebel Secretaries,” Time magazine, March 20, 1972:

“This infuriated a group of New York City secretaries, backed by members of the National Organization of Women, a feminist organization, which picketed Olivetti’s headquarters. The 2,000,000 U.S. secretaries —nearly all women, many underutilized and underpaid—would seem to be ideal recruits for Women’s Liberation. Yet few so far have joined the cause. Nevertheless, with new pages being turned almost everywhere else, some are being flipped over in shorthand notebooks too.

Last week, responding to complaints from employees, the U.S. State Department ordered its executives to stop treating secretaries as “char help,” to show a little more diplomacy toward them and to encourage independent secretarial decision making.”