I buy a lot of books for my Kindle, and occasionally write reviews of them on Amazon. I only review books I consider 5-star quality. I want readers to have sublime experiences. I see no good reason to dump on fellow authors.
When the Internet arrived big time in the 1990's, a gazillion hotshot kids — with zero experience in marketing and design — took over and set the protocols. These kids said to us geezers: "This is the new medium and the new paradigm. Your old rules are dead. We make the rules now. So take a hike, buster."
The advertiser? Starbucks. The product? An old-fashioned direct mail continuity program. The offer? The world's finest coffee shipped to you monthly. Both full-page ads in the Times and the Journal used the same response link: starbucks.com/subscription
Twenty years ago, a friend joined a cultural institution with a distinguished pedigree going back a century. My friend faithfully paid his dues for two decades and took advantage of the membership oh … maybe twice in all that time.
I was delighted when Dunkin' Donuts opened a branch around the corner from my house on raffish South Street. Dunkin' Donuts' challenge: create awareness and generate traffic.
You've bought the TV of your dreams — the 85" 4K Ultra High-Definition Sony Bravia online from Crutchfield in Charlottesville, Virginia. Your Visa card was hit for $19,999.00 — but shipping was free. A day later, you come home from the office to find your glorious new toy has arrived.
I came across this ad in The Wall Street Journal. The headline stopped me, because I am on the hunt for a casual jacket for traveling that-in a pinch-could be worn with a shirt and tie. Quite simply, "the world's best travel jacket" could not possibly sell for $149 with free shipping.
I am continually astonished at the number of people who throw money away on direct marketing projects and then whine that they did not work. A case in point: a free-standing insert (FSI) from University of South Carolina.
I love off-the-page ads. Richard Thalheimer (Sharper Image), Lillian Vernon and John Peterman — all launched great businesses with small ads offering a single product.
In 1984, Peggy and I launched a niche business — the newsletter and archive service on direct mail — Who's Mailing What! I still adore direct mail, while email bores the hell out of me.
When Peggy and I moved to Philly in 1992 to take over this publication, we worked crazy hours and had dizzying travel schedules. Around the corner on South Street was Chef's Market. It offered meats, groceries, baked items and luxury imports, as well as basics. Plus simply wonderful prepared foods.
Imagine buying your way onto the front page of The New York Times or The Wall Street Journal with a long editorial story about yourself or your company. The type style and look are identical to the real thing. The only difference: a small notice that says, "Sponsored Content."
I tweet thrice weekly to remind followers of a new column. The rules are clear: 140 characters max. Can include a link. Over the years, I have acquired 743 followers—a nice circle of colleagues and friends.
We are selling the house and moving to an apartment. I'll be 80 in August. After four flights of stairs 10 times a day, it's time. Thirty years ago at a bookstore closeout sale I bought a 1911 Edition of Encyclopaedia Britannica.
No matter what your profession, if you have an extensive file of retrievable, cutting-edge information that directly relates to your business and industry, you can lace your memos, emails, letters, reports, advertising copy, speeches, PowerPoint presentations and whitepapers with tidbits, factoids and statistics. This shows readers you know a lot, are on top of your job and are a force in your industry.
On Nov. 22, 1963, consultant Paul Goldberg—with a huge mailing for Consumer Reports going out across the country—was having lunch with two colleagues at the Café Carlyle in New York. The maître d' came over to the table to report that President Kennedy had been shot.
You're having a great time at a giant, noisy cocktail party, or looking at photos of your incredibly cute brand new nephew. At these moments, you don't welcome some intrusive jerk trying to sell you a new car—or anything else.
In Dec. 2014, I wrote a column titled "Confessions of a Museum Nut" describing my experiences having New York's Whitney Museum of American Art as a client. The relationship ended badly. The client came up with the idea this bastion of Pop/Op Art—and 21,000 other assorted works—would be a ducky place for young parents to bring their kids.