You have to imagine what was going on in Rodale’s collective head at the time. This is a very conservative, east-Pennsylvania-based publisher — one of the largest mailers in the world. But their main fare are books on gardening, health, folk recipes, stuff like that. Heartland material. There’s probably a Rodale book on your shelf somewhere. Yours, or your grandmother’s.
Things are going along nicely for the company. And then, during some otherwise boring meeting, someone suggests they go after the sex market. The lawyers run from the room shrieking, but the accountants perk up. Lucrative market segment. Not everyone gardens, but everyone has sex. More or less, anyway.
They decide on the “less” idea, and create a book by interviewing several thousand men and women about their sex lives – what they like about it, what they wish was happening and isn’t, what their fantasies and fears are, hot tips from the more experienced folks. Then they top it off with plenty of serious advice from blushing doctors and experts. It’s a decent, responsible book. The kind you might give to your kid, in lieu of having that ‘facts of life’ talk.
Then, to celebrate this bold step of becoming sex-info publishers… they decide to hunt down a new copywriter. Someone who would bring a fresh approach to the job. Not the same old same old. Somebody… slightly… eccentric.
Me, for example.
At first, I refused to get involved with Rodale on any level. I’m too used to working with entrepreneurs, guys who don’t faint over gutsy copy. I’d had my fill of working with corporations as a rookie freelancer. Nasty stuff, corporations. People in suits and ties starting work at 8 in the morning. Meetings. Casual Fridays. Yuck.
I finally agreed to work with them when a very large check arrived in the mail. Plus a generous royalty plan. Funny how actual cash-in-hand can change even the most stubborn mind.
I went up against two other writers initially. The control — actually a very good piece — had been penned by Rodale’s top writer. Slightly spicy, hints of titillation here and there. A nice, responsible letter.
Screw that, I thought. I went for the jugular. Best sex of your life. Heartpounding intimacy. Pleasure triggers. Aphrodisiacs. Sex laboratories. Win the undying devotion of an exciting woman. More frequent, more intense, and more over-the-top orgasms.
And that’s just the first two pages.
I had to fight tooth and nail to get this piece mailed. At one point, I was screaming at upper level veeps. I wish someone had taken a video of that meeting: there’s all these honchos sitting around the conference table, stunned, and there’s my voice hollering from the little speakerphone. (I never travel to meet clients, and have never met any of these people face-to-face.) Priceless.
It took me nearly a month to convince them to mail the piece as I wrote it. I caused such a fuss that I was actually blacklisted — until the results came in. I slaughtered the control. In fact, I’d hit a nerve in the public… and this piece mailed for over 5 years, despite frequent attempts by other top writers to knock it off. Ka-ching.
But don’t read it and smile knowingly, just because I’ve shared the story behind the letter. No. Read this carefully… knowing that it went out to millions and millions of people just like you, a great number of whom took it seriously enough to buy.
It’s mostly bullets. Blind bullets — you get a taste of what the benefit is, but you don’t learn the exact secret. You have to get the book to find out.
There isn’t a haphazard sentence in the entire 8 pages, either. I carefully crafted each bullet, using my own knowledge as a sometimes frustrated man… my own history of what was important sexually to me… and a lot of insight from late-night talks with friends and lovers over the years. (I knew all those rap sessions in the dorm would pay off eventually. Did I mention I went to college at the height of the sexual revolution?)
Flip to any page in the letter. Read a bullet at random. I defy you to shrug after reading it. Every bullet carries the weight of trying to close the deal. The piece is loaded with power words and sensational verbs. I’m damned proud of this job.
Sadly, I was never again able to get them to mail another letter exactly as I wrote it. I buffaloed my way through this one because they had never dealt with a guy like me before. But afterward, they closed ranks. Every other piece I did for them was raped and pillaged by bean counters, lawyers, and department heads. Even designers and proofreaders snuck in changes. Appalling.
You know, I’m really a nice guy. Ask anyone. But I’ve occasionally had to adopt the persona of a hard-headed bully just to get people to do what’s right. It’s exhausting, because it doesn’t come naturally to me. I’d rather have fun while doing a job.
You should, too. But if you have to get nasty, do it. That’s the beauty of direct response — if you’re right, the results will back you up.
Click here to see “The Only Sex Book You’ll Ever Admit To Buying” ad.
(It will open in a new window or tab, so you can toggle between the ad and Carlton’s commentary below.)
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