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Sig Rosenblum

Direct Marketing copy that works

HOW I BECAME A COPYWRITER--

FOR THE SECOND TIME

By Sig Rosenblum

One of the rules of good copy is: Don't talk about yourself. Don't tell the reader what you did, what you achieved, what you like or don't like. That's not important. What's important is what he likes, what she needs, what they want.

True. But some rules have to be broken. And I'm breaking that one now. Why? Because I think you want to know something about a man before you send him your hard-earned money. You may never meet this man face-to-face. And yet, he may be destined to play a vital part in your business success. You certainly want to be sure before you mail that check. And so...

I never wanted to be anything but a writer. And, if I say so myself, I became pretty good at planning and writing advertising campaigns that worked--before I strayed down the wrong road.

Awards? I could have papered my walls with them. Best of Industry Awards of the Direct Marketing Association. Sales Letter Round Table Awards of Sales Management Magazine. Awards from the Association of National Advertisers. And a lot more.

I got elected to top spots in the industry. The Association of Industrial Advertisers had me serve as a Director and Chairman of the Educational Committee. I was a speaker at Direct Mail Day. That kind of thing.

My programs started to show up in books and magazines. In fact, the famous Dartnell Direct Mail and Mail Order Handbook featured several of my campaigns. Campaigns that made a lot of money for my clients.

I had started in mail order--the most exciting and satisfying time in my life. And I wrote other things, of course, as I went on: Ads, catalogues, booklets, annual reports, speeches, publicity. I even edited several books. One was a best seller. You name it. I wrote it.

One thing led to another. And before I knew it, I owned an advertising agency on Madison Avenue and was doing my stuff for American Standard, Kodak, Ansco, Olin and a lot more. You're probably using some of their products right now. And the chances are, you've read lots of my copy without knowing it.

It was a hectic and financially rewarding life. But little by little, as the agency grew and prospered, as I added billings and staff, I also added something else. Can you guess what it was?

I added stress. Pressure. Frustration. It's an old story. And maybe it's like your own. I was running so fast, doing so much, trying so hard to "be somebody" that I forgot who I really was. Or what I really wanted.

I never wanted to own an agency. I never wanted to sit in meetings which seemed to go nowhere. I never wanted to wheel and deal with bankers, lawyers, accountants, employees.

I wanted to write. But I had forgotten that, somehow. And I was miserable. But, of course, I went on. You have to go on--they say--like the show in the song.

My wife and I went to Europe. We "did" the Caribbean from one end to the other. We bought a brownstone and restored it, living in Nineteenth Century splendor on four floors. Until we tired of climbing stairs. Then, we rented out the lovely garden apartment and struggled along with three floors, two parlors, six marble fireplaces.

We bought a Mercedes. And then, because I was being torn apart in New York, we purchased a farm and stone house (Circa 1815) in New Hampshire. I planned to relax, you see. But it was over 300 miles away. So when we went there for weekends, I spent most of my time recovering--pooped from the punishing drive. When I wasn't driving, I was puddle-jumping around the country in chartered planes.

No one should continue this kind of life unless he loves it. I have friends who do. One of them owns a top U.S. agency with a major interest in a British firm. He thrives on a seven-day week. Another is certainly one of the world's richest men. His deals and doings are preserved for posterity in Fortune, Time and The Wall Street Journal. For a while, the financial community seemed to talk of nothing else.

Another old schoolmate created a corporate fief and lived like a prince in a palace adorned with one of the great collections of sporting prints and oils.

But the point--at least, my point-- is this: I was not like these men. I was not ambitious in their sense of the word.

And so, I quit.

The employees got a bonus. The clients got a new agency. A grateful second-hand dealer got the furniture. And suddenly, another indispensable man--wasn't.

We sold the brownstone and spent a year in New Hampshire. I sat and stretched and snoozed before a beehive fireplace in a beamed kitchen. I listen to the cry of geese and saw the seasons crisp into winter white. For the first time in a long time, I was quiet and still.

I had no empire. But I was lucky--buying stocks at the bottom, selling at the top. And I was disentangled at last. Headed for a simpler life as a writer. What I had been once. What I wanted to be again.

So that's where I am. That's who I am. How about you?

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