John Hughes, WALL-E, and writing for a real person

I was a teenager at that magical time when John Hughes was doing his best work. I was 14 for “Sixteen Candles,” 15 for “The Breakfast Club,” 16 for “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off” and “Pretty in Pink,” and 17 for “Some Kind of Wonderful.” (Yeah, I’ll wait for you to check IMDB and calculate my age.) I felt like he was writing to me, for me, and about me.

Turns out, he had a secret weapon. Her name was Alison.

After a teenaged Alison’s angst-filled letter to John Hughes was met with a form letter as a response, she angrily called him out on it. He responded – really this time – and the result was two years of correspondence.

Though the letters tapered off, they did have a phone conversation years later:

“…he was glad I had gotten in touch and that he was proud of me for what I was doing with my life. He told me, again, how important my letters had been to him all those years ago, how he often used the argument ‘I’m doing this for Alison’ to justify decisions in meetings.”

This reminded me of a similar story about WALL-E and the girl who cried. It seemed a woman named Courtney would cry every time she watched the WALL-E trailer, so she videoed her reaction and posted it on YouTube. It found its way to the Pixar offices, and was passed around:

“Six months ago, when the first trailer for WALL-E came out, we were only halfway done with the film, and we weren’t exactly sure how we were going to get it done. We were exhausted. And then, one day, a movie showed up on YouTube showing a girl watching the trailer for WALL-E. And every time she watched it, she would cry on cue. When we saw that, we knew we were on the right track.”

The people at Pixar sent her multiple emails during production, and when WALL-E was finally released, flew her in for the wrap party. They even introduced her during the speech before the movie, and she stood up to thunderous applause.

These were real people with real emotions and real opinions engaging with products and those who created them. How much more powerful would it be to say, “I’m writing this for Alison” or, “How would Courtney react” than it would be to say, “What would this made-up persona think of this”? How much more interesting would it be to strike up a conversation with a living human being than it would be to hang stock photos on the wall and pretend you’re having a conversation with them?

Personas are fine. Not suggesting you toss their lovely, modelesque faces in the shredder. But what if you supplement the personas with someone you actually know? Are you more apt to focus and fight for content that will benefit your brother than you would some dude ripped from the archives at iStockPhoto? I’m going to guess you would.

Find the people you’re writing for. Ask for their opinions. Mention their names in meetings. Fight for them.

Ferris would have wanted it that way.

Measuring content strategy: Not a piece of cake

I was recently approached by a member of my team to think through a content issue. We are redesigning a major experience on our website, and the “sacred cows” were ripe for tipping. Did I wish to tip? Why yes, yes I did, thank you.

It’s a minor change. Minuscule. But I was positive it would make the user experience better. It would change the tone for this particular experience from robotic to something more human, and “human” is among our core values. It wouldn’t necessarily make the content easier to understand, but it would certainly bring it more in line with our brand.

But when I started looking into it, it was mentioned the change might not be worth the effort. It was reasoned this change would be a lot of work to ferret out every time it appeared on our sprawling website, and may require reengineering and redesigning.

In essence, even if it was the right thing to do, since there was no way to measure the effect of the new content in terms of conversions, it wasn’t really worth doing.

And this, my friends, made me sad.

At my company (and I’m sure at lots of other companies) changes in content, interaction design, and visual design are usually launched at the same time. Since we rarely launch a content change on its own, we are left to ponder how, exactly, do we measure for our content? It’s like baking an awesome cake and asking the diner, “So, how did that particular brand of flour affect your overall cake-eating experience?”

So what do we do?

I suggest we don’t measure content in terms of conversions as the only measurement. I propose we measure our content against ourselves. Our brand. What we want to accomplish. What we want our company to sound like. Feel like. Taste like (you know, if your company actually bakes cakes or something). We need to recognize content is the voice of our brand, and we have to take responsibility for what we say to our customers and how we say it. I want us to ask ourselves not, “Will this new content make us more money?” but, “Is this new content right for our brand?”

I understand we’re all looking for ways to cut costs, and since content isn’t as visible as visual design, it would be easy to dismiss it. After all, if we can’t always directly measure how much money we’re making off our content, why bother?

Because I think it matters now more than ever.

Just as companies are evaluating how every dollar is spent, so are our customers. Our websites are perhaps our only opportunity to show prospective customers exactly who we are and what we can offer them. Now is not the time to neglect content. Now is the time to make sure that every word is relevant, influential, and enticing. If a customer lands on a website and leaves because the content was irrelevant or unprofessional, we won’t have the chance to say, “Hey! Come back! That’s not really us. We just threw some stuff up there until we have money for good content.” That person is gone, baby. And we may never know it.

So fight the good fight at your company. I’m not sure how my situation will turn out, but I’ll let you know. In the meantime, I’m having a huge piece of cake.

Content strategy in the house

I’m back from the 2009 IA Summit and Content Strategy Consortium. I’ve caught up on sleep, put away my Graceland souvenirs, and watched “Twilight” (ah, shaddap…  you know you will too). I’ve had time to reflect on all the presentations, conversations, and ideas, peruse my notes, and crystallize what I plan to report back to my colleagues and readers (all 24 of the latter).

I was excited and flattered to be included in the first (as far as we knew) Content Strategy Consortium. There were 22 of us there, all committed to exploring and evangelizing the practice of content strategy. We talked and argued and presented and kvetched and ate and tired and rallied and talked and argued some more, and it was fabulous. So much passion and talent in that room; my content peeps are incredibly intelligent, articulate, and engaging.

Since the consortium, I’ve been asked several times, “What did you decide?” But really, I hadn’t expected to come away with a list of iron-clad decisions and rules for content strategy. It was a day of discussion and identifying questions and next steps.

For instance, what is the definition of content strategy? How are we different from information architecture? Are we different from information architecture? Is search engine optimization part of content strategy? Do we want to form an association? Do we want a whole content conference, or a track at an existing conference? Why are all these cookies shaped like ducks? (We figured that one out later.)

So, what did I come away with? I left knowing this is the start of something good. Content strategy has always existed on the web; it’s been handled by visual designers, copywriters, information architects, marketing, and engineers. Even having no content strategy is a strategy – just a really, really bad one. We’re at the forefront of the emergence and recognition of content strategy as a true discipline, with professionals dedicated to making sure everything that goes into a website has a purpose, fulfills the appropriate needs, engages the user, and works within a thoughtful user experience design plan.

I also came away with a great new network of people. These are seriously smart people, folks. (See Rachel Lovinger’s blog post for the list of attendees and their Twitter handles.) It was so much fun to get to know them and talk about content, user experience, and Ben & Jerry’s ice cream.

I want to thank Kristina Halvorson at Brain Traffic and Karen McGrane from Bond Art + Science for initiating this effort and getting us all together.

I’m really excited about the future content strategy. Are you?

The content strategist elevator pitch

I thought I’d follow up on this post where I was given the opportunity to share with a colleague what I do and how we can work together efficiently. It’s a beautiful gift, really. How often are we given that opportunity? Most of us (yeah, I’m including myself in the “most”) are often so wrapped up in our own disciplines we forget to inquire about what others bring to the table. And yet, how indignant we become when those others just don’t get what we do (um… guilty again).

So it’s great to have a little 90-second elevator pitch ready to go for those times when you’re invited to talk about what you do (or even when you’re not). It’s also handy to have a version of this speech at the ready when someone outside of your industry, like a family member, asks what you do for a living (see Brain Traffic’s awesome example of this).

Here’s my speech:

“My job is to help figure out what our content needs are based on business goals. I help determine if there’s old content we can repurpose, or if new content needs to be created. I also work on things like voice and tone, so we can make sure we’re using the appropriate language and creating the right feel for our audience. What works best for me is coming in at the beginning and working directly with the entire team to help shape the overall project. In my experience, what doesn’t work well is trying to determine content needs after everything’s been designed, and then trying to find, create, and place content into predetermined spaces.”

After my little speech, I then ask my own questions, including:

• What is your role?
• Have you ever worked with a content strategist before? How did it go?
• What works best for you?
• What do you think the business goals are for this project?
• Who is our audience?
• How would you like the content delivered?
• What would success look like?

Both the speech and the questions will vary depend on your own role, your audience, and the project.

Looking ahead, it’s my hope that when a content strategist walks into the project meeting, cries of, “Ah! The content strategist is here! We can begin now!” fill the air. Until then, it’s up to us to make sure our teams not only understand the value we bring to a project, but also to recognize their roles and help make it easy for all of us to work together.

Progress!

Yesterday I met with an interaction designer about a cool project. “You know,” he said, “you’re the first content strategist I’ve worked with since I’ve been here.” I found this a little odd since he’s been at the company for seven months now. Seven months and had yet to work with a content strategist? Huh.

But then he went on to say, “So, how do content strategists work? What would be best for you?”

Wow! This was interesting. He didn’t say, “Okay, here’s a space. I need a word for it” or, “Well, it’s all done, we just need to replace the lorem ipsum.” He invited me to explain what it is I do, and to suggest ways in which we could best work together. I gave him a two-minute overview of what tends to work and what doesn’t, and away we went.

Even though the whole situation wasn’t perfect — the project was well underway before I was brought in — it was really great to see content strategy being considered and explored.

It’s all about the little victories.

The hunting of the snark

I heard an interview on NPR a week or so ago with David Denby, author of the new book, Snark. My ears immediately perked up as I have, on occasion, been described as snarky (when I wasn’t being called a smart-ass). Denby maintained snark was undermining discourse, particularly on the Internet, where one can be anonymous.

Do I agree with Denby’s assessment? Depends on how one defines “snark.” In the interview, the etymology of snark is not discussed thoroughly, but I’ve always assumed it’s a portmanteau of “snide remark”  (and completely separate from Lewis Carroll’s mythical creation). But I think the definition goes further than just the resulting combination of those terms. For me, snark implies a sharp, observant intelligence (a definition I perhaps devised after being deemed snarky).

I love a well-crafted snarky comment. In the right hands, a quip blending astuteness, wit, and satire can crystallize the opinion of the writer and advance the conversation far better than a novel of dry, factual points. What I don’t appreciate is cruelty and banality delivered in a drive-by fashion with the goal to insult and harass. That’s not snark. That’s just being a mean-spirited snot.

Snark (good snark, not snot-snark) can call attention to the thing that no one wants to talk about without hitting listeners over the head. It’s a springboard for further conversation. Snark can beautifully illustrate the absurdities in our world without the need to ham-handedly state, “This is ridiculous.”  Snarkers stick around for the discussion. Snotsters run away. Snarkers can articulate what their comments mean in a larger context. Snotsters say, “YOU SUCK. DIAF.”

Humor and wit are necessary tools for social commentary. I do not wish for snark to go away, and I do not think it’s destroying intelligent conversation. However, I would like to see a more agreed-upon definition of the word, and call out spiteful and mean commentary for what it is: just spiteful and mean.

Champing Neandertals

I recently read the origin of the phrase, “chomping at the bit.” I always assumed it came from an impatient horse gnawing at the metal between its teeth, and I was correct about that. However, the word isn’t “chomping,” it’s “champing,” which refers to a similar but specific behavior of a horse.

Along the same lines, my college anthropology instructor taught us the correct pronunciation of “Neanderthal” is actually “NeanderTAL,” with a silent “h.”

My conundrum, then, is this: Do I say these kinds of words or phrases “correctly,” or do I say them the way that’s more commonly known? I have found when I say, “champing at the bit,” the listener challenges me, and I’m forced to explain in a curmudgeony way, “No, see, it’s really champing” and end up sounding like a pompous ass. But if I say it the incorrect way, am I then contributing to the DOWNFALL OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE?

What’s more desirable, being right or being understood?

Are we sorry?

In my position as content strategist,  I am sometimes tasked with writing error messages. They seem innocuous enough. Tell the user, “We’re sorry, there’s been an error,” and move on, right?

Not so fast.

It seems natural to start the error message with “Sorry.” In conversational speech, we use it all the time. “I’m sorry?” when we didn’t catch what the other person said. “I’m sorry…” when we need to reach around someone at the grocery store. “I’m sorry,” to convey sympathy for another’s misfortune. And, of course, “I’m sorry,” to apologize for a misguided deed.

Though we have morphed “I’m sorry” from an admittance of guilt and expression of remorse to more of a synonym for “excuse me,” “I’m sorry” still holds a primary space in our language as an apology. How many times have you responded, “Wow, I’m sorry,” to a tale of woe, only to be met with, “It’s okay, it’s not your fault”? Regardless of the intent, “I’m sorry” seems to be best recognized as an apology and acknowledgment of responsibility.

With this in mind, let’s return to our error message assignment. When should we apologize? We believe it comes down to this:

We apologize when a situation on our end – intentional or unintentional – prevents the user from moving forward or completing an action.

Server down? We’re sorry. A bug? We’re sorry. Landshark? We’re sorry. In these cases, the user had absolutely nothing to do with any of these situations, and we will apologize for the inconvenience.

So then, in what situations would we withhold an apology? If a user needs to register before completing an action, we don’t apologize. If a user misses a required element on a form and cannot move forward, we don’t apologize.  If a user intentionally or unintentionally violates our policies, we don’t apologize. In these cases, it is the user’s action that causes the error, and we don’t apologize; we inform and politely guide the user to the correct action. It doesn’t mean we don’t care about the user’s plight, but we don’t claim responsibility for it.

It sounds simple, but it gets tricky. “Was the IA too difficult, and therefore, our fault?”  “Did we not message this policy correctly, and therefore, our fault?” “Should we have warned them the candygram was actually a landshark, and therefore, our fault?” You could drive yourself crazy doing this, so keep it simple. If the IA is bad, revisit and fix it later, but don’t apologize for it now.

And because this clip played repeatedly in my head as I wrote this, I now give you a moment of cinematic triumph:

Faithfully, Obama

I just knew there would be a slew of linguists lined up to analyze Obama’s performance today, and y’all didn’t disappoint.

Especially of note was the flub in the oath, specifically, the placement of “faithfully.”

Okay, fine. Someone screwed up. I personally couldn’t tell if it was Obama or Chief Justice Roberts who stumbled, so I’ll let the people who know what they’re talking about figure it out for me:

From Literal Minded:
Faithfully Execute Faithfully the Office of President of the United States Faithfully

From the Linguists Graduate Student Association:
Constitution vs. Cooperation. The case of syntax and Oath of Office.

From Language Log:
Adverbial placement in the oath flub

Huh. I would really like to hear some Journey now. Go figure.

Funnily enough…

During the holidays, Rian mentioned he was delaying his viewing of “A Charlie Brown Christmas” in favor of “The Terminator.” I told him that wasn’t very Christmassy. He said I was making up words.

Of course I was.

“Christmassy” is not something you’ll find in the dictionary (although my spell check doesn’t seem to have a problem with it). And though he pointed out “Christmassy” was a made-up word, he didn’t ask me what it meant. It was evident by the construction of the word I meant “The Terminator” did not have the qualities one would associate with Christmas (although he tried really, really hard to prove it does. He failed).

I’m okay with made-up words. I love playful language. “Christmassy” is, in fact, a word my sisters and I use often around the holidays when one of us is being particularly mean-spirited or negative (“You’re not being very CHRISTMASSY!”). It’s a funny word. It makes us laugh.

We never claimed it was a real word. But how much more fun is it to say, “You’re not being Christmassy” than it is to say, “You’re not exhibiting the kind of behavior one would associate with Christmas”? How much more descriptive is it to say “ginormous” than it is to say “both gigantic and enormous”? Isn’t the word “galumphing” better than “galloping triumphantly” (thank you, Lewis Carroll)? And if you are doing something in a funny way, I submit you are, in fact, doing it “funnily.”

This creative wordplay is different than using non-words such as “irregardless.” The distinction is in the intent of the speaker. In the first case, someone is constructing a new word using existing and familiar patterns to create a more descriptive visual. In the second case, the person just doesn’t know any better and should be smacked. When one introduces a new word, it’s best to come from a place of knowledge rather than a place of ignorance.

And now that I’ve reached the bottom of this post, I found this subject was discussed quite eloquently and thoroughly in the Boston Globe by Erin McKean. Instead of just deleting this post in disgust, I’ll just leave it up here as a hearty head nod in agreement.

Yeah. What Erin said.