Monthly Archives: April 2012

You are doing it wrong

No, not you. I can’t even see you. I have no idea what you’re doing. I’m sure whatever it is . . . *squints at the screen* . . . is just fine. Probably.

No, I’m talking about retailers. More specifically, their marketing departments. This has been on my mind because of the recent disclosure by Google that they are now going to stalk all our internet activity across all platforms and somehow, I don’t know, smush it all together. So they can do a better job of stalking us.

Well, all I can say is, it’s about damn time. Because so far, efforts have been pitiful at best. Retailers need to pay attention and ramp up their efforts as well.

You want examples? You’re in luck. I have examples [and in future, be careful what you wish for when you notice I haven’t posted in a while].

Last Christmas — not the one we just had, the one sixteen months ago — I bought my son some clothes. Online, at Macy’s. And for the next eight months, every other week, I got an email from Macy’s telling me about the biggest newest sale they were having. On men’s clothes. This, in spite of the fact that my “real name” is not one of those names anyone would ever mistake for a man’s name. Really.

At the same time, I also bought an Italian cookbook over at Amazon to give as a gift. Last week, way more than a year later, I got yet another monthly email from Amazon telling me about yet another new release in Italian cookbooks.

Okay, first of all, retailers should just assume anything purchased in December — maybe even late November because, incomprehensibly, some people don’t wait until the last minute to shop — is a gift. And not an item of lifelong personal interest. Second, how many Italian cookbooks do they imagine one person needs? If they were smart, they’d think, hey, this customer likes to cook! and offer French or Thai or Indian cookbooks. Or maybe send ads about unique kitchen utensils. Or unusual spice collections. But no. Every month I get an email about the latest Italian cookbook.

Then there was the rental car company that stalked me with big yellow pop-up ads for four months. Thanks for the reminder that your rates were the highest of all the companies I researched. Thanks for reminding me, every day for four months, of a particularly stressful time in my life when my daughter’s car needed expensive repairs and we decided to sell it instead (to a guy who loves to fix cars) but then we had to rent a car at the last minute so she could drive back to New Orleans in relative safety. I was trying to block all that from my memory, thankyouverymuch. You can be sure I’ll remember you next time I need to rent a car.

And last fall, when my son mentioned he was going to an ECU football game and I later wondered who they were playing, so I went to the ECU website because I figured that was the fastest way of answering that question. Yeah, right. Thanks ECU, for stalking me with ads for a few months, telling me what a great educational experience you offer. But it just so happens I’ve already paid you way more money than any one entity truly deserves, regardless of my son’s Econ degree. Thanks for the reminder about that parent loan I’m still paying off.

Oh, and thank you Domino’s for all your advertising stalkery after I had a momentary lapse in judgment and self-control and ordered a pizza from you online. Obviously, you don’t know that my body has issues with gluten. Eating pizza, even a thin crust pizza that has really thin gluten, is a really bad idea. Really. But hey, thanks for reminding me over and over and over again what an idiot I am and just how awful I felt afterward.

And then there’s the women’s clothing store where I bought a couple things for myself in early December. Things I really liked. A lot. Happy birthday to me! And I’d shop there again. Maybe next December, on my next birthday. Except . . . I’m starting to fucking hate you because you’ve sent me an email EVERY SINGLE DAY since then, telling me about the latest INCREDIBLE SALE you’re having. Every. Damn. Day. That reeks of desperation. What are you thinking? I don’t even read them anymore before I hit the delete button.

And then there’s all the stuff I click on and look at on the internet that’s a result of research for writing. Or idle curiosity. Or boredom. Someone mentions a pretty necklace or a cute pair of shoes, I go look. I’m not shopping, for godsakes. I hate shoes and most jewelry makes me twitch. I’m procras– um, I’m trying (and failing) to see the attraction.

Or maybe someone used an obscure word in an article and suddenly I’m not sure I remember the precise meaning, given the way it was used (glaringly). So I google it. Because, as a writer, precise meaning is important to me (even if it isn’t to others). That does not mean I want to see six months of ads for the stupid thing.

Yes, I know, I could get rid of much of this nonsense by erasing my history or deleting my cookies or opting out of email. But I don’t want to. As irritating as it is, it’s fascinating to watch companies getting it so very wrong. Like an epic train wreck of grossly ineffective high-tech stalkery.

So I’m delighted and cautiously optimistic about Google’s intention to pay closer attention. I hope they’ll realize that I’m interested in damn near everything. And that they won’t start limiting my searches to things I’ve already seen. Maybe they’ll even realize that until they start asking me what I think about the things I’ve seen, the meaning of a website click is not necessarily what they have so far assumed it to be.

Sooner or later, someone is going to figure out how to do it right. And that doing it right means no restrictions. No pre-determined preferences. No narrowing of boundaries. Because my curiosity and capacity for procras– um, thirst for knowledge are limitless and far more diverse than any search engine or marketing department could ever imagine.

In fact, I’m waiting for the search engine that knows me so well, they’ve discovered I’m a writer. Perhaps they’ll contact me to say, “We noticed that last month you were searching for articles about undetectable fatal poisons — frankly we’re a bit disturbed by that, but we know you’re a writer so we’re trying to stay calm and not contact the authorities, but still, please don’t ever invite us over for lunch — and thought you might be interested to know there have been two new articles on that topic published since then and here are the links.” Because that would be awesome. Also, helpful.

And maybe, eventually, some company will send me an email saying, “Hey, we noticed you’re a writer! We bought your book and read it and loved it so much, we bought copies for all of our employees and our mom too!”

I’m telling you, THAT company will have gained a loyal customer for life. I don’t even care if all they sell are Italian cookbooks.


Filed under just for fun, marketing

New ways to procrastinate

Friend and fellow writer Ann Marie Gamble has included me in one of those irritating flattering online challenges with nearly incomprehensible arbitrary entertaining rules that encourage you to post a portion of your work-in-progress on your blog so others can ridicule admire your deathless prose.

As I understand it:

Go to page 77 of your manuscript

Skip the first 7 lines

Copy and post the next 7 lines, no editing allowed

Tag 7 other writers to do the same

My gut reaction was not just “No” but “Hell no.” That particular portion of this manuscript hasn’t been touched since I first wrote it, um, well, a long time ago. It’s on the list of sections that still need heavy editing. Or deleting. Or purging by fire.

But then I decided maybe I was being a bit too sensible insecure ornery. I mean, it’s not like I’ve never posted unedited crap writing on my blog. Like, every time I post. Sigh.

So here it is:

Disgusted with himself for getting so involved in his own thoughts, JT’s response was less than gracious. “Be glad you still have enough blood circulating to leave a mark, darlin’. A few feet in the other direction and you’d be headed for the hospital right about now.” If not the morgue, he thought angrily.

“Oh please, that car didn’t even come close to hitting me.”

“My point exactly, and you’re welcome.”

But since I’m still feeling a bit sensible insecure ornery, I’m not going to tag seven other writers to do this. And honestly, if I did, I’d be likely to tag seven writers who: a) don’t know me and would ignore the challenge, b) are grumpy and humourless and wouldn’t participate, or c) are way too busy writing to indulge in this kind of nonsense fun and games. Because someone has to be sensible insecure ornery enough to put a stop to this irritating time suck flattering request to share unedited crap shining samples of fiction.

Instead, since most of you reading this are readers and not writers, I challenge you to find a book you truly enjoyed and go to page 77 and skip the first 7 lines and select the next 7 lines and paste them into a comment. Giving proper attribution, of course. Really. Because I suspect that seven random lines, out of context, even from a really good book that you loved, are going to sound like crap kind of silly.

And that will cheer me right up. Or, you know, depress the hell out of me if they don’t. One of those.


Filed under just for fun