Features and Benefits, Telling and Showing

It’s not often that catalog copy blows me away—and let’s face it, it’s not supposed to. It’s supposed to persuade you to pull out your credit card and make a purchase. But the copy for the latest Lands’ End catalog impressed me by exemplifying how effectively and easily copy can balance features and benefits.

Most catalog and online copy seems to emphasize product features: The dress has an empire waist; the table is made of kiln-dried wood; the drill has 195 inch-pounds of torque. That’s certainly important information. And if the consumer is somewhat knowledgeable about the product category, that along with the imagery may be enough info to close the sale.

But let’s say the consumer doesn't know whether an empire waistline best suits her figure, or that kiln-dried wood is less likely to warp and shrink than other wood, or just how much torque she needs for the projects she has in mind (clearly I have no idea about how much torque is the right amount of torque, which is why I’m being so vague here).

This is where the copy needs to focus on the benefits. Instead of simply stating “This dress has an empire waist,” you could show the benefit of said feature by writing something like “The flattering empire waist helps elongate the figure.” Ah, says the 5'2" shopper to herself, that dress will make me look taller and thinner—I’m sold.

Just as important, the 5'11" shopper says to herself, That schmatte will make me look like a beanpole; now I know to avoid empire waists altogether. Thank you, Ms. Copywriter. Why is preventing this sale just as important as closing the previous sale? Because it saves your company from having to accept a return for a product the shopper ordered and hated or, worse, losing that customer altogether because of her disappointment with the product.

(And yes, I’m aware no one in the history of humanity has ever thought or uttered the phrase “Thank you, Ms. Copywriter,” but a copywriter can dream, can’t she?)

Here are a few examples of how Lands’ End explains benefits in the context of features to drive a sale:

Princess seams sweep from the bodice into diagonal welt pockets that add a slimming element to the skirt. And the ponté fabric is structured yet soft. So it even smooths lumps and bumps. (Not that you have any.) I couldn’t tell you what a princess seam is, but who cares: It'll help me look slimmer, which is what I really need to know.

[The tee-shirts’] all-cotton knit fabric has ultra-fine ribs. Barely visible to the naked eye, those ribs give these tees exactly the right amount of body and shape. So they’re never clingy, never sheer, never skimpy. So a ribbed shirt will hold its shape and won't cling to my bra straps or nipples? Well, that’s definitely worth shelling out a few bucks more for.

And that’s just the sku/product copy. The Lands’ End catalog also judiciously uses callouts that even more explicitly connect the feature to the benefit. For instance: What makes piqué cool? The fabric has thousands of tiny vents. Which makes our Piqué Polo sort of like wearable air conditioning. As someone who breaks into a sweat as soon as the temps climb into the 60s (sadly, I’m not exaggerating), I’m dog-earring every page of the catalog with items made of piqué.

Granted, with products that are nonessential or purely decorative, it can be tougher to isolate the benefits. But every product has ’em. 

Take a 12" blue glass vase. Because it’s glass, it would make a great weapon for clobbering a burglar should your life come to resemble a Chuck Jones cartoon. But most retailers, alas, would shy away from that sort of benefit. So for this sort of product I might write that it will add color and height to a tablescape, for instance, or will brighten a room even when flowers are in short supply.

Okay, it’s not brilliant. But it’s better than one of my pet peeves, which I come across all the time: the loading up of adjectives in lieu of substance. Don’t tell me that the vase is “striking, eye-catching, and lovely”—there’s a photo, and I’ll be the judge of whether the vase in it is indeed any or all of those things.

Novice fiction writers are constantly admonished to “show, not tell.” You could say that emphasizing features is telling, while explaining benefits is showing. Contrary to what those writing teachers say, you can’t avoid telling altogether in a work of fiction; sometimes you have to move things along with a simple "For two months the fugitives remained absent" (Wuthering Heights) or "she said." But you do often need to show as a way to get the reader/consumer to buy what you’re telling and selling, whether it’s the prowess of a protagonist or the suitability of a vase. 

Yays and Nays of the Fortnight

Not having worked in retail for a couple of decades, I forgot exactly how frenzied the lead-up to Christmas can be. And though my primary client is an online merchant rather than a bricks-and-mortar store, and I write copy rather than wait on customers, “frenzied” did indeed describe the weeks after Thanksgiving for me, workwise.

But now that we’ve reached the calm after the storm, I’ve been able to sort through my backlog of catalogs for some belated yays and nays.

* The headline of every single copy block for every single product in Hammacher-Schlemmer’s Last Minute [sic] Gift 2011 catalog begins with “the”: “The Best Inflatable Bed,” “The Marshmallow Shooter,” “The iPad Leather Satchel.” The result is a cumulative, subtle but effective reinforcement of the primacy of Hammacher’s products. Hammacher doesn’t sell any old Turkish shower wraps; it sells The Turkish Shower Wrap; ditto The Indoor Barking Dog Deterrent, The Waterproof Gloves and Socks, The Plantar Fasciitis Orthotic Sandal…

The brilliance of this stylistic decision is undermined, though, by another choice. None of the compound adjectives, starting with “last-minute” on the cover, are hyphenated in the display copy. This results in headlines such as “The Space Saving 36 Pair Shoe Rack,” “The Irregular Heart Beat Detecting Blood Pressure Monitor,” “The Hands Free Over Ear Book Light.” Combine that with the use of all caps, and you’ve got some product headlines that you really have to stop for a second to process. Perhaps that’s the point: In the absence of hero photos or lifestyle spreads (every page in the catalog is designed around the same basic grid), maybe the lack of hyphens is meant to act as speed bumps to keep readers from whipping through the pages too quickly.  

Then again, it could just end up frustrating readers well before they hit the halfway mark, leading them to chuck the catalog aside and reach for, say, the latest Brookstone catalog instead.

* The Holiday 2011 catalog from CardsDirect is one of the best website traffic drivers I’ve seen in a long time. To play up what is clearly the company's strong suit, customization, the opening spread points out the myriad personalization options available: inside image, front and inside message, signature, logo, even paper stock.

The following spread is nearly as good. “This is our phone number: 866.700.5030. It’s toll free. We thought we’d start with that, so you’d know we’re not just a website. We’re a company that makes sending custom cards simple. We offer over 4,000 products, but don’t let that sound overwhelming. The reality is we have the quality you want, the prices you need, amazing designs, and customer service that makes it easy.” If you don’t think that’s brilliant, I’d love to learn why.

(What’s not so brilliant, in my opinion, is the relatively small, widely leaded font, which floats among a huge amount of white space. I think bumping up the type a bit would have encouraged more people to actually read this killer graf without diminishing the visual impact. And countdown to a wonderfully scathing comment from Josh Pincus Is Crying in five, four, three…)

* I love that commercial in which a woman and her fiancé opt to spend money on rock-climbing gear rather than a diamond ring. The music’s great, the script is clever, and the images are gorgeous. I’ve seen it at least a dozen times on TV and, just yesterday, in a movie theater. But damn if I can ever remember what it’s for. (I Googled it using “commercial woman climbing rock.”) And no matter how artistically/aesthetically brilliant it is, if it doesn’t make people think fondly on your brand or take the action you want them to take, it fails as a marketing effort. I like being reminded of this from time to time, as it’s very easy to let a desire to be clever detract from the task at hand.


The image at the top is the front cover of the holiday Dean & Deluca catalog. With the lack of cover lines, the gourmet food retailer is assuming that recipients already know what it sells, and one could argue that the lack of a call to action fails to spur readers to open up. But the image is so engaging that this may be a time where rules were meant to be broken. In any case, I like it, and since this is my blog, at the top it goes!  

Of Puppies and Catalog Copy

Think of holiday catalogs as a kennel worth of puppies yapping and bouncing and nipping for attention. They’re all so cute, how do you decide which one to take home with you?

In any kennel or litter, a few pups will stand out. One or two may grab your attention for the wrong reasons: too aggressive, or too passive. But usually another few will catch your eye not because they’re the most adorable but because they’re the most engaging. These are the ones that take an interest in the visitors in their midst, sniffing their shoes perhaps, or looking up and cocking their head in an invitation to play. These puppies are inevitably the first to find themselves new homes.

It’s the same with the dozens of catalogs that crowd our mailboxes this time of year. The gorgeous covers will no doubt entice you to open them up, but without copy that engages you, chances are good that they’ll be relegated to the “look through them later” pile—and by the time later comes, you may well have already completed your holiday shopping.

The Cath Kidston Christmas Gift Guide 2011 is one such catalog. Cath Kidston is a British purveyor of what some might consider quintessentially British fabrics, accessories, bags, and the like. During the past few years the company has expanded to the States, mailing a catalog with U.S. pricing, setting up a U.S. website, and establishing a Stateside call center. But the catalog lacks an engaging personality to complement its cute merchandise. And let’s face it, there’s no shortage of cute merchandise this time (or any other time) of year.

It’s bad enough that the product copy is sparse: “Tea rose white key fob (imported)” is a typical description. Where is it imported from: the U.K., China, Timbuktu? What’s it made of? How large is it? Yes, a picture’s worth a thousand words, but when the photo is a small silhouette of a product providing no sense of scale or hint as to its construction, those aren’t the right thousand words.

More damning is that the catalog assumes the reader knows what Cath Kidston stands for. There are plenty of Anglophiles among American consumers. Photos playing up the brand’s unique heritage and aesthetic, showing the floral-patterned mugs and canisters on the shelves of an English country kitchen, say, or a family wearing the brightly colored Wellingtons while carting a tree through a quintessentially English countryside could easily have replaced the full-page hero shots of various products placed under a Christmas tree while telling a story more compelling than “these make nice gifts.”

And if ever a catalog cried out for a founder’s letter and a few paragraphs explaining what makes the brand unique, it’s this one. The inside front cover does have an introduction, but it’s tentative and singularly lacking in personality: “You’ll find this guide packed with all our favourite products just perfect for giving. We’re known for our reworking of British country house style, so if you’re looking for gifts with a playful twist on vintage prints, we’ve got everything from stationery to nightwear.” 

That’s pretty much it. Bear in mind that Cath Kidston's prints, at first glance, look like the sort of dainty flowers and colorful dots to be found on myriad other products. How do the Cath Kidston patterns differ from the others? Are the items handcrafted? That red umbrella with the white dots on page 26 that costs $46—is there something particularly British or otherwise special about it, or should I just pick up a similar one from Amazon.com for less?

I understand the realities of keeping page counts down to improve margins, but surely the spreads dedicated to the oilcloth duffels and totes could have included a clever sentence or two about how oilcloth is a practical go-to material for bags in the U.K. because of the changeable weather. This would highlight the unique benefits of one of the bags’ distinguishing features as well as reinforce their British heritage. Likewise, the spread of pajamas and slippers could have called out how especially cozy they are, so important in drafty British country homes that often lack central heating.

There are plenty of stories to tell about these products, stories that could be told succinctly via words and lifestyle photos. But in its catalog, Cath Kidston hangs back, like a shy puppy relying solely on its good looks to get adopted. That might work if there were no other puppies in the kennel or catalogs in the mailbox, but such isn’t the case.

Let’s compare to another catalog I received the same time that the Cath Kidston book landed in my mailbox: the Vosges Haut Chocolat Holiday 2011 edition. This catalog has a lengthy founder’s letter that takes up most of page 4. I’d have made this the inside front cover and edited it a bit to bump up the type font, but let’s not quibble. This letter explains, in loving detail, what distinguishes Vosges from the numerous other chocolate catalogers vying for my money: “Chocolate and curry?! The doubting begins. After just a single bite, one is beckoned to the present moment and in place of doubtful questioning or even thoughts of disgust, the face changes from awe to pleasure. It is in this place that one becomes open to experiencing new ideas through chocolate…” The letter goes on to detail the unexpected inspirations of the collections within the catalog: Italian seasonings, Rastafarians, the African American influence on American music, aboriginal Australians. Right there I’m intrigued enough to want to read through the catalog to discover what sort of chocolates could possibly have resulted from the founder’s musings on African music.

Opposite this letter is a collage of photos showing the candy being made. The photography is gorgeous, but just as important, it tells a story, aided by captions describing the creative process.    

The product copy throughout emphasizes just what makes these candies so unusual, often with an impressive economy of words. A description of the Budapest truffle, for example, could have simply read “Dark chocolate with paprika”—factual but not all that alluring. “Bright and sweet Hungarian paprika warms dark chocolate,” however, piques the curiosity while setting the salivary glands working.

My daughter doesn’t really like chocolate, but even she was enticed by the Vosges catalog and pored over the photos and the descriptions. By the same token, my husband’s brother is not a dog lover. But when he met our dog several years ago, he was so taken by his mellow nature and overall sweetness that he soon found himself not only petting the dog but even allowed Augie to sit in his lap. 

Granted, Augie is pretty darn adorable (see below). But it was his personality that won over my brother-in-law—just as the Vosges catalog’s creative won over my daughter, and me. 

Yays and Nays of the Week

* By the time I get to Manhattan’s Grand Central Station on Monday mornings, I’ve already been up since 5 a.m. and suffered through a 12-minute car ride, a 20-minute bus ride, and an 85-minute train ride—and I still have two subway rides to go before I arrive at my office. So it takes a lot to bring a smile to my face as I trudge through the station to get to the platform for the 42^nd Street Shuttle. But smile I did last Monday, because part of the platform was gussied up like a winter wonderland, complete with pillars wrapped to resemble candy canes and a sleigh for Santa.

It was part of a tie-in for the Aardman film Arthur Christmas, and it certainly attracted attention not only from me but from many other harried commuters. Later in the day—well after rush hour, thankfully!—Santa himself was scheduled to visit for photo ops with kids and take their wish-list request.

The choice of that particular subway stop for the promotion was no doubt necessitated in part because of the physical layout: On most other platforms it  would be difficult if not impossible to create that sort of pop-up without impeding the flow of traffic. But as a bonus, the 42nd Street Shuttle, according to what little info I could glean, has the highest proportion of tourists among the straphangers, giving the promotion exposure beyond New York commuters.

Best of all, in a corridor just outside the entry turnstiles, Arthur Christmas had another area festooned with banners. This one was set up to accept contributions for Toys for Tots, a nonprofit organization that aims to provide Christmas gifts for needy youngsters. 

While researching a recent article about cause marketing, I spoke with Mike Swenson, president, PR/cause group of Kansas City, MO-based Barkley. He emphasized how important it was, when selecting a charitable group or cause to work with, to “really take time to recognize the right cause and not just jump in to what would be the most obvious.” Sometimes, though, the obvious choice really is the one that best reflects the company's values, he added.  

Toys for Tots is a wonderful cause that happens to tie in perfectly with the plot of Arthur Christmas. It’s a feel-good promotion for a feel-good film and for an organization that works to make every youngster feel good during the holidays. 

* On the front cover of its holiday catalog, eco-friendly merchant VivaTerra promoted a spend-now, save-later deal: Spend $100 before Dec. 23 and you’ll receive a gift card good for $25; spend $250, and you’ll receive $100.

My first thought wasn’t “Wow, what a great deal! I’d better get shopping.” It was “Wow, they must mark up their merchandise pretty high if they can afford to give that much away. I might as well wait and see what sort of discounts they’ll be offering in January before I make any purchases now.”

Perhaps most other shoppers aren’t as cynical as I am. But today’s consumers are much more sophisticated than those of a decade or two ago. Just think of the way companies promote “Black Friday sales.” When I worked  in retail in the 1980s, hardly anyone outside of the industry knew what the term meant.

So I’d wager I’m not the only shopper who equates overly steep discounts with overly steep markups. Nor am I the only shopper who, when suspecting that a company is reaping a steep markup, begins Googling for the same or similar items available at a much lower price, or who waits for the original company to eventually lower the price before buying.

* When buying a dollhouse family for your child, you can generally choose from white-skinned dolls and brown-skinned dolls; sometimes you can find dolls meant to represent East Asian families too. But if you’re seeking a mixed-race family to reflect your own, you’re almost always out of luck. Granted, this isn’t something most Americans tend to think about, but if yours is a mixed-race family (as mine is), it can be a bit tiresome.

So I really liked how in its catalog Nova Natural calls out that you don’t have to buy its Dressable Dollhouse Family as a set. You can “pick from our most popular sets in Blonde Hair, Brown Hair, Medium Skin or Dark Skin or mix and match dolls.” And the full page of photos promoting the dolls and their houses shows a fair-haired, fair-skinned girl playing with dolls of varied skin tones and hair colors, which is an extra-nice touch.

 * A lump of coal for the holiday tagline of apparel and shoe retailer Kenneth Cole: “It’s not the thought that counts…” Way to get into the holiday spirit. Ugh. Just ugh.

Hail the Conquering Catalog Hero

Damn if L.L. Bean didn’t make me fall in love with an Adirondack chair.

To give you a sense of the unlikelihood of such an action, consider this: 1) I try to spend as little time outdoors as possible, and 2) I’m not a fan of New England style (but out of respect for those who are, I’ll refrain from stating that New England style is itself oxymoronic).

Yet in its Summer 2011 Home catalog, Bean made me long for an Adirondack chair, especially the cheery orange or bold red one found on page 10, though the sunny blue one on pages 14-15 would do.

How did Bean manage this feat?

* It treated the chairs—and the other styles of outdoor furniture in the pages leading up to them—as heroes. The objects in question dominated not just the main photographs on each spread but the spreads themselves. The others items for sale on those pages were relevant accessories to those heroes: coordinating seat cushions and outdoor lanterns in the same festive colors, for instance.

* The products differed just enough from similar items available elsewhere to be a novelty—and to distinguish Bean from the other merchants. Remember the old commercials for Trix, where the rabbit waxes orgasmic about the cereal’s vivid colors: “Cherry red! Lemon yellow! Orange orange!” That’s almost how I felt upon coming across those orange, red, and blue chairs. Having lived on the Eastern Seaboard most of my adult life, I’ve seen and sat upon scores of Adirondack chairs in my time, but never in such bright, glossy hues.

* Yet in key ways, the products were no different from other Bean merchandise. I could, of course, just pick up a cheap imitation Adirondack chair and spray-paint it a glossy color myself. But leaving aside the fact that I already have major DIYs project to take care of (anyone want to help me paint a deck this weekend?), this chair boasts the much-vaunted Bean quality that makes its products worth paying more for. According to the copy, “Our All-Weather Furniture is built in America—and built to last a lifetime. It will not rot, warp, splinter, absorb moisture or ever need painting.” Never need painting?! Does L.L. Bean make decks? 

And on the off chance that after ordering the chair I didn’t like it, Bean has its famed iron-clad, unconditional return policy.

Ooh, look, on the back cover, there’s another gorgeous photo, of matching side tables in the same fabulous colors! Bean gets me coming and going.

The May 2011 Ballard Designs catalog arrived in my mailbox the same day at the Bean book. The front covers of both catalogs showed furniture on a porch or deck overlooking water. And in terms of decor styles, I have more of an affinity to Ballard’s somewhat lyrical, European-influenced furnishings than Bean’s Yankee utilitarianism.

Yet nothing in the Ballard catalog struck me the way Bean’s Adirondack chairs did. One reason is Ballard has no real hero products. That’s because the page layouts are denser than Homer Simpson.

One could charitably say that Ballard aims to make the room, rather than any individual piece, the hero. That would be fine, if Ballard were selling the room rather than the individual items within. There’s such a thing as creating a mise-en-scène in order to persuade the customer that by purchasing one or several of the items in that scene, he too could achieve that glorious abode—nay, lifestyle; it’s what Pottery Barn does so well, in its stores and its catalogs alike. 

And then there’s cramming a lot of merchandise in a room, photographing it, putting it on a spread with several other cluttered photos, and then littering said photos with letter keys to correspond to the copy blocks plopped in the scraps of remaining white space. I contend that Ballard veers much closer to the latter than to the former. 

Clutter in my home drives me mad (which is why I spend most of my waking hours in a state of semi-rage). So I’m certainly not inclined to purchase from a home furnishing catalog whose pages are nearly as jumbled and crowded and overflowing with stuff as my husband’s bedside table.