“Direct response” is a sub-specialty of copywriting, one
I’ve enjoyed working at in the past. I’d like to continue to do it, so I’ve
been responding to some job offers. The problem is in that word “past.” As with
any writing job, an employer expects to see sample of past work, and mine will
seem to be out of the distant past.
What will today’s copy chief make of an ad for an exciting
new-technology pay phone? Or a service that tracks down misappropriated
personal pagers? These were important things at one time, but a lot of the
people I’m applying to weren’t yet born then. It’s auditioning for a Broadway
musical by belting out a couple of verses
of “Over There.”
To make things tougher, I’ve been pursuing only “remote”
jobs. I’ve decided my commuting days are over. Dress code is (home) business
casual: the levis can have a stylish hole at the knee, and flipflops are what
you wear when you’re not barefoot. But remote jobs are a tiny fraction of the
jobs offered and there’s plenty of competition for them. Worse, there will
almost always be a requirement for
at least one face-to-face meeting. You have to shave for those. They can be
anywhere from New York City to North Billerica, Massachusetts.
The door-opener in one of these situations is the cover
letter you send, showing why you’re the ideal writer for the job. It’s a
balancing act. Some of the best (most successful, not most aesthetically
pleasing) direct response advertising is done in those TV ads for non-stick
frying pans and spray cans of stuff you can patch a hole in a battleship with.
Direct response is about results. So you want your letter -- the first writing
sample they’re going to see -- to sell. At the same time, you don’t want to end
it with ”Call now!” and I can’t double the offer even if they respond in the
next six minutes.
