Shiny Green Button

This Microsoft Bing ad cracks me up every time I see it. And, it gets my attention—not the consumer in me so much, but the writer.

We’ve all had the experience of searching for one thing, one answer to a specific question. We click “Search,” and we get a deluge of information, much of it irrelevant or unreliable or even ridiculous.

The developers of Bing’s “decision engine,” Google’s search refinements and Facebook’s ever-spreading “Like” button, keep looking for better ways to index all that content so people can pinpoint what they need. But as writers, we’re in a unique position to help create better content to begin with. To understand the language of search, and use it to craft better, more relevant stories.

I have to admit, it’s hard not to deflate a little when I hear the words “search engine optimization.” Of course I understand its importance. But too often, it sounds like “lard your prose with keywords” and “write robotic headlines and subheads.” It makes Web writing sound like something precise and calculable. Like a job for a robot.

But then, when I sit back and look at the work we do here at AHA!, I feel much better. Like any good story, effective online content can and should be human and compelling.

Maybe a robot could optimize information better for an audience of other robots. But most of us are trying to reach human beings. Living, thinking people with real needs. Connecting with them requires relating to them, understanding their lives and what they might be looking for when they click “Search.”

That means using the language of search as another tool—along with cohesive narratives and relatable characters and an approachable voice—to tell stories on the Web. It doesn’t mean replacing those stories with a jumble of keywords.

Photo credit: Southernpixel on Flickr

First, Happy Earth Day everyone! Whatever that means to you.

Maybe you’re volunteering somewhere. Maybe you’re out digging in the dirt. Maybe you’re vowing to be more deliberate about everyday things like turning the lights off or reusing your grocery bags. Maybe you’re feeling a little cynical about it all.

But the fact is, you know it’s Earth Day. So, even if it’s just for a few seconds, you’re thinking about the planet. That’s something.

Listening to an old episode of the public radio show This American Life the other day, I heard staff producer Sarah Koenig spin a fantastic yarn about her dad, copywriting legend Julian Koenig, an original Mad Man. Among other memorable campaigns, he came up with the iconic Volkswagen “Think Small” ads. He also gave Earth Day its name.

Koenig was part of U.S. Senator Gaylord Nelson’s 1969 committee to organize a nationwide day for environmental awareness. The efforts were in response to a growing grassroots movement to draw more attention to environmental concerns.

The committee considered several names for the event, but Koenig’s is the one that stuck. As the story goes, the idea came to him instantly, because April 22 is his birthday, and “Earth Day” rhymes with “birthday.” That’s how we word nerds work.

The idea took off immediately. Now, in its 40^th year, Earth Day is celebrated around the world. Think we’d even be talking about it if it had been called National Environment Teach-In Day?

Just another example of how words matter, how everything about them matters—their cadence, the way they sound together and even the way they look.

Incidentally, every year around this time, people suggest alternative names, because Earth Day is so generic or doesn’t accurately reflect environmental priorities. I think Earth Day works just fine. What do you think?

Photo credit: Water Lemon on Flickr

An EcoGeek reader who subscribes to both National Geographic and Wired found two very different messages recently from Kohler, the company known for its sleek, aesthetically pleasing plumbing fixtures.

In National Geographic, an evocative image of clear water splashes across the page, along with a conservation message about Kohler’s water-saving products and the URL for the company’s microsite www.savewateramerica.com.

In Wired, Kohler offers a highly stylized image of a duo in a Dancing with the Stars-style big-finish pose. They’re standing in a room-sized shower looking fierce, as nine multi-nozzle showerheads blast them with what Kohler’s product info calls “a deluge even Mother Nature would envy.”

Some EcoGeek commenters call this hypocrisy and greenwashing. Others are defending Kohler’s right to target niche audiences, which is a common and even “best” practice in marketing.

The problem here isn’t that the company is sending different messages. The fact is, it’s sending mixed messages. And, those mixed messages are reaching the same audience, not different target markets. NatGeo nature lovers like to geek out on Wired tech gear; water conservationists still like an amazing shower, but they’d prefer the low-flow variety.

As sustainability and environmental responsibility flood the mainstream, this is a fundamental communications problem that marketers will need to solve. Companies that want to do their part for the environment on one hand (Kohler offers water-saving products and also donates them to Habitat for Humanity), but who still profit from not-so-sustainable offerings on the other will want to promote both ends of the spectrum, from green to luxe.

If clients don’t integrate sustainability into everything they do, how can communicators weave it into an authentic, credible brand story? Have you had a similar experience?

I learned today that there’s now a green version of the venerable Good Housekeeping Seal, which has been around since 1909. The stated purpose of the new green version is obvious–to help consumers make sense of all the confusing and sometimes contradictory green claims being tossed around by brand after brand.

It’s an interesting extension of a well-trusted brand. As the accompanying FAQ notes, none of the various ecolabels out there have yet the earned the depth of trust or widespread awareness as Good Housekeeping. But perhaps more significantly, none offer a warranty.

That warranty is arguably the most important element. It demonstrates a greater commitment to thoroughness and objectivity, and has been key to
the staying power of the original seal.

Good Housekeeping pledges to replace an item or refund a consumer if a product carrying its green seal is found to be defective. Here’s what I found
on the Good Housekeeping site:

Products with the Green Good Housekeeping Seal, since they have earned the primary Good Housekeeping Seal, carry a limited warranty: If the product proves to be defective within two years of purchase, Good Housekeeping will replace the item or refund the consumer.

Which begs the question–within the context of green, what’s considered “defective”? Does it cover products that may be originally deemed green but are later found to be lacking due to new information, such materials toxicity?

And what about misleading claims? Say a brand earns the green seal, but then crosses the line and begins to inflate its claims. Will Good Housekeeping make good on its guarantee for consumers who were misled into making a purchase? Will it revoke its endorsement?

I don’t mean to disparage Good Housekeeping’s Green Seal. The methodology behind it seems thorough and transparent. I’m just curious if the new seal pledges the quality of products or legitimacy of claims. Or both. It’s positioned as a trust mark for claims, but as far as I can tell, the warranty focuses only on performance. That disconnect could be an issue. If Good Housekeeping is going to meaningfully extend its brand to the green space, I think it ought to be more clear about whether its new seal carries teeth both on the front end–i.e., testing–and back end, with its warranty.

I  like what Mini is doing with its Carfun campaign. You can debate the true impact of carbon offsets or whether a company that peddles combustion engines should be touting sustainability, but purely from a communications standpoint, this campaign is on brand.

First, it’s about fun—you donate $30 to one of three organizations dedicated to sustainability, and Mini makes a matching donation to one of three organizations focused on fun (such as one that promotes bicycle safety among kids).

Second, it feels at home in the interactive/web-based experience that’s characteristic of Mini.

And third, it gives you something (you get a badge made of recycled materials for your donation). Mini likes to include interesting tchotchkes in their advertising (stickers, etc) and often sends owners whimsical or intriguing items.

I only wish Mini had an electric (or even fuel cell) car in the works. Given the cachet of the Mini brand, it could really up the cool/fun factor of cars that I suspect will largely be viewed as virtuous/utilitarian (I’m thinking of the Chevy Volt).

Tesla has a shot of doing this with the electric mid-sized sedan it has in the works, but Mini—though a niche brand—has more of a track record to work with.

What’s the opposite of greenwashing?

The first answer that comes to mind is “the truth.” But I think of the truth as neutral. Taken to its extreme, greenwashing is intentionally exaggerating, misleading or even lying to promote your green credentials.

The opposite of that would be to understate your green credentials so as not to call attention to yourself.

Offhand, I can’t think of any examples of companies doing this (which is sort of the point—they’re flying below the radar). But I imagine there are at least a few out there that have chosen (explicitly or not) to downplay whatever goals or progress they’ve made.

Perhaps they’re conservative by nature. Perhaps they’re in an industry where green is perceived as a distraction or isn’t yet relevant. Maybe they aren’t a marketing-driven organization and don’t have the resources to spread the word. Or maybe they’re just biding their time for the right opportunity.

Whatever the case, I wonder if the opposite of greenwashing could have as negative an impact on an organization.  The effects might be harder to identify and measure–missed opportunities to raise awareness, differentiate yourself, strengthen your brand, open up new markets, attract top talent, etc.–but they could have longer-term impact.

I’m not suggesting that companies have to tell their green story or risk doom. Just that if they are holding back, it should be a deliberate, measured choice.

The FTC recently took action against certain companies that claimed their products were biodegradable.  The issue here revolves around language, around what we can really, honestly say about green products and services.

According to Michael Davis, an FTC lawyer, even if products (in this case disposable wipes and plates) are theoretically biodegradable, the fact is that most consumer products go straight to a landfill, where they stand little chance of ever “returning to nature” (to use the FTC’s phrase).

So what kind of claim to biodegradability can be made? “It’s hard to think of one marketers would like,” said Davis. It’s hard indeed to imagine his example phrase as a selling point on the side of a box of wet naps: ”Biodegradable in 1,000 years.”

Davis’s remarks bring a central conundrum of green marketing into bold relief.  Marketing, in the most basic terms, is supposed to create desire for a good or service. But to make certain green claims truthful, it requires so many caveats and footnotes as to wither any appeal the original claim once had. Some might say this is the price of truthfulness, but I think it suggests a broader idea of what marketing might be. Instead of persuasion, what if marketers engaged in education? For instance, if company X makes a product that can biodegrade, shouldn’t that company also explain how to dispose of it to make sure it does biodegrade? Maybe the campaign focuses not just on disposable wipes, but on composting and how easy–even cool–it can be.

I realize this sounds a bit naive, or at least idealistic. But then again, idealism has been known to sell pretty well at times. It sent a man to the moon in less than a decade forty years ago, after all. Maybe the time is right for companies to inspire purchases by inspiring environmentally sustainable behavior, rather than by adding asterisks and footnotes to their green claims.

“What is your bank trying to sneak by you?” asks the website for the newly launched Ally Bank. Unlike all those other bad, bad banks (you know, the ones who loaned all your money to people who couldn’t pay it back and then went out of business?), Ally is a bank you can trust.

In its mission statement, Ally claims:

We’re a bank that values integrity as much as deposits. A bank that will always be open, accountable, and honest. Yes, honest. We won’t deal in half-truths, kindatruths, or truths only buried in fine print. That’s because we don’t have anything to hide. We’re always going to give it to you straight.

This all sounds great, except that what Ally appears to be trying to sneak past us (they asked the question, after all) is the fact that in their former, and very recent, incarnation as GMAC (the finance arm of foundering General Motors) they were having some serious problems.

Remember those bank stress tests the government was putting banks through? It seems that after getting $6 billion in federal bailout funds, GMAC still had the “biggest [capital] shortfall by far” of any of the 19 banks tested. This is a fact that prospective customers of Ally Bank might be interested in, and it raises an important question about how to communicate with customers in this post-crisis era: At what point does straight talk become really, really risky talk?

Consumers already have a pretty low opinion of banks at the moment, so there’s clearly an opening for a no-nonsense approach to banking. But when you bill your new (actually, old) bank as the keeper of virtue and trustworthiness, the potential for customers to feel outraged, betrayed and disappointed at the slightest misstep seems even greater than it would be for today’s run-of-the-mill, TARP-fund guzzling banks.

The time is right for a company like Ally Bank. But we’ll have to wait and see what customers will do when the brand-new paint begins to rub off the Ally logo, revealing the old letters underneath: GMAC.

So, imagine you’re a bank, and you manage to pick up a whole lot of extra branches and customer accounts on the cheap. Of course, you’ll be changing the name of these new branches, which could make already skittish customers nervous. How do you announce the change that makes everything seem okay to depositors looking to pull their funds and transfer them to the seemingly superior security of their mattresses?

Here’s what Chase did, facing this very situation, to roll out the Chase name to former customers of the once-beloved WaMu in California:

There’s a clear break here from the Starbucks-casual image that WaMu cultivated (to considerable success, we should remember). It’s a montage of California cliches, from surfing to Easy Rider, accompanied by a remake of John Lennon’s “Instant Karma.” While the chorus “we all shine on” obliquely promises continuity, the future into which we’re headed is presented in a strangely disconcerting black and white. The lack of color strips the life and joy out of the images of freedom and happiness we see.

“Chase. New to California, but not to banking,” concludes the narrator at the end. This was probably intended to be reassuring to WaMu customers being brought into the Chase fold, but I also detect an undercurrent that says, “Now we’re Chase. Deal with it.” It’s a more austere approach to bank branding than WaMu customers are used to, and it perhaps signals a change in customer expectations: If the warm, fuzzy WaMu I trusted so much turned out to be just like all the other subprime-mortgage peddling grifters, maybe I don’t want a friendly casual bank. Maybe I just want one that will stay in business and not lose my money.

Apparently, the recession isn’t affecting me at all. At least that’s what the people at Barclays Bank Delaware seem to believe, since they just sent me an invitation to apply for the Visa Black Card. “The Black Card is not for everyone,” reads the postcard that arrived in my mailbox along with my mortgage and utilities bills. “In fact, it is limited to only 1% of U.S. residents.” Finally, a bank with some good news!

I realize that I’m lucky to belong to this elite class of people who can enjoy spending freely when the rest of the country is worried about trifles like food and shelter. The Black Card’s $495 annual fee entitles me to 24-hour concierge service, an “exclusive rewards program” and unspecified “luxury gifts.” It’s like Barclays Bank has been reading my mind! As I watch my home equity wither and the prospect of retirement recede into the distance, not a day goes by that I don’t think to myself, “If only I had 24-hour concierge service!”

But the best part about the Visa Black Card is the way it looks at the cash register. As the invitation says, “The Black Card is not just another piece of plastic. Made with carbon, it is the ultimate buying tool.” It’s so refreshing to hear something nice about carbon for a change. I, for one, am tired of all the whining about greenhouse gases and the yapping little Priuses. I want to go back to the days before people gave me dirty looks for driving my Hummer. Yes, with the Visa Black Card, I can feel like I’m still living in 1999. Who cares what the rest of America thinks?