What not to do when trying to interest a journalist in a story
By R.L.G. | BERLIN
ONE of the most enjoyable pieces Johnson ever wrote was one on the etiquette of bribery. Even in the most corrupt places on earth, where bribery is constant, it is dressed up. Rarely is money passed from hand to hand and in plain sight. Rather, dropped envelopes and left suitcases are preferred, even if nobody else is around to see. And the language around bribery is similarly indirect. No one says, “you’re going to have to pay me a big bribe for that.” Anything from quasi-officialese (“expediting fee”) to the small-time functionary's request for a “coffee” or a “drink” or “something for the weekend” casts a haze over the proceedings. It’s almost charming, in its way. Both sides in the encounter are doing something crooked, but people do not like to think of themselves this way.
This was on your columnist’s mind when a typically boring press release arrived in his inbox this week. Company A had just become a logistics partner for company B. Normally, the PR person would proceed to tout this as the most important industrial development since the spinning jenny and I would have hit Delete without a second thought. This time, though, I read on. “It would be great if this somehow can be placed on Economist (print/Web),” wrote the public-relations person.
Whoa! Both parties know what is going on when a PR person pitches to a journalist. The flack is looking for positive coverage for the boss or client. The hack, in the other traditional role, must be sceptical, pretending not to be sure the news is important, or that the source is worth talking to. The flack persists: You can have an exclusive interview with the CEO, perhaps. The hack decides: maybe this is useful. Maybe the conversation takes place, and maybe maybe, the CEO is quoted in the subsequent article, and maybe maybe maybe (if the story is legitimate) the flack sees the positive coverage he wanted to see. But crucially, this exchange does not include a bare-faced exchange of requests and promises: “I want to see some great coverage!” “Tell you what, why don't you just write my piece for me?” The flack in my inbox violated the age-old etiquette, offering the PR equivalent of “Now let’s talk about a bribe.”
Last week’s column touched on the large portion of human conversation that isn’t strictly propositional logic or information-carrying. People say lots of things that are not literally true, because these things serve some kind of social function. The language of seduction, for example, is meant to preserve face, in case things don’t work out. “Would you like to come up and see my etchings?” goes the cliché. “No, I have to work in the morning,” goes the reply. Both sides pretend to take this at face value, a rejection only of the etchings. What my hapless flack did, by contrast, is the equivalent of approaching me with “It would be really great if somehow tonight ends in sex!” Ugh. Buy us a drink first.
Here are some other things, in the spirit of better hack-flack communication, that public-relations folks get wrong when reaching out to journalists. (And don’t get me started on “reach out”.) The following are all examples from Johnson’s inbox.
1) "Dear [[Firstname]]"
Yes, the “[[Firstname]]” was left in the salutation of one e-mail. We all know that software can send a personalised-looking e-mail to many different people with the push of a button. But make sure, you know, to enter those names, for appearances’ sake.
2) "Dear Firstname"
Quite often, a bit of pitch-spam will have my actual name supplied by the software, but in a telltale different font or colour. This is only a little less clumsy than 1) above.
3) "Dear Ms. Lastname"
The flack is supposed to flatter the hack: as such a distinguished journalist, you will surely be interested in… the problem is that anyone who knows my name can Google it and, in 0.49 seconds (not including typing time), discover that I am a Mr, not a Ms.
4) The completely inappropriate pitch
The most common sin. Google will not only reveal that I am male, but what I cover, what I’m interested in, what I’ve covered in the past, and much more. Yet some of the PR people who take the time to learn my name and gender insist on pitching me topics I would never conceivably write about. Every journalist I know complains of being bombarded daily with pitches totally unrelated to what they cover. Worse still is the insistent tone: you can’t afford to miss this story. Really?
5) Following up on the follow-up to a follow-up
We do not have time to respond to every e-mail (I get three digits' worth every day), but that doesn't stop the hopeful flack from following up. This isn't always a sin. But often, my phone will ring, a flack calling to ask if I got the e-mail sent yesterday. This led me to begin screening calls through my voicemail. And now I quite often get another e-mailed follow-up: "I was writing to see if you got my voicemail (about my first e-mail)". Yes, I did. I deleted that too.
If all this seems a bit divorced from language, it shouldn’t. Language is not just words strung together into sentences. It is the broader fields of custom and appropriateness, too. The language of e-mailed requests has unwritten rules, and many of them are just like the rules for meeting people in person when trying to make a deal to mutual advantage. Make eye contact, shake hands and ask for a name. Remember the name. Ask questions; learn about the other person. This signals a willingness to take the next step in building trust. Don’t constantly push in a direction the other person clearly doesn’t want to go: that is conversational incompetence. Find out where the journalist wants to go, and see if you can get there together. And if it doesn't work out, take no for an answer, and try again elsewhere.
Two years ago we reported that there are now six flacks for every hack in America. That’s bad enough for the journalist. It’s perhaps worse for the PR folks, battling so many colleagues for our limited attention. All the more reason to try a little old-fashioned subtlety and charm.
