It is possible to be too clever.

And when you’re too clever about your own product.

This can happen:

  • You sound like everyone else.
  • You’re boring.
  • You say things I don’t care about.
  • It’s clear you don’t know the most important thing about your product – to me.
  • You tell me so much, that I remember nothing.
  • You don’t tell me the one reason why I should buy you, and not them.
    So I don’t.

Older. 

I’m older now.

(Like that George Michael Song).

So I can’t be bothered going on (too much) about the importance and theory of brand.

And why left brain people find the subject I am writing about hard.

And why right brain people find the subject I am writing about easier.

I talk about chocolate bars instead.

Chocolate Bars.

I say things like this.

After pulling two chocolate bars from my bag:

“Here.

Here’s a Snickers and a Kit Kat.

Which do you want?”

Then I pause.

Then they choose.

Then I go on.

(Sometimes, they like me more when I’ve fed them chocolate…)

“If you sold Snickers, because you’re you and you want me to buy it, you’d probably talk about it being peanutty.

And chocolatey.

And under a quid.

And caramelly.

And if you sold Kit Kats, because you’re you and you want me to buy it, you’d probably talk about it being wafery.

And chocolatey.

And under a quid.

And snappy.”

On.

They.

Chew.

Pretending to be interested.

“But if you were building a brand.”

I’d say.

“You’d tell me the Snickers would stop me being hungry.

And you’d tell me the Kit Kat was a nice wee reminder for me to take a bit of downtime.”

Chocolate Bars. 

OK, so this isn’t exactly Al Reis and Jack Trout-level analogy.

But it does, sometimes, help.

And it involves chocolate.

So even if they don’t say a word and just sit there chewing.

I can growl at them.

Grab what’s left of the Kit Kat.

And eat the rest myself.

‘Can’t lose.

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