Right royal stuff-up leaves me richer
Here’s the full story behind The Star’s edition change
THIS article was inspired by a reader. But the real story is how communication can go so badly wrong and yet yield incredible dividends.
Geoff Verschoor wrote to me this week to chide me. He wondered if he shouldn’t report me to my friend and colleague Brendan Seery for the possible awarding of an Onion for a letter I had written to him and other subscribers to The Star. Verschoor was spot on. I had no defence to offer, but he wasn’t the only one complaining – there were many others.
My crime, and it is a crime for a professional wordsmith, had been to use jargon – particularly since it’s my job to render copy clear and intelligible.
I wrote to subscribers to tell them of our decision to stop producing the afternoon edition from the end of last month.
Instead of calling it the afternoon edition, I called it the “onday” edition, which is our in-house term to distinguish it from the morning edition, which we perversely call the “overnight” edition.
The first rule of communication is to be understood rather than to be conversational or witty.
I chose chatty and sowed confusion from one end of the city to the other – and I was told off in no uncertain terms.
Much like a comedian having to explain a punchline to an audience, there’s little more humbling to a writer than having to explain to a reader what was meant.
Let’s pause for a moment, though, to recap: The Star began life as an afternoon paper, with editions being published from noon until early evening from 1887 until 1985, when the Rand Daily Mail closed and our erstwhile proprietors decided to create an early edition overnight (you can see where the term starts to creep in) to ensure none of the Mail’s other morning rivals could profit from its demise.
Over the years, our production focus moved more and more to producing the paper the day before, and topping up the “overnight” edition “onday”, while the number of afternoon editions was whittled down until, 18 months ago, only one remained.
The Star was one of the last titles to have an afternoon edition. Only our sister papers – the Daily News in Durban and the Cape Argus in Cape Town – continue to do so.
Worldwide, after noon papers have gone the way of the dinosaur, hence our decision to turn the chapter on one era and page to the new one of digital platforms complementing the main offering of a morning newspaper in print.
So that’s the rationale for the move.
It was my way of telling of it, though, that got a lot of readers riled.
The reason to tell them wasn’t even an option; we haven’t been particularly good at keeping readers informed in the past when we’ve changed editions, introduced new ones or rationalised delivery routes.
We decided to send out a personal letter from me, a month before the time. We followed that this week with an e-mail version and then put out an SMS on Wednesday. I added my e-mail and my landline number and invited concerned readers to contact me.
The initial letter drop netted about 50 e-mails. I decided then and there that I’d boost the whole personal touch by writing back to each and every one. It was tiring, but it was worthwhile.
Some queried whether the words existed. Some wondered if it wasn’t the Monday edition that was being culled. Others thought this was the end of The Star in print. Every query was explained, contact was made, relationships forged. And then this week happened. We sent out the same letter, this time by e-mail, on Monday. By that night I had 200 e-mails. There were a lot of angry readers, many were confused at what the changes meant.
My stomach roiled. I quailed at the thought of writing back. Yet I did, after clearing my diary for an entire day and night. But, like Hercules in the Aegean stables, no sooner had I answered 10 than there were two more in my inbox.
There were also those who hadn’t received an e-mail or a letter or even an SMS, and wrote in angrily to ask why we had not only taken a unilateral decision, but hadn’t even had the decency to tell them.
But here’s the thing, they were all getting in touch. Many people don’t. They get cross and they move away.
And not every comment was negative, not by a long shot.
Some just wanted to use the opportunity to say “Hi” to the editor and flatter us about a great paper, others wanted to make sure the crosswords would still appear – a humbling piercing of my hubris that’s followed me ever since I first edited a paper in Kimberley. Don’t bugger up the crosswords, make sure the weather’s accurate and never drop the racing page – these pieces of advice should be engraved on every tyro’s forehead when they are given the corner office.
I won’t lie, though; there were plenty of angry people – and understandably so. But writing to each one turned many a situation around, saving the paper’s reputation (perhaps even enhancing it) and saving subscriptions (still the absolute gold reef of our business) into the bargain.
Perhaps the angriest reader wasn’t even a reader. He was phoning on behalf of his wife (“My wife’s been reading The Star for hundreds of years,” he said.)
I didn’t blame him, his wife had bent his ear about the SMS; he’d tried to get through to anyone on the switchboard, to no avail.
He’d almost drained his cellphone battery, so by the time he got through to me he was properly warmed up.
I’ve been monstered by professionals in the past 25 years, and Henry Cohen was right there with the best. Yet by the time we rang off, tempers had abated and the subscription had been saved.
It’s been an incredible experience. Bitter-sweet, exhausting, but absolutely exhilarating.
I always mangle Arthur Miller‘s old quote to, “A great newspaper is a community talking to itself ”.
This week, I had the privilege of coming face-to-face with some of the great community that makes The Star what it is.
And as for that Onion, Geoff Verschoor, if Brendan doesn’t give me one, I’ll give myself an entire pocket.
I stuffed up something royally, but ended up truly richer for it.