Nobody calls up the Internal Revenue Service for fun. But the other day, a reporter telephoned Eric Erickson, a “media relations specialist” for the IRS, to ask a few nosy questions. Erickson said that about 640,000 Minnesotans filed their taxes in the last two weeks before April 15, 2004. That’s almost the combined populations of Minneapolis and St. Paul. Erickson does his own taxes, and doesn’t understand why so many people put it off. “It’s easy,” he said.
Really? The reporter picked up a 1040EZ, the “easy” tax form. Then she called Joel Rosenberg, who’s been a technical writer for twenty-five years. “I enjoy it,” he said of technical writing, “because it’s fun to figure out what’s going on.” With his experience, Rosenberg ought to have no problem figuring out what’s going on with the 1040EZ. On top of his technical expertise, he’s also one of the authors of Everything You Need to Know about (Legally) Carrying a Handgun in Minnesota. Rosenberg recently wrote a similar book for Missouri, and now he’s working on a nationwide edition. He attributes the book’s success to one simple fact: “I try to explain what the law is in terms that people can understand.”
He agreed to try to do the same thing with the 1040EZ. But it wasn’t long before he ran aground. “When do I find out whether I can use this form or not?” he grumbled, flipping through the instructions, before finally coming to page eight. “This should be at the front, where you can find it fast.” Then he looked through the list of requirements, one of which involves something called the Alaska Permanent Fund. “What is that?” asked Rosenberg. “Where do they tell me what that is?” He flipped back through the instructions, looking for some kind of explanation. “They’d make this easier,” he finally said, “if they just said, ‘Take this to an accountant.’”
Rosenberg has taken his own taxes to an accountant since the eighties, after an unpleasant incident. “I got a letter from the IRS telling me I owed $27.34,” he said. He spent “hours” checking and rechecking his tax form, reading and rereading the letter. Then, like the experienced technical writer that he is, “I figured out what the IRS was really telling me,” said Rosenberg. “They were telling me that if I just sent them $27.34, they’d leave me alone.” Rosenberg sent a check. The IRS left him alone.
Courtney Danielson would do the same because, she says, the IRS has “a fear persona—they have so much power.” Danielson is a graphic designer who works at Brainco, an advertising school in Minneapolis. She and school founder Ed Prentiss agreed that the IRS could use a good marketing campaign, in addition to employing a technical writer.
“They don’t do a good job educating people,” said Prentiss. “Really, they’re just the messenger; they’re just doing their job. But they have this image of trying to get you. Pay up—or we’ll take your house.”
Prentiss had a couple ideas how to change that image. One approach would make the IRS “more personal.” The IRS could admit a few things, Prentiss said. They could openly say, “We understand that this is complicated, but you still have to pay your fair share.” He’d also focus on the positive aspect of taxes. “There are things that are common to everybody, like an ambulance or roads.”
Or, said Prentiss, he could go a different route altogether and use humor. He and Danielson even mocked up a beautiful print ad, at no expense to taxpayers: “Please give generously so we don’t have to take it from you.” Humorous ads work, Prentiss said, because they’re true. “There’s such a power in honesty. It’s refreshing.”—Maria Rubinstein
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