On moving

May 17, 2009


I haven’t written anything in a while, and I have a lot to say.

You’ll have to forgive me. It’s been three days since we said goodbye to our first home.

And I can’t help but be surprised how much I miss it.

Though we spent the past two and a half months working to buy and sell a home, the move crept up on us. Despite the culmination of events – events that led us from desperate to frantic to endlessly busy in just a few weeks – I am still shocked by how empty our house could become, how it happened so fast, how I was completely unprepared to let go.

How, despite spending months trying to get rid of it, I still wished we could have made it work out. Stay a little longer. Hang out one last time.

It took two trucks and a handful of eager movers to completely gut our house. When it was finished, I walked from room to room, snapping pictures of my favorite features, taking it all in – as empty and clean as when we moved in, with little change aside from seven years worth of wear.

Kerrie shed a few tears. But I kept myself insulated from it, fearing that I’d shed the same tears. I looked forward, not behind; blinded by anticipation, I did what I could to grind out the hours. I unpacked the house several times in my sleep. I imagined where things would go, what I could do, what surprises were in store.

But that last night, I couldn’t help myself. “Here I am,” I thought. “My last night in my first home.”

Our first home. Where we planned our marriage. Brought home a dog. Trained a dog. Nursed little nips from a dog. We got married and bought cars and became adults. We formed our careers though several hiccups. I began writing in the dormer. I began reading again in the dormer. I learned about my new job in the dormer and privately celebrated in the dormer.

It was Sierra’s first home. Our first child. Her first steps, first words, first teeth, first joys and pains. She learned how to be a person in that house. She fell into our lives in that house.

There are a handful of things I’ll always remember. The creaky floors outside of Sierra’s room. The nights sitting in a rocking chair, with only the glaring light of the hall illuminating my book as I lulled Sierra to sleep. The night I listened to John Edwards and Dick Cheney as they debated in the summer of 2004. And the night I watched the first politician I truly believed in elected President four years later.

A lot of life was lived in those walls. But I’m thankful for one thing: the first years in that house were something Kerrie and I had to ourselves. They are memories we hold closely, memories that only we can claim. And likewise, that house is something that we can share with Sierra – a reminder of the days before our family had become four, something special that Sierra gets to remember, to her ability, in the upcoming years.

This new house begins a new chapter. In a few weeks, baby boy will be born. Life will get more complicated, will require more time and more space. And with our new home, we have it. It’s the perfect marking point for what we had and what we are about to become.

We are lucky. We found a house we wanted, put our house on the market, and were lucky enough to still snag it months later. We were able to make it quick. Harried, but painless. We were able to find people to help us – people who we thank for all eternity, from our families to our friends, from our Realtor Briana to the kind souls who owned our home before we moved in.

I miss the old house. But I love this one just as much. And once I come to grips with the idea that my memories are still around, despite the new location, I’ll slowly forget about what we had and focus on only what we have.

All of our stuff is here. It’s strewn across the house, scattered throughout each room like beads of mercury, dispersing in every direction, seeking level ground, but it’s here all the same.

And room by room, things are looking more comfortable. More like what we left behind. More like home.

Really, it’s already there. We’re here. We’ll continue to grow here, will celebrate new lives and new milestones.

This is our new base. Our new home. All that’s changed is the location.

Tags: Career, Friends, Home, Isaac, On..., Vilhauer |

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Mission: accomplished

April 21, 2009


It’s 11 o’clock. I’ve just worked late to meet two deadlines. Two projects – one a comprehensive plan, the other a recap of a series of focus groups.

I drank coffee. I isolated myself. I kept my distractions to a minimum.

I finished both projects. And now, here, at 11 o’clock at night on a Tuesday, I feel completely and utterly satisfied.

To me, there’s little that’s as exhilarating as finish a project I feel confident about. Not some small random job, but a late-nighter – something important, with an inflexible deadline. There’s a rush, my adrenaline confused as to why I’m not running scared, the night’s coffee still surging through my bloodstream and wreaking havoc on my sleep cycle.

In college, when I’d stay up late finishing some monstrous narrative on child psychology, I’d often find myself with a mild case of insomnia. Coffee was no excuse in those days – just the pure rush of completion. Of conquering 4,000 words. Of feeling pretty damned awesome about whatever it was I just did.

For me, it happened again a few months ago. I wrote a proposal for a non-fiction book based on Ween’s Chocolate and Cheese (through Continuum’s 33 1/3 series). When I was finished, I sat astounded. I couldn’t believe I had just done it. My first proposal. I knew at the time that I probably wouldn’t get it – after all, with no experience writing non-fiction or music, I was a long shot – and, let’s be honest, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to take the project on. I mean, writing on this blog is difficult at times – I can’t imagine tackling a book while still working full-time as a writer with two children under three. Seems like an impossible feat.

But that proposal was good. Damned good. And I knew that even if I didn’t get the chance to write the book, I still knocked that proposal out of the park.

Tomorrow, after five or so hours of sleep, I’ll hit the office and put the finishing touches on these two projects. I’ll present my plan to the rest of the staff. I’ll wait for feedback on the focus group summary. I’ll get a handful of jobs dumped on me and I’ll make revisions and I’ll fight to stay out of the copywriting rut. I’ll come home exhausted from doing what seems like simple work.

Right now, though, I think I’ll enjoy this feeling just a little longer.

Tags: Advertising and Marketing, Career, Writing |

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Taking Action

March 4, 2009


There are things I should do that are good for me.

I should eat well. I should exercise. I should stop procrastinating, spend less money, spend more time learning.

They aren’t original concepts. Most of us count those things as some of most important things we can do in life. They make our lives better – more fruitful, more enjoyable, more long-lasting.

Yet, for the most part, I can’t do any of them without forced motivation.

When it comes to working, I can’t tear myself away from anything not called work. So I’ve installed a device on my Mac called Freedom – a program that literally shuts me down from the world, turning off non-local networks until the time period of my choosing.

In order to get those networks back (I can e-mail on our local server, but I can’t use the Internet) I have to simply let time run out or restart my computer. I’m forced to be productive. And it works.

In order to lose weight, I forced myself to track everything I ate. It worked, and since canceling the Weight Watchers online program I have become lax again. (Blame it on the stress of trying to sell a house. That seems to be my easy answer.)

What it boils down to is a difference between concept and action. My plans are grandiose, but my deeds are lacking. I can spend hours pouring over a handful of photographs, but I can’t manage to stop myself from eating a donut. Or checking my online basketball league just one more time.

This is the disease that separates the lazy from the active. It’s what stops me from becoming better than what I am. And it drags down on me every day.

It drags down on all of us.

And we thought having more choices made us more enlightened people.

Tags: Career, On... |

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Pushing out the old

January 18, 2009


Though the older items we love are often bathed in memories, it doesn’t take much for those items to be replaced. Something new. Something better. More convenient. More flashy.

Is it because there’s no time in life to focus on the past? Or because we’re constantly trying to not only one up our neighbors and friends, but our own history as well?

This camera was Kerrie’s first SLR, purchased in college, a trusty and solid Nikon N60 - a friend through a semester abroad, documenting an eye-opening experience in a way her own eyes failed to keep.

A few years back, it broke. Needing a camera, we found it was probably cheaper to simply purchase a small point and shoot. Years later, knowing the technology was advanced enough to make the price worthwhile, we purchased our new camera - a Canon XTI.

Yet this sturdy standby still stands on our bookshelf, gazing onto my shoulders as I upload hundreds of new photos - numbers its poor analog mind can’t quite comprehend, at speeds it was never meant to exceed.

I imagine it wonders what happened. After all, it hasn’t been that long.

And yet, here it is. The same concept, occurring in real life. With real people. Terry Wooster is forced out at the Argus Leader after decades of service to newspaper journalism. Aging creatives are squeezed out around agencies across the nation not for failing to keep up with an ever-changing landscape of design but for being too expensive to keep on. Older businesses are forced to close as they find themselves lagging behind fresh new companies with fresh ideas on how customers want to be treated.

The old becomes baggage, forcing its weight upon the new generation, bending the necks of fresh talent with a millstone of history, proven success and life lessons. Whether it’s because of resources or innovation or basic bull-headedness, things change, and those that don’t are doomed to antiquity.

Sometimes it’s for the best. Sometimes, it’s painfully obvious that the old traditions need to go. But that doesn’t make it any easier to look tradition - to stare down the barrel of this Nikon’s kit lens - and think about what we’re letting go. What we’re pushing aside.

Especially knowing that, someday, I could be sitting on my own shelf, looking over the shoulder of someone who once needed my services but, unfortunately, has moved on to something newer and fresher. It’s a sobering thought. I give a lot of credit to nostalgia, to remembering what came before us and admiring that which was successful, even if no longer so.

Thankfully, I have an advantage over that camera.

After all, the camera couldn’t keep up because it was physically impossible to do so. It couldn’t suddenly insert a digital frame inside of its analog body. It couldn’t change. Couldn’t advance. Couldn’t improve.

But I can.

NIkon N60

Tags: Career, Photography |

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The Corey Vilhauer Brand

November 19, 2008


“The unread story is not a story; it is little black marks on wood pulp. The reader, reading it, makes it live: a live thing, a story.”

This past week, I was given an offer on one of our photos – a picture taken almost as a throwaway, rescued from the pile and produced into one of my favorites. A national publication wants to use it. And they’re willing to pay us. Us. Little amateur Corey and Kerrie, skilled in ways we never realized.

A friend of mine asked how this possibly could have happened. How do you take a photo and, a few weeks later, without any promotion or marketing, get it sold?

And the answer is easy: The Internet. An amazing tool. (As long as you use it correctly.)

Three years ago, my entire creative portfolio consisted of six articles for a local men’s magazine and one blog. Yet, I desperately longed for a career in the creative industry. I wanted to be a writer, but didn’t know how to position myself.

So it was complete blind luck that I began to realize my name was starting to gain a little equity, thanks to both a published column and, even more surprisingly, this little blog. I associated my name with Black Marks on Wood Pulp, one of the few consistent South Dakota blogs at the time. I made friends with other bloggers – primarily the political ones – left comments and became sort of well known in the S.D. blogging community.

The person I interviewed with for my first ever writing job was familiar with my blog. She enjoyed it. She hired me.

From here, I realized I had something. I submitted Black Marks on Wood Pulp to 9rules, gaining a larger audience and more connections. These – and most of the local marketing or web design personalities – turned out to be the first twitterers I ever followed – and, in return, my first follwers. I took up flickr to post our photos and, through a mixture of the three, my name was suddenly known for writing, photography and basic Wordpress blog design.

There are a lot of people out there who are much more talented than I am. So it has a lot to do with luck as well. But I’ve managed to make give my name value – both through recognition and results – in a way that I never could have without the ‘net.

And in giving my name that value, I turn up on more people’s searches. Because I have a background already, my creative endeavors are automatically given more credence. All things being equal, you choose the more well known person over the unproven kid, simply because you know what you’ll get.

To answer the question my friend asked, I simply put my stuff out for all to see. I unabashedly brace for failure, discover a lack of it, and forge ahead. I embrace feedback, write and contribute to the teeming humanity located within, and come out with something I can be proud of.

This networking, though for the most part passive, has given me – and countless others – a feeling of success. The type of success that drives us to continue creating, even if only to a small audience.

Because we know that, for every person who leaves a comment, there are hundreds who stop by and silently admire. For every person who complains or writes off, there are just as many who are coming across your work for the first time.

Because it’s always out there, my name continues to gain value. And with it, my creative endeavors gain traction faster than they did when I was starting up.

It takes a long time to build brand equity into a name. But given enough time, and the willpower to continue linking back to your identity, someone will take notice.

And when they do, you can finally begin to reap the rewards.

Tags: Advertising and Marketing, Blogging, Career, Photography, Vilhauer |

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The first day of school

August 18, 2008


Sometimes it’s hard to believe I was there once, scanning my schedule one last time before I ran to my next class, anxiously memorizing the room number. Because let’s face it, there’s nothing dorkier than stopping in the middle of the hallway and checking your destination; nothing has ever so perfectly predestined a cruel de-booking, a cackle, an entire audience turning on a swivel, looking your way. Standing out like a construction cone.

But I was. Twelve years ago I started my senior year of high school. On a day much like today, I’m sure – a cool summer morning, hiding its intentions under a guise of ozone and cloud cover, waiting until noon to spring out and melt everything you had foolishly left on your vehicle’s dashboard; a wet trail of grass, beaten down by hundreds of new shoes, left wasted and muddy from the parking lot to the front door.

You’d sit down, a little melancholy, waiting for the bittersweet first bell. Summer, as you knew it, was over – seemingly over faster than last year, if you remember correctly. Yet, this was a time of adventure. You had no idea who would be in your class, how difficult your teachers would be, whether you’d suddenly realize you enjoyed a subject. It was the perfect clean slate. It was, for some, the best day of school all year.

Driving by today, I got that pit in my stomach again. The same one you’d get in homeroom, waiting for the year to finally start. At the stoplight, I felt strangely nostalgic as I watched the kids file from their cars, meet their friends, don their new backpacks and hike inside, across the same halls I once did, to the same lockers I once occupied.

Lincoln High School, the only alma mater I actually feel some connection to. The only time I had teachers who really inspired me.

And then the light turned green. I looked away, faced forward, and drove off. Toward what twelve years ago would have been considered the future. What, to me, is simply considered “the now.”

Tags: Career, Education, On... |

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Falling off the hobby horse

August 14, 2008


Every few months, a bubble occurs at work. It tends to show up after a few days of downtime, when scratching together a few hours of billable time seems impossible. It comes on suddenly, with a flurry of meetings. My desk begins to pile up. My life turns up another gear. Everything is due tomorrow, and the end is nowhere in sight. It bleeds into my free time; free time that may already be stretched by prior engagements and home projects and an ever-growing pile of mind-numbing DVRed programs.

That’s the nature of the business. I grumble. But I also bask in the glow of vocation, knowing that someone depends on me for his or her words, plans and ideas. That I get paid to do something I enjoy, something I should stay quiet about lest they realize what they’re paying me to do.

But man, it sure wreaks havoc on my hobbies.

As words flow toward one end, the means to keep up with the hobby side of writing dries up; the paths diverted. What was once fun becomes work. A source of pride becomes an millstone, hanging from my neck. Taunting me with its demise.

Because with the important things claiming their share of my life’s time, my hobbies fall back a bit. I am afforded no more time to write on my own. And newer, shinier hobbies show up, too. I sometimes think my computer keyboard is jealous of our new camera. Of each new book. Of the Olympics and, in the past, the NBA Finals.

And from there, things deteriorate. Out of practice, or with my ideas used up elsewhere, it feels like something is stuck, like writer’s block has set in, or that my thoughts have been stuck in my head too long, are no longer timely or spontaneous or fresh. This leads to abandonment, of ditching a great outlet because of the convincing nature of busyness.

In this way, work can get in the way of our hobbies. And sometimes, that’s bound to happen. But without that outlet, what do we have?

So I think a little harder. I glance at the screen a few times, scanning the page for something I’ve forgotten. Then I start typing. For me. For my sanity.

And to remember that our hobbies are crucial. Make time for them. Take a few minutes and do something you truly enjoy, for yourself, for those you care about, anything that gives you the feeling of artistic merit or release, even if that release comes from creating a small city out of model trains or playing an artful game of Madden 2005 or writing or designing your own site or crocheting rabbit-shaped stuffed animals or decorating the house. Even at work. During break. That taking 15 minutes out of your work day to do something fun is more productive than stewing over your work.

Remember that, above all else, hobbies are for us to unwind. That they’ll always be there when you come back. That they don’t understand the meaning of time. Most importantly, remember that our hobbies may not give us the support we need to live comfortably, but they certainly make life a lot more enjoyable.

Tags: Blogging, Books, Career, Friends, Meta, Photography, Television, Vilhauer, Writing |

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