On solving creative block

March 10, 2010


To those encountering someone who works in the creative industries:

The best antidote to self-doubt – and by doubt, I mean the crippling block of creativity that all writers and designers and programmers and artists assume will lead only to ruin – isn’t reassurance. Reassurance is just words; regardless of sincerity, the creative will see them as platitudes – flimsy and loose, like paper in a three-ring notebook.

Nor is it enthusiasm, sympathy or understanding. These often result in dismissal, resentment and further doubt, respectively.

Offer your trust, however, and things change. The minute you place your trust in a creative’s opinion is the same time those previous doubts begin seeming inconsequential. Silly. And then, just like that, they vanish.

It’s a play to the ego, in part. But more than that, it’s comfort in knowing our creative skills are still worth something. That we can still make a difference, and you’re willing to risk your own project to make it happen.

Tags: Career, On..., Writing |

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On the wrong side of history: an ode to the Sega Dreamcast

January 18, 2010


I was a Sega Dreamcast devotee, which is to say I was one of those guys who fanatically defended a system that was, from the beginning, doomed to fail.

Here’s why: it was the best system on the market, and if you don’t believe me you’re an absolute fool who knows nothing about video games. Oh, man, don’t tell anyone, but I just GEEKED OUT on you right there.

The Birth of Dreamcastness

This was the winter of 2000, about a year after release and a few months into my job at the St. Cloud FuncoLand, a trashy yet endearing video game store that specialized in hoarding valuable Super Nintendo games and hounding Playstation 2 fans. The store was a comic book cave without the comic books, replaced instead with their more expensive and more acceptable counterpart, and we held our opinions high and our rants even higher.

And we were all Sega Dreamcast devotees. We were enamored with the little system. Its awkward controllers (which we defended, despite hypocritically hounding Xbox owners for their system’s too-small paddles), its optimized-Windows operating system (which allowed for countless imports), its NFL 2K series – it was all a dream, representing the future of video gaming.

But it wouldn’t last. Another two years and it was done. Gone forever. Its final coffin nails were hammered in by Sony’s grasp on a key video game truth: a good system is key, but great games are crucial.

The Death of Dreamcastness

I, and the lot of us, landed on the wrong side of history. In doing so, we also saw a legion of like-minded customers – people who came to us for advice, who we coaxed into like-mindedness – landing on the same side. The wrong side. The losing side.

When new technology is released to the world, we’re blinded by what’s happening now. We can’t help it. There are no rules. There are no trends to follow. There are no clues as to which technology will ultimately win out. Simply put, the landscape has yet to be mapped out.

This leads to a costly choice. We hyped the Sega Dreamcast – and, doing so, convinced hundreds that it would be worthwhile, costing them a good chunk of money and (eventually) agreeing that, while the Dreamcast was the better system, it wasn’t the most successful. And a non-successful system isn’t going to make games, rendering the “better system” argument null.

The Moral

So there we sat. The wrong side of history, hanging out with betamax, the Sega Game Gear and the ABA, patiently waiting for HD DVD to join us in a few years.

But it wasn’t all for naught. When the Nintendo Gamecube was released, I had learned my lesson. I sat back. I waited. And, despite the pro-Nintendo leanings of our store, I correctly predicted it would fail.

I had been burned before. I now understood what it was like to be on the wrong side of history. I now understood the importance of waiting a few rounds before entering the fight.

—

(Oh, BTW. This longish Dreamcast soliloquy was inspired by Consollection, a fantastic, probably totally exhaustive timeline of the video game console.)

Tags: Career, Technology, Vilhauer |

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On discovering content strategy

January 11, 2010


I know – and, I assume, every copywriter worth his or her weight in legal pads knows – that the days of living solely on print copy and television scripts are waning.

And while there may be a few that can continue spitting out inspired old-media copy for 40 hours a week, whether because the agency they work for is large enough to supply the work or because they possess an exceptional niche talent for it, I suspect the idea of a dedicated copywriter in a smaller agency is going to slowly fade away.

Not for the bad, though. For the good.

For the best, actually. Especially if you know where the future is.

Enter the field of Web Content Strategy.

My Discovery

Here’s a big stupid secret: I like the Web. I like Web sites.

In 1997, I created a Web site for a local hardcore band, Floodplain. It wasn’t very good, but let’s face it – compared to today’s standards, no one’s Web sites were very good in 1997.

In 1998, I began what would turn out to be an early-stage blog. I had no idea what CSS was (though, in my defense, few did) but I still hand-coded and archived daily entries into a journal of my navel-gazing, Get Up Kids-fueled sophomore year.

And then, I stopped. I worked toward a bio ed degree, unconvinced that either writing nor Web could bring anything of substance.

Oops.

That was then. Now, I work with words, and often those words end up on the Internet, and when they do, I’m often surprised how little care is taken for other peoples’ Internet words. Words don’t matter on the Internet, it seemed.

“Gross,” I thought. Doesn’t anyone care?

And that’s when I learned about content strategy. Not the idea, but the practice. That there are people who care about it, and it’s their job to care about it, and I thought to myself, OH MY GOD NOW I HAVE SOMETHING TO DO THAT ISN’T WRITING A PRINT AD.

It felt like an awakening.

Spreading the Word

Understanding the impact of this discovery is akin to hearing about a great underground album for the first time. You LOVE it. It’s a bit quirky, and it’s certainly never going to get major radio time, but it’s quickly becoming one of your favorite albums.

But no one else has heard of it. You can’t talk to anyone about it. They just don’t get it, and here it is, this beautiful, amazing suite of music, absolutely changing your life, but it’s only sold 10,000 nationwide and you’re pretty sure not one of those copies has landed anywhere within a 100-mile radius of your home.

And then you go online and find a message board for the band. You find the band’s Web site. You read reviews in college newspapers, and you discover an intense following among a subset of people that really aren’t any different from you. You know these people. YOU CAN FINALLY TALK TO SOMEONE!

You discover new music, you dye your hair orange, you move to San Francisco and start your own band. Or something like that.

That’s me with this content strategy business.

And Now…

All of this is leading somewhere. Which is why, much to the chagrin of the established Web community in Sioux Falls – and probably to some of my co-workers – this subtle shift has led to a new tag-along mentality, in which I seek out more information, more contact, more firepower. Like the young punker who strives to hang out with the established bands, gradually weaseling his way into acceptance, I stalk content strategy and its followers.

Because, really, I’ve got this deep-seated longing to be a crafty Web designer or coder. To enter with the collective language of Web coding, a language as necessary to today’s global market as anything you’d learn from Rosetta Stone, and leave with something both usable and beautiful is an unachievable dream.

But I know I’ll never be a star Web designer or a developer. However, I now see that I – and writers in general – can at least participate in the game, fostering change within my current position and growing as both a professional and as a Web aficionado.

There is life after print. There is life after radio.

Adapting as a writer in today’s Web-centric world has little to do with becoming better at old media. Instead, it has everything to do with reaching wider, not becoming more skilled at what we already know, but branching into the fields we’ll be asked to work with.

Web content strategy takes what we as writers already cherish – the written word, the communication of themes and concepts through language – and combines it with higher level skills; strategy, organization, architecture, big picture stuff that goes beyond a link or headline.

It’s not just the future, you guys. It’s happening now.

The death of the 30-second spot? The decline of newspaper advertising? The fracturing of viewership and the iPod’s savage destruction of traditional radio?

When it comes to the Web, those scares are only words. Only content. Which, in turn, is the only thing passed from person to person: content, searched for and archived and tweeted and e-mailed and read and remembered.

If content is still king, Web content strategy is how kings are made.

Tags: Advertising and Marketing, Career, Content Strategy, Technology, Writing |

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Another graphic day at Graphic Content

October 20, 2009


Someone over at Graphic Content - the region’s premiere art and design blog - must have me confused with an actual artist. For the second time this month, something I’ve created has made the cut: this time, some photography from D.C.

Humbling, as always.

For more photos, I implore you to check out the photoblog (Much More Sure) or our Flickr page. And get Graphic Content into your feed reader, if you haven’t already.

Tags: Blogging, Career, Photography, Random Links |

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Gone fishing

September 2, 2009


Very few of us perform our work – or even our hobbies – in a vacuum.

I don’t write, or take pictures, or do whatever it is, simply for my own enjoyment. Though that is the main reason, I also do it because I have pride in the work I do, and because I hope that others will find value in it.

Such is the case with most creative fields. We spent hours at our craft not just to have a finished product we’re proud of, but also to have a finished product that others are proud of.

The problem is that I’ll never accurately know the impact that finished product has. (At least, not without blatantly fishing for compliments.)

Chances are, we all care about our standing on the Web, or at work, or in whatever arena we fill. Yet, there’s no way to effectively gauge our impact – readership, influence, whatever – without making a plea for loyalty. I’ll never know until I can get a roll call, and even then it’s not likely.

It’s a Catch-22. I’d love to know if some of the people I follow – whose stuff I’m inspired by, local or national – follow me back. But I can’t let anyone know about it, because those same people are confident enough not to fish for confirmation.

It sounds pathetic to wander up to people you respect and ask, “DO YOU LIKE ME?” Even more so when you understand that they’re stuck – either answer yes, regardless of feelings, or stay silent in a perceived admission of distaste.

Tags: Career, Meta, Photography, Writing |

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On the fickle hand of the Great Idea

August 24, 2009


In my business, you should never trust an idea.

Ideas are cruel. Ideas are fickle. And, if you wait long enough, an idea will break your heart.

If you fall in love with an idea – especially in the early stages of creative discourse – you are guaranteed to see it fall apart. You will discover flaws in recesses you never knew existed. Your idea, despite your fawning defense of it, will crumble beneath the critical eye of the Masses.

Great ideas are rare. Priceless ones are impossible. They depend not only on the enthusiasm of the creator, but also an infectious ability to wow everyone on the way up the ladder.

Sometimes that idea – the one you’ve mistakenly fallen for – will nearly make it to print. Sometimes, that idea will die once it’s reached the top of the heap, like a weakened crusader forced to battle one last monster of an enemy.

If you think you’ve come up with a perfect idea, keep trying. There’s no such thing.

This is why, when it comes to ideas, a thick skin is required.

Now, all I need to do is develop a thicker one.

Tags: Career, Writing |

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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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