Atelier: a method of craft

February 22, 2010


ate·lier
Pronunciation: \ˌa-təl-ˈyā\
Function: noun
Etymology: French, from Middle French astelier woodpile, from astele splinter, from Late Latin astella, diminutive of Latin astula
Date: 1699

1 : an artist’s or designer’s studio or workroom
2 : workshop

Great word, though this only hints at the way it was used by Jeffrey MacIntire from Predicate, LLC in his editorial strategy presentation “The Day 2 Problem.”

In that presentation, MacIntire set “atelier” against “factory,” comparing both as opposites in editorial production models (in simple terms: how articles are created). Positioned as one of the five arguments of editorial strategy, the message was clear: there’s a major issue on whether your copy is manufactured or alive. You can churn out fluffed up writing with little heart and a high Lowest Common Denominator factor, or you can spend time crafting copy as if it was something worth paying attention to. A work of thought and intelligence. Of (* gasp! *) substance and (* shudder *) art.

As if it was something you conjured up in a small, cozy workshop.

I like that.

Tags: Content Strategy, Words, Writing |

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Metagames

February 17, 2010


When I worked in CallCenterLand, dutifully typing conversations for the deaf and hard of hearing, I would count my time by a not-too-complex system of circles and Xs.

My ten hour day would be broken into 40 15-minute parts, each represented by a circle. I would cross them out, one by one, until it was break time. Upon my return, I would dive into the next set of circles. Each 15-minute period graphically represented, I would find myself with a visual reminder of how far I had come. Circle. Circle. Circle. X. X. X.

Even earlier, on my walks home from grade school, my route would be broken into one-block segments. How fast could I reach the end of stage one? Could I beat my record for stage three? The sixth block was extra long – like a par 5, I suppose – and it would be the biggest challenge.

This is the thought behind creating lists – not just to determine what needs to be done, but also to physically rid yourself of yet another stage, the dark black line crossing out a completed task signifying accomplishment like no other form of communication ever has.

Large or small, these are a form of metagame: namely, creating tasks within larger tasks. I suppose the true definition comes from true games; mini-games inside of ordinary tasks, like time trials during dishwashing or not touching the sidewalk during stage seven of your walk home, are now seen in today’s videogame world with increasing abundance. But for me, the idea of a metagame is just as much the way we spend time separating our everyday accomplishments into more palatable pieces.

No one can eat a sandwich all at once, or do the laundry in one load. Yet, we try to tackle projects in lumps – we look at writing books, not chapters; we look at writing campaigns, not individual print pieces. We take in the whole, even when it’s human nature to chop things up into pieces. It’s human nature to want completeness, even if it’s completing just one portion of a larger body.

I could talk more about metagames – and the issue of completeness – but I’d be entering into the territory of a fantastic article by Sleepover, San Francisco. An excerpt:

When a game has built-in achievements, explicit hidden items, and other layered-in experiences, it’s usually pitched as added value. In reality, they’re only adding in time consumption — a measure of value most likely derived from the era of arcades.

I believe the main reason games like Farmville maintain a huge player base is the enticement of the metagame. The actual game mechanic of farming — which comprises most of the game — is unfathomably dull. It’s the abstracted layer above the farming that creates the primary motivation: ribbons (achievements), new items, leaderboards, etc.

But the blur of time-consumption and value is simultaneously damaging Farmville. Because satisfaction is derived only from the metagame, success is a measure of how many hours you’re willing to play, not your abilities. Players who have invested a lot of time into the game end up feeling bitter about the fruits (or vegetables) of their labor.

You have to see the page for yourself. The article is a series of metagames of its own.

(Via someone, from his or her blog. Can’t remember. Sorry.)

Tags: Technology, What I've Been Reading, Words, Writing |

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RT @UserName Tweets are real content, you guys #srsly

January 26, 2010


The following post touches on three things: Twitter, overreaction and a tidy little moral.

On Twitter, and its Place as Serious Content

There are two schools of thought on the validity of Twitter’s content. One school sees Twitter comments as banal, throwaway lines, not worthy of archiving or protecting. They’re the bottom of the barrel, resting comfortably next to Facebook updates and MySpace pages.

The other understands that Twitter continues to serve as a micro-microblog. There may only be 140 characters, but that limit doesn’t downplay the merit of the thought. In other words: you say it in 140 characters or 140 paragraphs – there’s no difference in the hierarchy of importance.

Those that tweet about breakfast are in the first group. Those that spend time crafting brilliant non-sequiturs are in the second. Those that pooh-pooh Twitter as a waste of time are in the first. Those that see Twitter’s value as a depository for new information are in the second.

I’m in the second group.

Which is why I get so upset when a tweet is mishandled. My tweet. My words. My thoughts.

My Overreaction

See, it was cold outside. It was snowing. It was a blizzard; as in, the snow was blowing sideways. And I could have said this. I could have said, on Twitter, “THE SNOW IS BLOWING SIDEWAYS,” and gotten on with my life.

I didn’t. Because I’m in that second group of Twitter users. Instead, I wrote this.

Not high on the LULZ Meter, but still, better than just saying “THE SNOW IS BLOWING SIDEWAYS.”

I continued on with my day. And then, I was re-tweeted.

A subtle change – and a change made in good faith – but enough of a change to upset the timing, lose the sarcasm and render my former tweet spayed and neutered. Just like that, my mood went black. Tired of being nice, I respond with this passive aggressive gem.

I felt better. For a while.

And Here’s Why I’m a Cranky Twitter User

If I write a blog post and someone wants to link back to it, I expect to be quoted accurately. Not out of context. I expect that what I say will be represented just as well on someone else’s blog as it is on my own – in fact, maybe even more so, since my work is being passed along with additional helpful comments attached.

I expect this because it’s what should be done. It’s what you do in print. It’s what you do at newspapers and magazines. It’s what you do when you’re blogging. It’s good, clean attribution.

On Twitter, however, things are still rolling like the Wild West. Tweets are seen as a thought, not a carefully worded message. That I wrote my original in a certain tone, with specific punctuation, isn’t taken into consideration. After all – it’s just a tweet, and it’s free to be passed along, truncated to allow for a RT and a hashtag and attribution even though, if you think about it, the tweet no longer represents what I said in the first place.

It’s why I don’t care for re-tweeting “with comments,” and why I rarely do it.

I’ve since apologized for the passive aggressiveness. The person who RTed me didn’t mean harm. It’s just that the perception of Twitter as a playground for creative content is still in its infant stages. And, thanks to its ever-expanding use, it may never reach that point.

Which is too bad. One spin through the old Favrd (now Favstar, I guess) community is enough to see the promise that Twitter holds in the form of one-line, creatively penned tweets, as valuable as any long form blog post or magazine article, whether for information, humor or truth.

Until that day, I’ll be over here, fighting for Twitter standards and burning bridges I never knew existed.

Tags: Annoyances, Technology, Words, Writing |

4 Comments

Pronounced

January 20, 2010


A couple of words I rarely pronounce correctly:

Colombia
I can’t manage to say this word without really emphasizing the “long o” sound. Coh-Lohm-be-ah.

I imagine that’s how people in Colombia say it, and I mimic it, like those people who over emphasize Spanish pronunciation in the midst of an otherwise English sentence (Them: “Oh, sure, I’ll have a margarita, gracias!” Me: “Dude, we’re at Chili’s, not a taqueria in Mexico City.” Them: “Well, pardon moi!” Me: “That’s French, you moron.”)

In all honesty, though, I pronounce it that way so I remember how to spell it. Been burned by the Columbia-When-I-Really-Mean-Colombia mistake a few too many times.

Template
Contrary to what I learned over 16 years of public schooling and seven years of professional work, it’s not “Tem-PLATE.” It’s “TEM-plit.”

Or, at least, that’s what it sounds like when I say it.

This discovery (made over a work meeting when a know-it-all former-journalist named Justin - who I can insult without guilt because he doesn’t read this blog - pointed out our flawed pronunciation and was further vindicated by a stupid, traitorous dictionary) was disappointing.

“TEM-plit” has no character. It’s flat. It’s gross. I like “Tem-PLATE.” It sounds like what it is. A plate of tem.

That is, if by “tem” I actually mean “stuff already done for you, you lazy fart.”

Tags: Words, Writing |

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Beegelbed

November 24, 2009


“Beegelbed”

This is not a word. It has never entered our minds, never left our mouth, never been created. In the history of words, it is nothing.

That is, until now.

Because, you see, it’s not enough for Sierra to learn words at a frightening pace. No. Now, she’s making up her own.

Except, here’s the rub: We’re not sure if she’s making it up, or if we’re simply NOT UNDERSTANDING HER.

Sierra is two. Which means she’s at the age of rapid comprehension, when thoughts are quickly made into words. This is the stage of addition, fast enough that pronunciation and context is an afterthought. Refining the language will come later on.

It’s thrilling. New words pour out of her, and understanding of grammar and diction increases. For a couple of wordhounds, it’s like magic. We’re seeing the connection between verbal and actual, the evolution of thought into communication.

And because we’re always there, we understand her quirks. We know what she means, even if others can’t decipher it. Because, again, she’s two. Which means she’s constantly walking the thin line between universal conversation and frustration.

And then, there’s “beegelbed.”

We’ve asked. “What’s a beegelbed?” (She smiles and says, “Nooooo.”)

Okay. “What’s a beegelbed say,” we ask, assuming it’s an animal. (She smiles again. This is all very funny.)

We sound out different things. “Beagle Bed?” “Beetle Bug?” “Beat Elwood?”

Nothing. For now.

And it will stay nothing. Because really, all we have to do is wait. Within a few weeks, the word will have disappeared, either sucked up into distant memory or honed to the point of understanding. Eventually, it won’t be the words she’s questioning, but concepts. Why is the sky blue and all of that. Give it a few years, and we’ll be wondering how she learned so much, how she ever ended up at our level, carrying on a real conversation about school and her friends and some random television program that we’ll never understand because we lost our ability to comprehend teenage humor a long time ago.

We’ll wonder where the time went. We’ll long for the days where her words were first starting to burst forth.

Until then, though, I’ll just sit confused, uneasily wondering what she could mean by “beegelbed.”

Tags: Sierra, Words |

2 Comments

$40,000 is a lot of food

July 9, 2009


I happened to catch part of an episode of Oprah last week. She was talking to Heather Armstrong, star of super-popular mommy blog Dooce, about the difficulties of being a mother. About her surprisingly interesting life. And about how she does what she does, which, essentially, is blogging for a paycheck.

This is what I took away: Heather Armstrong enjoys what she does. The freedoms and the stresses of constantly documenting life.

Oh, and she makes $40,000 a month through her blog. A month.

My question: Why can’t I make money doing this?

The answer: Stubbornness.

In terms of influence, the two sites can’t be compared equally. After all, Dooce and Black Marks on Wood Pulp are two completely different animals. Dooce has been propped up by 8 years of loyalty, bumped first by a national story about being fired for blogging and continued through the years by Armstrong’s stories of post-partum depression. It’s become the most read blog on the Internet. It’s reach alone dwarfs anything I could possibly keep up with.

Black Marks on Wood Pulp is just me, blah blah blahing about deeply introspective and self-serving narratives.

But the real concern is that, through the life of this blog, I’ve never considered it prudent to ask for more than a passing attention. Attention for my words and my thoughts, to serve as a sounding board for whatever insecurities and random book thoughts I might have.

Which makes it feel disingenuous to put advertising on my site. Like I’m betraying the trust of my readers. Like I’m stooping to the lowest common denominator.

Even more, it feels as if I’m touting my importance, as if I’m saying, “I am important enough to be sponsored.”

Yet, here I am, contemplating extra income for something I already do. Something I truly enjoy. Monetizing my hobby, as I’ve been lucky enough to do with photography (here and there, at least.)

I don’t have the answer.

I’ll never be at Dooce’s level. I don’t have enough drama in my life, frankly. But until that point, you probably still won’t see ads on Black Marks on Wood Pulp, despite an assurance from several friends and family members that it won’t harm anything. That, while I’ll never be making $40,000 a month, it wouldn’t hurt to bring in an extra $100 bucks every few months. That I’m giving away a talent, refusing to cash in, not giving myself enough credit.

I’d like to say I’m staying ad free because I’m fighting the norm, refusing to put a price on art, saving my readers from the humiliation of seeing tummy tuck and credit report banner ads.

I’d be lying. The real reason I haven’t put a price on Black Marks on Wood Pulp isn’t solely due to integrity or values. It’s because I’m too scared of offending my readers, tied to the vocal minority that will call it “selling out.”

It’s because I’m too afraid to leap, not knowing who would still be around to catch me if I fell too far.

Tags: Blogging, Vilhauer, Words, Writing |

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Window treatments

July 6, 2009


It wasn’t that long ago that Sierra surprised us all, uttering “teamwork,” a word several levels higher than her current vocabulary could withstand. It was cute. It also showed the power of the Wonder Pets – three classroom animals and a catchy song was all it took to teach her a multi-syllabic concept.

(We know - all kids learn a higher-level word or two in the midst of the basics. That doesn’t take away from the fact that it’s cute as hell.)

But now we’ve entered a dangerous territory: Sierra has reached a state of all-out mimicry, soaking in words and repeating them regardless of context.

Ask my mom, who recently (unknowingly) taught Sierra how to say “Oh my God.”

At this point, anything is possible. Any word has the potential to stick. Swear words, jokes, expressions, idioms, brand names and pet names. This week, it’s “ice cream cone” and “baby llama.” Next week, who knows. “Target?” “Oprah?” “Don’t Tase Me Bro?”

It was brought to point just last weekend. After a few days of selecting and sewing and hanging from Kerrie’s mother Cindy – “Ci-ci,” according to Sierra – we had some window treatments installed over our front window.

On Friday, trailing a stream of babbling and nonsense, Sierra pointed to the new installation.

“Win-now treet-men, Ci-ci go”

Seriously? What kid says that? What kid feels the need to attach words to curtains? Kerrie and I looked at each other and understood the weight of her words.

Yes, Sierra. Those are window treatments. Yes, Cindy installed them. And yes, Grandma Ci-Ci has gone home.

Oh, and in the meantime, we’d better begin using an ounce of caution with everything we say from now on. Because a toddler’s listening. And she’s eager to surprise us again.

Tags: Sierra, Words |

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