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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Reading the coffee leaves

November 16, 2008


While Billie Holiday’s voice slowly settles on my mind, blanketing my headache with the twiddle of a saxophone, I look around and realize that, somehow, I’ve become the oldest person in this coffee shop.

Each chair is filled with youthful abandon, legs splayed like a spilled box of matches, computers blinking back into busy, wandering eyes. Some are students, obviously, studying. The books give them away, as does the look of panic; an eight p.m. panic that betrays the fear of the next day’s classes. Others are just talking – at times to each other, at other times to their phones, to someone else who’s not even here.

(The image is common: two phones are poised as if ready for battle, two girls staring at each other through the flipped top of an LG enV.)

I wonder what they think of the people around them. If they know them from school, or if they’re blissfully unaware that there’s even anyone else in the place. Some of them are working hard, barely registering the fact that, really, they’re working hard for the privilege of working even harder in a few years.

Because I’m often vain and self-conscious, I wonder how I look. I’m by no means old, but I know I’m older. Even at 30 I’ve lost the luster of college living, no longer fresh faced, weary from a weekend of hammering out a marketing plan and the other non-creative diversions that pay the bills long enough for me to do something really fun. Do I look out of place? Am I blending in? Oh, man, I hope I’m blending in.

Most of all, I wonder what I’m missing.

That used to be me, I think. That was Kerrie and me, sitting across from each other, enjoying the night, the last few hours before the week began again, me with something that didn’t resemble coffee and her with something more true to the notion. Planning not our future, but our present. Planning our night. Planning our next few minutes. Planning on getting the hell out of the coffee shop and into the cold and through the brisk St. Cloud air into something completely different, reveling in the freedom of the moment.

Sometimes, I miss that.

And at the same time, I don’t.

There’s a lot to be said for the beauty of consistency. There’s a lot to be said about having someplace steady, about going home to a beaming young girl, to the warmth of familiarity, to the place where my stuff is and where it will be not until the end of the semester but for the rest of my life if I want it that long.

It’s times like this, surrounded by those who will shape the future, all of them seemingly oblivious to what’s ahead, that I feel nostalgic for college. For cramming and learning and forced writing and bluffing through textbooks. I remember how hard it was, and how rewarding. Even more, how now, seven years later, I’m still cramming and learning and writing things I wouldn’t if I had my druthers but at least now I’m making money and – GASP – enjoying it.

The door rings. An older gentleman walks in.

My mind clears again. I’ve never been so happy to see a stranger in my life.

Tags: Vilhauer |

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Milestones

October 26, 2008


Our age. Our lives, our family, our changes. At work, at home, metaphorically. In every part of every life, we’re presented with milestones, a series of points on our timeline. They are reasons to celebrate. They are trying and difficult. They are the marks we use to measure ourselves, like notches on a ruler.

Sometimes, they fill us with anxiety. Like milestone birthdays. On Friday, I celebrated my 30th birthday, an age that arrived with a basket full of mortality. What had I done with my life? Where was I going? Had I done enough? You know - the questions you ask when faced with the passage of time.

It’s just one of those numbers. Thirty. No longer twenties. No longer close to college, no longer searching for reason. It’s daunting. Even if it’s a bullshit notion, it’s daunting all the same.

I’ve never felt old before – out of place, sometimes, but not old. And I still don’t. The moment has passed, and nothing feels different. But for a few weeks, 30 seemed very real. Very frightening.

Other times, milestones fill us with pride. This is the 1,000th post on Black Marks on Wood Pulp. What started as a time waster, never designed for posterity, has become an institution in my life. It’s my outlet, the big brown tree my muse, my identity on the Internet and, in many cases, in real life.

It’s not the reach or frequency I’m proud of, as I rarely have either, but it’s the longevity. That I’ve been able to keep a hobby for longer than the life of a typical reality television series. That I’ve chosen to do something that, ultimately, has shaped what I’ve become, both in my profession and in how I communicate.

What’s surprising to me is that, with both of these milestones, there’s a noticeable lack of change. The milestone comes racing in, showing off, a 150th anniversary here, a 22-game winning streak there, and there’s a sense of exclusivity, that we’re going to be treated to something mindshaking, boggling the rest of us with its pure, unbridled sense of being.

But that rarely happens. After a few days, the milestone has passed. Its legend continues to grow, but typically nothing has changed. Things continue just as they always have, a spot on a much longer timeline, a drip on an otherwise clear field of white.

Milestones are propped up as definitive events, but are rarely anything aside from a round number or a change in terminology. They’re marks, checkpoints along life’s road, but after they’ve passed, for the most part, you put the car back in drive and keep on going.

So 30 is nothing to be afraid of. And 1,000 is still impressive, but not transformative. Just as 40 and 2,000 will be. And 50. And 3,000. They’re goals. But they’re not final goals. And they sure as hell aren’t reasons to change direction.

Tags: Meta, Vilhauer |

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My 2001 presence

October 1, 2008


2,960

Eight years ago, I had no Internet presence.

This is not completely true. Eight years ago, as we prepared to roll over into 2001, I was pretty active on the Internet. I had already created three Web sites, including a site for local band Floodplain and a personal writing site called “…Prying.” But I had no presence in the sense of searchable product. My personal sites were rarely linked to, so my standing in the world of search engine metrics was a big fat zero.

Google, eight years ago

Fast forward, and here I am. Nearly 3,000 results. Not a lot, but worthwhile. Nearly a thousand of these are surely BMOWP blog posts, and at least a thousand more are probably based on date and tag hierarchy in BMOWP.

Google, now

I say, “Here I am.” But really, I should say here we are. With blogging, social networking and the advancement of public records on the Internet, most of us can Google our name and find a vast amount of information, both self-published and governmentally controlled.

It’s an ego boost, for sure. And it’s an incredibly revealing exercise. What do others see of you? If someone searched your name, what would they find? How are you presenting yourself to the public, and is it okay with you?

I’m fine with my standing on the Internet. I feel I’m represented well. Others, not so much – ask any kid whose parents find drinking pictures on Facebook.

Where were you in terms of searchability eight years ago? In honor of Google’s 10th anniversary, they have set up a special Google search based on their January 2001 database.

Were you Internet popular in 2001?

Is there anyone whose standing went down?

Ask Al Gore.

Tags: Blogging, Meta, Vilhauer |

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On anticipating fall

September 21, 2008


The only thing I can hope is that with the smell of falling leaves comes a similarly windswept busyness, that things will mellow out, that we’ll face the lowering of the temperature with a lowering of energy, torporing our way into the typical droll autumn attitudes.

Because the weeks seem to be going to fast. Sierra’s shooting up like a milkweed unchecked, a full inch and a half in just a month and a half. New experiences. Hot days. Shorts, grill-outs, a series of backyards and porches and patios. Summer lights up, blinds us – forces us to blink – and when we’re standing with our eyes finally open again we notice that it’s already September. It’s already time to say goodbye. As if we never even knew it.

I love each beautiful day, but with the cacophony of grunts and football banter flowing in each weekend, I can’t help but long for the crispness of October. My birth month. The first month I learned to love, with the anticipation of Halloween and the great candy and the changing of the colors and the cooling of the weather, the winds and grayness serving as a cold shower to our over-excited lives.

Leaves. Wind. Cold rain. Overcast. Hoodies. Jeans. The puffy vest everyone gets tired of seeing after a few weeks. Hot coffee during a still dark morning.

I’m sorry. I should appreciate these days while they’re still here.

But life is moving a little faster than we expected, and I can only hope that this fall helps cool things down. Because our engines can’t run on overdrive for too long without running out of gas and sputtering to a halt. We can’t miss a thing. Sometimes it feels like we’re missing it all.

I’m stuck between a season I love and a season I need.

Tags: On..., Sierra, Vilhauer |

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Post marked stamps

September 17, 2008


The vehicle looks like a pygmy ice cream truck, the doors opening the wrong way, the driver sitting as if he had fallen out of a Monty Python skit. The shorts are ridiculous, the black shoes and socks even worse. But to see him walking down my front walk is to feel the pangs of excitement, the promise of what could be. Open optimism, the glass not half full, but overflowing and pouring into a safety reservoir for later use.

The mail is coming. And I’m excited.

Always. Without fail. I view the coming of the mail the same way some wait for the morning newspaper, like some wait for the weather report, how others continue listening to the radio in order to hear the Twins score, with anticipation and promise.

This isn’t an “old man watching the ag report” phenomenon. This is a testament to the open possibilities of what could come in the mail, the same kind of tug that draws some to cliff jump or hike the Boundary Waters or travel to the Amazon. Except a lot more simple. And a lot safer.

The best part is, I know I’m not alone.

For most of us, it starts when we order something as a kid. The torture of waiting for something in the mail tears at us, as it did to Ralphie in A Christmas Story as he waited for his Ovaltine decoder ring. In college, it becomes a part of your day. Walking to the mailbox to see what stuff you get – letters from long-distance partners, checks from parents, packages from some midnight drunk shopping spree – is nearly equal to an early dinner at the commons in terms of importance and procrastination.

And then, you grow up. Your mail becomes more varied. More people ask for money, some give you money, others offer you riches unimagined. Cards from family members you can barley remember, orders you forgot you’d paid for. Every pile is a new adventure, a reconnecting with the outside world, a period of discovery that once connected us like no other, before the days of e-mail and its instant gratification and ease. Some of it’s utter shit. But equally, some of it is surprising. Exciting.

I must have an old soul, because I still long for the brief connection of the mail.

Magazines and other periodicals. Shipments. Birthday cards. Newsletters. Bills. I anticipate what could be coming each day. It’s the first thing I do when I stop home for lunch, and my hour seems derailed if the mail hasn’t arrived. I order enough things over the Internet to have perfected the longing need for mail delivery. When will my camera get here? Why hasn’t that book arrived? Shouldn’t my magazine come this month, or is it the November/December combined holiday issue?

And then it arrives. I look it over, skim through the stuff I have no interest in, and toss it on the pile. Just like that, it’s over.

But for a few brief minutes, from the anticipation and realization of mail delivery to holding those assorted items in your hands, anything is possible.

Tags: On..., Vilhauer |

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I’m back…

September 7, 2008


Chances are, you haven’t seen me around for a few days.

There’s a reason. I’ve been on vacation, in northern Virginia, where Kerrie’s parents now live. It’s about an hour west of Washington D.C., and right in the heart of historical Virginia, where the streets are all cobblestone and the shops all consist of the same warped windows that have lasted through two of the country’s most recognized wars.

But more than that, I’ve been on a mini sabbatical, a rest from the world, respite from my constant wordsmithing. I’ve been recharging, as they say, and I won’t lie – I feel it.

I feel like I’m bursting with inspiration, my mind ready to take on the challenges of writer’s block. I feel like I’ve got things to say. Weekly and monthly columns to get around to. Books to pretend I actually read.

And, I feel relaxed. Probably for the first time since I stayed home with Sierra during my paternity leave. Relaxed, and thrilled about it.

With this relaxation, with the utter lack of responsibility and no need for critical thinking, I made some incredible realizations. Realizations that might seem banal, too simple to be revelations. But revelations all the same.

I realized that Washington D.C. isn’t a tourist paradise, but a legitimate amazing feat of urban design, mass transit and epic history. I realized that even the most hardened cynic can feel patriotic around the Lincoln Memorial. And I realized that after three years I still haven’t come to full terms with my grandfather’s death, a veteran of both the Vietnam and Korean wars, two wars memorialized in D.C. and located in close proximity for the maximum in emotional drainage.

I realized that history is unchanging, and that no matter how many layers of paint or remodeling jobs you do the ghosts of history still stand, watching you, Civil War caps tipped to the right, bayonets sagging under the weight of their ammunition, thousands of lives wasted for a quarrel, their remains creating the landscape that we trod upon.

I realized that 350+ pictures is probably enough.

I realized that a beer at noon tastes better than any consumed at night, that seafood pasta at home can reach restaurant like excellence and that the only thing you should do while on vacation is eat and drink and eat some more.

I realized that a week can easily be wasted just watching your daughter grow up.

Most of all, I realized that time off is necessary. That it’s healthy. That the problems of travel and close quarters and weather and delays and rising tension and lost productivity mean nothing when matched to the sheer expanse of soothing catharsis that comes from a few hours away from the grid. Or a few days. Or a week. Plus.

That’s all in the past, though. I’m back, and I’m glad.

Tags: Blogging, Grandpa Boyer, Meta, On..., Outdoors, Travel, Vilhauer, Writing |

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