Correct Good Ghost Feed

Since separating good ghost & julesisaacs.com into my blog and design portfolio respectively, I'm worried people following good ghost are instead receiving feed updates from julesisaacs.com . . . meaning you're getting all the "posts" from my design gallery. To get the correct feed for good ghost, just copy and paste this feed into your reader of choice (I use Feedly):

http://goodghost.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default?alt=rss

Just pop it in wherever your "add content" button is.

Thanks!
Jules

Binge Writing

For Camp NaNoWriMo I started out with serious ambitions to finish/polish/whatever The Book Smart Wolf but I've been working on that book for so long I'm a little burnt out on it. A lot of burnt out on it. So when April 1st hit I found myself free-writing an idea set in an alternate 1950s where we still have iPhones & Google, Kayne West & Katy Perry. It was about a greaser and soc who fall in love amidst being pursued by a demon. Which sounds crazy and paranormal romance shelf at B&N, I know, but the plot wasn't so much about the demon or modern technology as it was about these two kids overcoming their own personal demons and faults. The demon was metaphorical but also real? It's much more normal than I'm describing, but I really don't know how to normalize its plot for a blog post description.

Demon Days was an interesting exercise in just letting go and writing what I wanted to write about, and I'm happier with this product than anything else I've ever written before. I wrote it for me and no one else, which was refreshing. When writing I normally have my own invisible demon nearby, being all super judgey about my plot points and rude about my writing style. But without that demon to pester me, and only myself to please, the writing came swiftly and easily, like splurging in words I always wanted to type but found myself too embarrassed to. In April I binged on all those words, and I came away fat with a funny kind of happiness I've yet to be familiar with.

Separated

Changes! Changes! Changes 'round here! I officially separated "julesisaacs.com" from good ghost, so now one is a "professional design website" and the other is my personal blog, as it's always been, but now I don't feel so bad about bloating it with photos of my kids. And now I'm able to rant about stuff without the fear of a client raising their eyebrows. Not sure why I didn't just keep the two separate in the first place. Probably because I'm not really a pro-freelancer so much as I'm a "yeah, uh, I can design that, um, here's my web site? Oh, you just want me to maintain your Facebook? Yeah, uh, that's not really what I do . . . but banner ads, yeah, I do that . . ." kind of freelancer.

Maybe this means I'll post more often? Maybe? We'll see. I should be a more courteous blogger and leave comments on YOUR posts rather than fret over mine . . . I promise I'm reading, I've just become a lurker rather than a commenter these days.

If any of you followed good ghost or julesisaacs.com through Feedly, go ahead and unsubscribe from julesisaacs.com, because that post feed is now used as my gallery. All blog posts will now spew forth from this part of the internet. Hurrah.

Indoorsy Type

Seve and I built this cool little tent together for Camp NaNoWriMo, the spring equivalent to the event held in November. Seve does Nano with his creative writing class each semester, and though the November event is well known with plenty of library and bookstore participation, Camp NaNo isn't as riddled with local events. Any, actually. So Seve and I make our own! At the kick-off party we set up an inflatable campfire, projected a looping video of a full moon onto the chalkboard, played some ambient forest noises over the speakers, and hid a microwave in the tent so we could "roast" hot dogs and marshmallows. It was so fun I got zero writing done! Yeah!

But when the tent's at home, I cuddle up and write to my heart's content. The Camp Nano event I'm looking the most forward to this year? April 15th is the lunar eclipse and we've rented out a cool backyard venue to write by the light of the blood red moon. so awesome omg can't wait can't wait

Guess what

EXCEPT THAT IT'S NOT. HA! APRIL FOOL'S!

Guest Post: Thousands of Hours

Today I have a guest post from my good friend, Liz Chapman! She's an actress and a poet and several other things, but most importantly a good friend to me and Seve. I've asked her to muse about the craft of writing. You can check out her blog here.

My mom recalls the first word I ever wrote. “Snake.” I’m not sure what sort of psychological implications that particular word has, but I like that my mom remembers that. (She does not, however, remember the first word I ever said.) I think I’ve always been a writer. I hate phrases like that. “I’ve always been a writer.” It’s absurdly pretentious. But I guess it’s true. I didn’t realize it until 8th grade or so, and even then, it wasn’t some earth-shattering realization. The fact that I wrote things didn’t seem noteworthy to me. It was just something I did.

The earth-shattering realization I’m having now is that if I have any sort of aptitude for writing, it’s more because of repetition and practice than any kind of innate talent. I don’t have an enormous publication record that started when I was 11 or something crazy like that. But I have been keeping regular journals since 8th grade. I’ve been blogging for around ten years. My minor in college was English. And after doing something fairly regularly for long enough, you start to figure it out.

Have you heard of the “10,000 hour rule”? Malcolm Gladwell popularized the idea in his book, “Outliers.” The basic idea is that if you spend 10,000 hours doing something, you become an expert at it. I think the truth is probably more complicated, but I think I agree that time equals expertise.

Take Ray Bradbury. When Ray Bradbury was a kid, he used to hang around traveling carnivals and circuses that came into town. When he was 12, the carnival magician, Mr. Electrico, touched Bradbury with his sword and said, “Live forever!” Bradbury said later, “I decided that was the greatest idea I had ever heard. I started writing every day. I never stopped.”

And when he says he started writing every day, he meant it. He wrote 1,000 words a day. Every day. And he says that for the first ten years, most of it was pretty bad. And then, when he was 22, he sat at the typewriter and wrote out the short story “The Lake.” It took him two hours, and when he finished, he said that he was sitting at the typewriter, weeping, because he realized that he “had turned a corner in becoming a writer.” He said he realized that he’d written the first short story that was really good. After ten years, a thousand words a day of writing.

Here’s what’s truly beautiful about that story. He persisted in doing something every single day for ten years before he felt he was any good at it. That’s amazing. Maybe I’m just a crappy person, but I can’t think of a single thing I’d be willing to do for ten years without being good at it. I’m too impatient. I think I’d give up after a few months. My track record of trying new things has a pretty steady pattern: If I’m okay at it, if I can figure it out, I keep going. If I suck, I tend to give it up.

But I’m learning a valuable lesson from Bradbury, and from Tina Fey, and from fellow English teachers, and from every other talented and accomplished person that I admire. That for the majority of people, there’s this uncomfortable beginning and middle stage of just not being any good. You may have one glimmering tiny moment of success, and if you’re passionate about something, it can sustain you for a year. And then you’ll have another little glimpse of success, and that will carry you through another year. And then, after a long while, you’ll turn a corner, and the moments of accomplishment will happen more often, with fewer times of not being any good.

I think it will always be difficult. Writing, I mean. Or acting. Or teaching. Or anything. I don’t think you ever get to a point where it’s easy. But if you do something enough, you’ll get to a point where, like Ray Bradbury, you look back and realize that you’ve written 27 novels, and 600+ short stories, and that most of them are pretty good.

Or maybe you’ll just start with a guest blog post or two.

(Thanks to the Ray Bradbury website and Random House Audible’s audiobook “The Fantastic Tales of Ray Bradbury” for the stories!)

Voices

Nathan Bransford had a really great post recently on the temptation of abandoning social media. I've only done so when pregnant, because . . . you know. I threw up a lot and got reclusive and kind of crazy. But I've been tempted to leave again, because writing a book is kind of like being pregnant, the throwing up and the reclusiveness and the crazy.

I've been thinking about the culture with each account, though. My Art & Artist post was more in the vein of Tumblr, where we embrace righteous anger and are unabashed in our confessions of depression and anxiety and Netflix bingeing. Why I posted it to Blogspot, where we apologize before describing human emotions, I'm not sure. Probably because I don't have a wide audience. I know all of you personally and consider you my friends, where on Tumblr they're all my friends too, but I've never seen the faces behind the avatars. And Twitter's more like one big cafeteria where we all get to together to tell jokes and engage in that strange mix of cynicism and kindness.

But Tumblr allows itself to be honest and gritty because the culture is all about anonymity, and never handing out your handle to your in-real-life friends (which I've done . . . for some reason). Blogspot (or regular blogs in general) are more about marketing and promotion of your real self, and therefore require highlighting and censoring where appropriate. You have to choose your voice carefully, depending on which venue you choose. And you know what kind of voices to expect from each venue.

But sometimes the voices can be so overwhelming. The internet is just so many voices, and even when I agree with the anger, or join with the laughter, sometimes by the end of the day I feel jumbled and confused and can't find where I am mentally. And I still don't know where to add my voice, despite the years I've had to choose. Where can I discuss my frustration over my faith while having it still be understood that I'm faithful? Where can I post about my children and marriage without feeling like I'm revealing too much of my personal life? Where can I post about fear and anxieties without inviting eye rolls or cruel comments?

I don't know, man, I don't know. Sometimes I'm tempted to turn this blog into a cold, professional website where all the posts are gone and it's simply a basic listing of who I am, in the impersonal manner, and what I offer, and where you can contact me. And to dive into an anonymous Tumblr to satisfy that weird desire to publish my thoughts. I don't know, man, I don't know.

St. Vincent & David Byrne have a song called "I Should Watch TV" where the opening lyrics are:

I used to think that I should watch TV
I used to think that it was good for me
Wanted to know what folks were thinking
To understand the land I live in
And I would lose myself
And it would set me free

This is the place where common people go
A global franchise; one department store
Yes, there were many awkward moments
I had to do some self-atonement
Well, if I opened up
Well, it would set me free

I feel this way about the internet, but the difference is that TV is one sided; it talks at you whereas the internet engages with you. It's the screen you reach through and other human beings reach back in return. With that knowledge I don't want to give in to shyness or fear, I want to keep reaching.

It's good to lose and it's good to win sometimes
It's good to die and it's good be alive
Maybe someday we can stand together
Not afraid of what we see
Maybe someday understand them better
The weird things inside of me

The Dire Dash

I came across this photo while searching through some folders today. This photo was taken in a moment of desperation, while I was crying in a borrowed car.

This was just after I had dropped my camera during a wedding photo shoot. My grandfather had lent me a neck strap because I didn't own one at the time, and I soon found out that the strap was faulty. I had been standing on a chair trying to get an interesting shot of the bride having her make-up done when my camera fell from my neck and onto the floor with a thud. At least it didn't land on the bride, I remember thinking. But when I picked up the camera to continue, my lens wouldn't focus, the shutter speed wouldn't adjust, and I couldn't access the menu. The camera I had saved up for for a year was suddenly rendered useless, and I didn't have the means to repair it, much less get a new one. The next day I was scheduled to fly out for the sole purpose of taking my mother's author photo.

My uncle, who had invited me to shoot the wedding with him, must have seen all this cross my face. He tried to console me saying he'd been there before when he dropped his Canon in a stream once. He immediately offered me his car keys and told me to drive to a local camera shop to have it checked out, see just what the damage was, and get an estimate. Perhaps the mirror just needed to be adjusted, perhaps it was a simple fix.

I drove around Portland lost, not because I didn't know the streets but because I just couldn't get myself together. So much more had happened that day to lead up to that awful moment. Seve and I stressed about our finances, stressed about finding a job. Stressed about leaving Simon behind for the day for a photo shoot none of us were being paid for. Stressed over a thousand other things I can't even remember now.

I eventually found the camera shop where a kind man in a paisley shirt named Tom fiddled with my camera only to tell me he wasn't sure what was wrong, not specifically, but something on the interior must have been damaged and it would likely be cheaper to replace the camera than repair it. An estimate of about $1000 was given to open the body and find out for sure. Having held my emotions in check up until this point, I headed back out to the car where I locked myself inside. Cried. Felt stupid.

At that time everything felt so dire. It's weird to look back on it now. I remember praying, though I don't remember what I said. It wasn't all about the camera, but some group of words all blubbered together about everything I was terrified over. And after that prayer, I picked up my camera to take a shot, which actually took. The lens whirred and the shutter shutted and that's where the picture for this post came from. So, this shot, this boring shot of a borrowed car's dashboard, actually means a lot to me, as it was the revival of my camera in my moment of need. And my camera works fine to this day.

Thanks for letting me borrow your car, Uncle John. Thanks for the neck strap, Gramps, but unfortunately I'll just need to buy my own. Should have bought one a long time ago. And thanks for my answered prayer, Father. Things have worked out after all.

Linked

On a lighter note from the previous heavy post, here are some snippets of projects I was working on last week. Business card, poster, blog header.

I recently got around to updating my LinkedIn account after ignoring it for . . . three years? A long time. Their emails were so frequent they were on the verge of being spam, and thus I chose to unsubscribe forever and ever. As a SAHM the need to keep up my resume hasn't been pressing, and as a freelancer my active online presence doesn't really need any help from LinkedIn. I do just fine working with indie authors and friends/family, and I'm not jonesing for a busy schedule because, you know, the Mom thing. If I consider working at a brick and mortar building again, it will be after the kids are in school.

But after signing up for an ipsy account, I checked out ipsy's careers page to see that they were hiring a copywriter (starting salary is probably more than my teacher-husband makes . . .) and they requested a LinkedIn profile. Ugh. So, with the future in mind, I gave in finally updated my profile. And who knows what that gleaming, dropping-off-the-kids-at-kindergarten future will bring? I used to say if I worked for a company again it would be with one that gave the same amount of side-eye to LinkedIn that I did, but they've proved themselves over the years to be worth their salt, so whatevs.

Do any of you do make up subscriptions? I used to do Birchbox, but wasn't terribly impressed as a lot of the samples were tiny. Meaning I could get the same thing by just being barraged by salespeople during a brief walk through Macy's. ipsy is supposed to include a lot of full size items, along with a make up bag each month. And they intentionally don't capitalize their brand name because that's just how artsy they are. Awesome.

Art & Artist

I've had a few blog posts lined up, but have been passing on them since they were kind of abrupt and silly and I've had more serious things on my mind.

Have you guys heard of Woody Allen? Of course you have. Have you read that piece Dylan Farrow published in the New York Times? The one about Woody Allen sexually abusing her as a child? And how her whole life it's kind of been brushed aside because "it's Woody! Annie Hall was so good!" I've been thinking about this, about how easily media wants to debate/disprove her claim of abuse because they love the accused . . .

Anyway, it's been on my mind because I recently found out someone I knew was sexually abused by Stanley Marsh 3. For those who don't know, I grew up in Amarillo, TX and millionaire Stanley Marsh 3 is kind of our Andy Warhol. The rest of the world sees him as this inspiring and quirky artist (best known for Cadillac Ranch) but those of us in Amarillo know him as a pedophile. It was known in our community that he targeted young guys in the punk scene and would invite them to his mansion to become fellow "artists." Plenty of allegations had been brought on him before, but he always, always, paid them off. I remember laughing about it as a kid. "Oh, that Stanley, what an awful man!"

Why I ever found it funny is beyond me. After reading the previously linked article I sat in my room, alone, feeling dark and disgusting, thinking of my friend and all he went through. Looking back at our relationship, I know the time period it happened, when everything changed between us, when he started running with Stanley's crowd, how what was possibly happening to him always lingered in the back of my mind and I never said anything. How, after moving from Texas, people would ask where I was from and when I said "Amarillo!" they said "Stanley Marsh 3!" and I would say, "Yes, the terrible pedophile," and they would dismiss it, because no no no, he's a great artist.

"Separate the art from the artist."

We're more important than art, aren't we? Human beings and our experiences, more important than art? I had a friend once tell me she wouldn't read or go see Ender's Game because Orson Scott Card belongs to a church that doesn't support marriage equality, and no matter how good a story, she couldn't support him. And I respect that. I, too, struggle with my church not supporting marriage equality, because I belong to the same church Orson Scott Card does. And even though I want change and he doesn't, at the end of the day we still belong to the same organization, and if someone decides never to read my work because of that, I'll respect that decision too.

If you ever do decide to go see Cadillac Ranch, I want you to notice the group of boys lingering to the side in lawn chairs. They're there to spray paint the cars at the end of the day, so the canvas is fresh for the new set of tourists to graffiti tomorrow. That's what they do, maintain the art for Stanley. They've been there for years, faces always changing, ages always the same. Maybe they're not there anymore, now that Stanley's had a stroke, now that the pile of paid-off allegations has gotten too high. But the fact that they were ever there, instead of some professional, middle-aged paint crew . . . if you ever do decide to go see Cadillac Ranch, I challenge you to try and separate Stanley's art from Stanley's darker activities when they're standing side by side in front of you.
 
Andy Warhol's studio was called "The Factory" because he was able to produce several works of art on an assembly line. But, after reading a biography on Warhol, I think it was called "The Factory" because it treated people as nothing more than objects to be exploited, used, and recycled. I'm wary of the artist who uses people for art, and those who insist I separate art from people. Why? The artist doesn't.

In The Dead Of

A lot of people don't like winter, and I respect that. It gets dark and dank and dreary. Muddy snow looks like snot. Driving is tricky. But summer's the season that makes me uncomfortable. Heat makes me slow down and feel lethargic. I hate sweating. I don't like being immersed in bodies of water, or the inevitable bareness of swimsuit attire. I don't like being without the security blanket my several layers of clothing provides. I prefer snowballs to water balloons, hot chocolate to lemonade, scarves to sunscreen.

This isn't to say I don't like summer, just that summer heat makes me feel uncomfortable and stupid, like I'm not enough of what the world wants me to be. Not sporty enough, not sexy enough, not drive-down-the-highway-with-the-top-down-and-your-hair-flying-around enough. I don't like my hair flying around.

Winter reminds me that I'm not actually the uncool shut-in summer makes me feel. I love being outside in the cold, bundled up and playing in the dead leaves or snow, stomping around in boots. I'm all about that.

But for everyone who's struggled this winter, and is looking forward to summer: I get it, I do. I hope the sunshine comes for you soon.

The Wall

Merry Christmas & Happy New Year! I hope you all had good ones. Did you make any resolutions? Mine are simply to write more, complete last year's creative projects, and . . . eat food? Tone my butt? I don't know. Seve and I have talked about taking up slacklining.

I got an email recently from Goodreads congratulating me on another great year of reading and calculating my literary consumption of 2013 to be . . . 2 books. Now, I read voraciously in 2013, but I clearly never updated that to reflect on my Goodreads account. I'm not one to read or write reviews, but I do regret not at least keeping a log of the books I read.

I don't often recommend things either, but I will now: the other day I was loading up our Netflix account and a foreign film called "The Wall" popped up on my dash. I was immediately intrigued by its premise (A woman inexplicably finds herself cut off from all human contact when an invisible, unyielding wall suddenly surrounds the countryside). I started it right then and there instead of browsing to whatever it was I had originally wanted to watch. And I'm glad I did, as the film has stayed with me for days. It was sci-fi but not really? Not at all? YouTube markets it as scary, but it's not that either, not in the least. I won't tell you much more than that because after watching the film I looked up as much information on it as possible and sort of regret it because other people's interpretations have tainted that initial beautiful and immersing feeling I felt while watching it. Just know that it's beautiful, and immersing, and on Netflix, so go watch it right now.

Also, I recently learned to crack open an egg with one hand and I'm feeling terribly accomplished at the moment.