Write that down.

I gave a talk at the lovely MSU SND meeting on Friday (that’s the student Society for News Design chapter at Michigan State University, folks), and was told multiple times that I should just “write that down and publish a book or something.”

The thing is, I already did write it down, mostly. Last year. But I did it while on The State News payroll. So in lieu of republishing; here are some links.

Design Applications

Cutting your clips

Interviews

Networking

Leave-behinds (my perspective)

Leave-behinds (thoughts from someone else’s questions)

Obviously, some of my perspective has changed since these were written, but much of it is still what I believe to be sound advice. So if you’re in the business of job hunting, you might find something in these articles that will help you out. If you do, (or you don’t and something’s missing) let me know and I can elaborate it on the future. Good luck out there.

The Tale of the Happy Tail

When I adopted Freckles in October, I chose his picture from adoptapet.com after I filtered for breed and age. He looked perfect. (Side note: he is.)

I hadn’t met him yet, but he seemed to be just what I was looking for – a bird dog, not a puppy, with a sweet yet energetic temperament. I had pretty much made up my mind that I was going to rescue him from the pound before I even met the little feller. (That’s kind of how I operate; decide what you want, then go get it.)

So imagine my surprise when I arrived, and the dog of my dreams had one minor (possibly major) health issue. Happy tail. For those of you who don’t know (and I didn’t), happy tail occurs often in shelter dogs that are, well, happy. They are so appreciative of any sort of attention that they wag their tails, hard. In a kennel where there is limited space combined with concrete walls, this can be detrimental to their health. They will wag (and continue to wag) their tails so hard that it rubs them raw and creates a bloody abrasion on the tip of the tail.

When I met Freckles, he was sporting a fashionable cone around his head and had his tail bandaged. Immediately falling in love with him, I overlooked what I thought was a minor health issue and took him home that day. Oh, how I was wrong.

Being a product of my generation, I Googled happy tail extensively, and what I found was not comforting. There were many tales of tails that had to be docked, which for an adult dog is the traumatic equivalent of amputation of a limb. Not to mention expensive. I looked and looked for different solutions and alternatives to docking, but did not find much encouragement.

The outlook worsened when I took him to the vet 10 days later and she informed me that in her opinion, the majority of Freck’s tail would have to be removed.

Being stubborn, I refused to let this be an option. I tried everything.

I wrapped the tail in vet wrap, which would last a couple days and then slip off. I cut holes in a tennis ball and put it around the tail so he would hit the ball against walls and furniture before the tail tip. I used band-aids and cotton balls. Socks. I sprayed wound-care and slathered the abrasion with puppy skin cream so it would not break so easily. Everything I could think of. (Luckily, Freckles is a pretty tolerant dog.)

And finally, I moved out of my grandparents’ house. (For other reasons than the tail, of course, but in the end everyone benefited.)

And guess what? With all that extra care, he began to heal. In my apartment there is a limited amount of furniture, and thus he had less stuff to run that tail into. But even before we moved, I began to see improvement. All it took was patience, stubbornness, and consistency. I had to be constantly vigilant. But he lived with a tail for 5 years before I met him, so I had faith that it was possible for him to recover.

And today, I’m proud to say he has a happy, healthy tail-tip. It’s even grown fur back onto it (after being shaved by a well-meaning vet.) We switched veterinarians, because I lost respect for the one we had when she told me his tail would never recover and I proved her wrong.

So this blog is for every poor sap who has a dog who wags too much. When I adopted Freckles, there were way too few success stories out there. But we are one. All it took was a little extra love.

Guess who’s back? Back again.

As always, I am really bad at updating this blog. Whatever.

Some thoughts on design, the world, and everything:

Michael Beirut’s “79 Short Essays on Design” is wonderful. I highly recommend it.

I am fundamentally against the Amazon Kindle, because I am old and stuck in my ways, and clinging to print with everything I have. Okay, that’s not all true, but I like to curl up with a book, and feel the pages flip. Call me old-fashioned. Or just make me an old-fashioned in which to drown my sorrows. Either will do.

I really like visual puns. I am currently thinking about how to make my family’s names into visual puns just for fun.

Freelancing is also fun, especially for people you love. I just made some Save The Date cards for friends, and it was a blast. I didn’t charge them for the design work, but I’m not buying them a wedding present. I think it’s fair.

Starbucks is a funny place. Lots of people to watch.

I’m speaking at MSU SND later this month. The student has become the teacher. Or something.

And finally,

DOGS ARE AWESOME.

 

The pup enjoying his Christmas present, a nice fluffy bed.

 

 

Meet Freckles, the newest member of the Zagata design team. He’s the head of the inspiration and human resources/emotional support branch. Fantastic job, he does.

In conclusion, adult life isn’t so bad. I have my own apartment, a dog, a job, and I’m happily sitting at Starbucks blogging about how awesome everything is. I’ll take it.

As usual, I’ll try to update more regularly. I can’t make any promises, though.

Happy New Year!

Andrea

Don’t Forget The Milk

My grandpa’s memory is bad. Like, really bad.

He sometimes forgets that I’m his granddaughter and introduces me as his niece, or refers to my grandmother as my Aunt Flo (short for Florence).

He’s told me the same stories about 1000 times. A favorite is Charm Dog, the little schnauzer they had when my dad was growing up who used to go find them in the woods to bring them home for dinner. “If I ever had another dog,” it starts, “I’d get one like Charm Dog. Man was she a good dog.” I can pretty much tell the story by heart at this point.

Tuesday he told me he was going to settle in and watch college football all day. Until I reminded him that it was Tuesday, not Saturday.

Today I was sitting around with Grandma talking about my cousins and their boyfriends, one of our favorite pastimes. Grandpa went out to the store to get milk, fish sticks, and booze. We heard the door creak open and changed topics before he could tell us to keep our noses in our own business, because frankly we’re not very good at that. (We are very good at gossiping, though.)

And so he arrives, 2 gallons of milk (one white, one chocolate) and a bag of fish sticks in hand. Followed, a few moments later by a confession.

“I goofed up,” he says.

“What?” Grandma asks.

“I got 2 of each. More milk.”

“WHAT?! You’re not telling me you have 4 gallons of milk?”

“Yeah. I got 2 more in the car.”

“How in the world did that happen? How are we going to drink all that milk? Why did you get two of each.”

And the conversation goes on, coming to this conclusion:

He went to Kroger, got the first 2 gallons and the fish sticks, but they don’t sell liquor, so he stopped at CVS. They also do not sell liquor, but he forgot that he had already purchased the milk and got 2 more gallons. So he arrived home with 4 gallons of milk, fish sticks, and no booze.

When he realized he didn’t have the booze he turned around to go back to the store.

And as he is leaving Grandma calls,

“Don’t forget the milk.”

END NOTE:
We’re going to freeze the extra 2 gallons.

Running Encounters

Since the people I encounter while running typically zip away before I have a chance to respond, I thought I’d take a moment to let them know what they mean to me. Kind of like Craig’s List missed connections. If things like this continue to happen, this might become a series.

Dear Suburban Soccer Mom Who Almost Ran Me Over (TWICE.),

I like Starbucks, too.

You know what else is pretty cool? Stop signs. Stop signs are awesome. They give you the opportunity to transfer your foot from gas to brake and look for pedestrians. Joggers. People using the sidewalk.

As excited as I am for you to get your double-mocha-frapuwhatever iced fake coffee this morning, I can’t help but think that my guts splattered all over your nice shiny car would put a damper on things.

Maybe the problem is that you can’t wake up before you get all that sugar and caffeine in your system. I’ve been there. Then I bought a coffee maker. You should try it.

You know what else is weird? This may surprise you. The sidewalk (and the people using it) isn’t just by the stop sign. It keeps going for block after block. And although your Starbucks’ driveway interrupts it, I’m pretty sure you’re still supposed to look for pedestrians before you turn. Just a suggestion.

But maybe you don’t care. Maybe you’ll just keep cruising along dreaming of your doublesugarnowhiplattedoublecheesehalfcrackthingamabob and nothing worse than me getting upset will ever happen. Maybe. But if you’re going to be that oblivious to runners on the sidewalk, please take the 13.1 sticker off of your car. It only makes me think that you of all people should know better.

Dear Bro Ridin’ Dirty And Bumpin’ The Music,

Thanks for honking. I know I’m really cute when I have sweat pouring down my face and my hair is frizzy from the humidity. I hope you don’t mind that I had fruit snacks stuffed in my sports bra. I didn’t mean to falsely advertise, but I had 11 miles to go and thought I might need fuel. Wanna go out?

Dear Bro Who Thinks I Am ‘Lookin’ Fine.’,

I couldn’t really see your face very well because your tinted window was only partially rolled down. What a shame. I’m sure you were looking just dandy yourself. Do you have a girlfriend? Do you think she would have been mad if I’d reciprocated? Is that why you chose to hide behind the window tint while I was busy trying to do something with my life by training for a marathon? I just don’t think it’s going to work out between us.

Dear Nice Gentleman Who Honked The Horn In A Musical  Pattern (bah bah-bah bah baaaah) And Gave Me The Thumbs Up,

Thanks! You made my day. Really.

Moon Landing

First, as always, my apologies for falling off the face of the earth.

A couple months have passed, and I seem to have landed securely on my feet.

Life is weird, but I’ll substitute some quick updates for the novel I should have written through July and August.

ONE: Internships are awesome. Internships at big papers are incredible.

When I decided to take the design internship at the LA Times in lieu of other offers, I thought I was taking a big risk. So many people told me I wouldn’t get any experience, they wouldn’t let me do anything worth while, and I would just be another scrub doing the crummy work.

THAT WAS ABSOLUTELY NOT TRUE.

There was never a time in LA where I didn’t feel as if I fit in and could contribute to the work, conversation, and process. I made some great friends, got to know some incredibly talented people, and had an absolute blast. I wouldn’t trade my summer in LA for anything. I can’t say how grateful I am to have been there.

TWO: Vegas is fun. Especially with my dad.

THREE: Driving 39 hours with only stops to get gas, eat, or sleep in the car is not fun. Even with my dad. Getting from Vegas to Detroit in 39 hours without having to pay for a hotel, however, is not a bad deal.

FOUR: My car is awesome. It’s a ’92 Cutlass (Oldsmobile) with around 81,000 miles. Runs like a champ.

FIVE: The real world doesn’t suck. I’m a designer at The Detroit News now, my first real job. And I like it. I’m having fun, I’m learning a lot, and I’m making friends. I’m not a huge fan of growing up, but if I have to do it there are worse ways I could go.

SIX: Detroit is pretty cool. More on this later.

SEVEN: Bills suck. No like, really. A lot. Car insurance, phone, student loans, other car stuff, internet … and oh yeah I have a 401K? WHAT? Strange.

EIGHT: Being 22 and living with my grandparents is weird. The good: free food, no rent, and unconditional love. The difficult: having roommates that are always home, the generation gap, and giant lifestyle differences. Right now, the good is outweighing the difficult by far.

So I did it, right? I’m here. I went to school, I graduated, I got a job. What now? That remains to be seen.

Nothing in life is free

The idea of working for free under the guise of “getting clips” has always pissed me off.

I didn’t like it in my advertising class at MSU, when we competed with posters to win a campaign for an event on campus. The poster? Fine. But the winner then “had the opportunity” to design an additional postcard, t-shirt, and invite for the event. Crap.

I liked it less last year when my little brother, a junior in high school, told me the beat writer covering his community was republishing the articles they wrote for their journalism class in the “professional” paper down the road. Without paying them. Or asking their permission (she got them from their adviser, which is another story). Or editing the articles with them to help them improve. But whoopee, they got a byline in a crummy paper.

I don’t like the idea of unpaid internships. I understand that they happen and internships are good experience, but I think it really limits the pool of people who can take them. Who can afford to live for a summer without pay? Not I. It creates an economical divide, as if college weren’t enough to do that already.

_______________________________________________

While I often worked for clips in college, I have a degree now, and expect to be paid.

Which leads me to yesterday.

A friend of a friend (Some Guy), whom I had met once called me up and asked for help on a project. The conversation went something like this: (edited for details and because I have not yet mastered the art of memorizing conversation word for word)

Some guy: Hi, this is SG, we met that one night, I’m so-and-so’s friend?

Me: Yeah?

SG: Well, I know you’re a designer and I’m working on this Fake Headlines project and was wondering if you could help me.

Me, internally: What? This dude can’t write a headline?

Me, externally: Okay…

SG: Yeah well this woman is coming back to our office and we want to commemorate* it with this Fake Headline and I wondered if you could help.

Me: So you need something designed?

SG: Yeah, yeah.

Me: Well, not to be a jerk , but I don’t really work for free.

SG: Oh no, of course not, I was just wondering if you could take a look at it.

Me: Okay, well why don’t you email me what you have and a description of what you want and I can give you an estimate.

I immediately called my mother and went on a soap-box rant about how I don’t work for free. God Bless her.

_______________________________________________

When I got to work at my kick-ass (paid) design internship, I checked my e-mail. The guy seems nice, but I am so not interested in this “project.” He includes no details as to what he would like me to do.

Closely followed by this one:

So to recap:

I don’t really know this guy.

I still don’t know what this project is.

And, in case you were wondering, I had no intention of starting a project I still don’t understand “right away.” Or at all.

I sent him a reply with a rather high estimate of what I would charge for something like this, and later that day he told me he wouldn’t be needing my services after all. Shucks, there goes my clip.

_______________________________________________

The point is that working for free, even for your friends, is a dangerous road to go down. You do one wedding invitation, and suddenly everyone you went to college with wants you to do theirs.

I work for trades for close friends. Bake me some cookies, I’ll do your resume. You read my cover letter, I’ll fix your typography. And I think that’s fine. I’ll probably do my little brother’s graduation announcements next year, if he’ll let me. But I believe the more work you do for free, the more you are taking away from the industry.

How many times have you heard “you charge what? my brother/uncle/cousin/ex-boyfriend’s sister’s friend can do that in photoshop for free”?

_______________________________________________

List of things I’ve thought of that are the equivalent to designing for free:

• asking your friend the accountant to do your taxes for free
• asking your friend the teacher to tutor your kid, for free
• asking your friend the musical theatre major to sing and dance at your party for entertainment, for free

I think you get my point.

3 hour tour

Due to a severe lack of any directional sense, I have come to accept the fact that on any given trip with or without a GPS I am going to spend a good portion of my time wandering around pretending not to be lost when in fact I have absolutely no idea which way I should be walking.

My family will be the first to attest to this – I get lost in the car, I get lost walking, I get lost on any path not highlighted with neon-orange signs and arrows that tell me exactly where to go.

Just yesterday, I intended to go for a 5-hour hike in Griffith Park, but it easily turned into a 7-hour marathon-hike as I spent a good portion of it being completely and hopelessly lost. (On the plus side, there are now very few paths in the park that have not felt the imprint of my shoes. On the negative side, I can barely walk today. I wish that were an exaggeration.)

Which brings me to one of the biggest challenges of being an intern: getting used to and tackling a new city in a very short time.

The only way (in my opinion) is to dive in head-first. So I’ve spent the last 6 weeks doing everything I can find to do whenever possible. I’m trying to stick to that old adage, “you can sleep when you’re dead.”

I tackle museums in the morning. I go for runs. I make plans on the weekends, even if it means doing something by myself. Side note: I am definitely the last person who should go hiking alone. Especially when the hiking involves climbing. I’m scared of heights, and as Bear Grylls once told me (via the television), going up is always easier than getting down.

Sure, a good chunk of the time spent out of the house could be classified as wandering around lost, but so what? I’d rather get out and see everything I can, even if I can’t always place what it is I’m seeing.

Spartan Nation

Post-graduation (and escalated, I think, by the cross-country move) I have become very sensitive to a very specific shade of green.

Green letters on gray shirts, a certain style of type, a specific iconography.

It happened during a race in West Hollywood. Again in the natural history museum. When I went into a USC building for a quick water break.

There are Spartans everywhere.

Yesterday as I reached mile 2 I recognized the bold all-caps lettering across a gray t-shirt, and, double-taking, turned my head as I jogged past. I removed my ear-bud, grinning broadly. Confusion crossed my new-found comrade’s face for a brief second.

“Go Green!” I shouted.

Clarity lit the light bulb in his head as he realized why this strange girl had turned around mid-step to stare at him.

“Go White!” he replied,

and my grin lasted all the way to the end of mile 6.

What does this have to do with design? Simple: Brand Identity is powerful.

Font comedy

Comic sans.

The scourge of typography in the hands of the masses.

The option many of us wish never existed.

The bubbly, happy, disgustingly cute typeface we love to hate.

This week, this post from McSweeneys is in large circulation around the ‘net. It’s a message from Comic Sans to the design world, and not only is it hilarious — it holds a grain of truth.

I once heard a designer say, “If you don’t know anything about typography, you like Comic Sans, but if you hate Comic Sans, you don’t know anything about typography.”

I’m sure there are many of you rubbing your eyes to make sure you’re reading that correctly, but hear me (read me?) out.

Yes, Comic Sans is gross. It’s overused. It wasn’t meant to be on your science prof’s powerpoint slides, on your Federal Background Check form, on the rejection letter from (what you thought was) a respectable publication. It doesn’t have weights or a family or anything fancy. And yet it is everywhere. It’s the typeface that didn’t have to try very hard.

Comic Sans is the layman’s typeface. People know its name.

Show me an average person who can identify Gotham. Then show me the million who can identify Comic Sans.

Now, please don’t think I’m advocating or condoning the wide-spread use of possibly the most notorious typeface that ever existed. I don’t use it and I probably never will. But sometimes I can’t help but sit back and be a little awed by its hold on teenage girls, elementary school teachers, and the typeface illiterate everywhere.

I’m sure at one point, Comic Sans was just a silly idea someone had that got rejected by serious type foundries. But look at its success. It’s the ugly little typeface that could.

Typefaces that everyone can identify and relate to become part of our collective consciousness. They’re a link between designers and typography nerds and the rest of the world.

Every time I see Comic Sans and make a snarky comment, quickly followed by an explanation to my non-nerdy friends, it’s an opportunity to open the door. To let someone else into my geeky little head and give them a glimpse into the world of typography.

So you can hate Comic Sans (and I do). But if you stop and think for just a second, maybe you can find some good in it, too.

More information:

Ban Comic Sans

Comic Serif

Font Conference