One of the most difficult things about writing is getting comfortable with the idea that you're probably going to lose some people and eventually, you're going to say something that you shouldn't have. In an age where our social muscles are massaged by "follower" counts, it can become increasingly difficult to have an opinion without running the risk of turning off a few people along the way. Whether it's something that you wrote that just didn't quite sit well with some or a statement you made that you're clearly wrong on, any time you open your mouth to populate the web with your internal processing, you're opening yourself up to criticism.

Man, it had been some time since I'd watched Adventure Time. I had all but forgotten about how completely fantastic these title cards were. Even after doing some digging around the world wide web, I still can't find any accreditation for who whipped these beauties up, but if you know, feel free to tweet at me and I'll amend the post. In the meantime, feast you eyes on this weathered goodness, evocative of shows of a bygone era. It's a wonderful balance of the old world title cards with a fresh take on lighting and type.

I always have been and always will be a firm believer in making time for extracurricular design. Building things no one has yet asked me to build has been one of the most crucial steps for me to actually get asked to then build things for clients. However, your discretion in choosing what to publish to the web and what experiments were merely for the betterment of your own personal critical thinking is paramount to you building the kind of presence you want to have online. I've put out some terrible designs that I'm none too proud to toot about. Problems in execution, lapses in usability judgement, terribly rendered illustration. You name it, I've probably done it. And there's a web history to prove it.

As a creative, you're constantly brushing shoulders with those that make decisions that sit apart from the design process. Your tolerance for feedback will only go so far. At some point, you're liable to get bent out of shape by the unyielding tedium of the creative feedback loop.

I never went to college for design. Much of my educational experience involved me figuring out which homework assignments I could skip and still get a C in the class. I flew on auto-pilot for a great deal of college; sort of aloof and non-committal. I didn't join clubs, wasn't interested in fraternities, and it wasn't uncommon for me to begin and end a class at semester's close without meeting a single new person. When I started at my university, I didn't have any idea of what kind of future I wanted. I was interested in film, philosophy, writing—basically anything that wasn't guaranteed much of a "plan". And, I think (for some time, at least) I was alright with that. I didn't mind so much about not having a direct course of action.

One question I've had fielded at me a good number of times is from people inquiring as to why I no longer use much texture in my work. At a time where much of the web is flattening, you could even consider my push into this direction as timely. Admittedly, I'd love to say that it was my own intuition that lead my work to the place that it is. That I somehow understood where things were headed and changed my course for the more current. But, in truth, it was a far more personal choice that took me out of the texture game:

I was a texture addict.

Calling something "broken" isn't anything new. It's long been marketing fodder for new products. Apple's iconic "1984" commercial all but condemned modern computing as the result of a monolithic, Big Brother-esque totalitarian regime. It's a tool deployed to elicit a "me too" mentality; a systematic understanding that, allied, you can stand in opposition to the norm. In this way, users and creators alike are aligned to tackle the problems at hand. To rebuild, renew, and refresh a "broken" system.