Oh yea, I have a blog. I almost forgot. It seems like it’s been ages since I’ve written anything for myself, and yet, I find myself hesitate to dig into it now. If I’ve been quiet recently—minus one particularly-necessary interjection during a recent vacation—it’s only because life has been insanely busy as of late.
Between my much more hectic and demanding work life, my significant other and the uncertainty of what’s to come, and the regular rigmarole of trying to minimize the amount of excess that has long been and continues to be central to my livelihood, I’ve had little time to just sit and rue.
That shall be remedied now, though it is ironic that I’m seeking solace in Wordpress given that countless headaches have been induced with the usage of this tool over the past few months. For as “good” as things have been lately, I find myself nonetheless slave to the same old, defeatist mindset that has been my calling card for years. Let’s get on with the introspection, then, shall we?
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What seems like a lifetime ago, I was a game journalist. I was one of the few who enjoyed the luxury of zooming around the globe to play the latest games, chatting casually over drinks with the industry’s key players, and getting a chance to make an impact on the way that the gaming industry moved forward. I consider myself lucky for having said opportunity, and I’ve done my best since to help others break in.
“Breaking in” is a topic of conversation that has been coming up a lot in my daily readings as of late. Twitter, in particular, has been abuzz with talks of what to do—a recent back-and-forth between Destructoid and the One Up’s Dale North and former Shacknews writer Aaron Linde jumps to mind.
It’s not an untouched subject by any means—it seems there’s a wave of posts and talk in the blogosphere about breaking into the game industry on a yearly basis—but for many reasons, the topic of breaking in always seems to drive a bit of traffic, even though the advice is almost always the same: don’t think about the money, enjoy the exposure, do it because you love it, and so on and so forth.
What I find most interesting about these discussions, though, is that the topic rarely turns to the subject of what comes after one has made it as a journalist. Unfortunately, in that profession, the money isn’t great. A few key figures make enough to survive on from just their main gig, but the rest of us usually float around on a contract or freelancer basis in an attempt to earn end’s meat.
For many of these people, game journalism is a passion that is worth fighting for. But for some, that passion ultimately dies due to simple numbers. If you don’t earn enough to survive, how long can you really chase the dream before reality catches up to you? Perhaps I’m a defeatist, but I ultimately opted to jump ship once I saw the chance. Many writers do this out of necessity. Some begin to write for more general tech outlets or rags. Some change subjects altogether. Some even begin to write books.
One of the more interesting but lesser-mentioned career changes for games journalists, though, is to jump to the opposite team and enter public relations. Given that we as journalists spend so much time dealing with the industry’s PR people, we get to know the PR side of the business quite intimately, and we develop a Rolodex of PR people and firms. When I ended my time with Ars, the most valuable contacts that I walked away with were not the industry’s lead designers, programmers, artists, and creative folk: they were the PR and marketing reps who I’d talked with, drank with, and worked with.
And so, with that in mind, I entered the PR side of the gaming industry. To me, it seemed the perfect transition from a job that never truly seemed “real” and “legitimate” into a profession that would hopefully provide a stable future. Sadly, I soon came to realize the old cliché remains true: the grass isn’t greener on the other side.
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Posted on 17 February '10 by Frank Caron, under Flog, Life, Work. No Comments.
Allow me to apologize: I’ve been M.I.A. for quite a while on this here blog. The combination of holiday games, the girl who is effectively my faux wife now, and my new job are depriving me of time to wax poetic. After about 10 months of working as a Creative Writer for Ganz, writing up technical specs and functionality and designing parts of a large-scale project, I’ve moved into the realm of marketing, public relations, and community management. I’m in the process of taking over this role at Ganz now for Webkinz.
So what does that have to do with blogging? Well, part of my job is to blog for Webkinz. Any and all news, previews, interviews, and features pertaining to Ganz from the official first-party source will be penned by me, so my blogging itch will largely be scratched by that. I’ll likely post some random musings here once in a while, but otherwise, you can catch me over at Webkinz Newz, where I intend to bring more depth and insight into the surprisingly-rich world of Webkinz.
Posted on 2 December '09 by Frank Caron, under Site News, Work. 2 Comments.
I saw a man today as I was riding the bus home. A trip with a work colleague to Yorkdale sent me sailing back to North York on a long, lonely bus ride, and for some reason, this man sticks now in my mind. Old and withered by time, he stood atop the world on his high-rise balcony. He stood, staring down on the world and judging it and its residents.
As I normally do, I concocted a little narrative for the man in my mind; I built a fiction to explain his existence in my world. For he must have some great purpose if I picked him unknowingly out of the thousand unknown faces I saw today. Sadly, it was only when I reflected on the narrative I’d written for him that I realized why my subconscious decided to award such attention to just what would otherwise be just another apparition in the crowd, if I may let Ezra speak for me.
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The boy looked inquisitively at his father as he fumbled with the jar. “What do they do in there all day?”
“Well, son, you see, it’s really quite simple,” the father said frankly as he took the jar from his son’s hands. He lifted the jar up to the light, peering into it as he stood over his son. “They live.”
The father smirked as he watched the ants busily working. Without fail or hesitation, the ants went about their business. To and fro, to and fro they marched, carrying all manners of twigs and leaves with them. Not a soldier out of step.
Oh, how clever these ants were! Even though he’d played the role of God for a moment when he prepared the jar, the ants now worked tirelessly to bring order to the chaos that a handful of the backyard garden had introduced to their newfound habitat.
He envied their ability to adapt, their tireless work ethic. Here he was, a man exhausted after a long day of hard labour required for his and his son’s survival. And there they were, with apparently inexhaustible energy spent solely for survival that came so very easily.
The boy, puzzled, prodded his father for more. “What do you mean?”
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