Toasty

I don't want to be here today.

I have developed a way of sucessfully enticing myself into work: eating jam on toast. I have brought in a toaster (I am not sure if I broke the other work one but it broke in my presence, or at least didn't start working again in my presence) which smells unsettlingly electrical, like something wrong is being fried deep down in the belly of its inner heating equipment, but it toasts nonetheless, and reasonably evenly at that.

It has, until recently, worked. I was a breakfast-before-work gal until I discovered that eating breakfast in work actually made me look forward to coming in. But I'm becoming increasingly aware that my self deception is beginning to wear off. Even the 'treat' of making a cup of tea is failing. I've started to eat my toast too fast, I'm not savouring it any more. I need the food. There's no treat involved anymore. I'm like Pavlov's dogs (well one of them anyway). Its what I've come to expect.

I've upped the jam content on my toast to see if that would help. It did for a while, but yet again its no longer a treat, the jam is thicker than the toast and that's damn well how its going to stay.

My other treats on my desk to entice me through the next hour are usually a large tub of raisins and some satsumas. But I forgot the satsumas yesterday morning and I'm damned if Tesco deserves another trip from me this week to go and pick them up. When I got to my desk yesterday morning I actually swore out loud. While I'd like to think little things can make my day (my toast, still sparking a little wave of joy for those few minutes it takes to eat; sitting next to someone who doesn't smell, isn't breathing loudly and isn't invading my personal space on the tube; my lunch; my dinner (a general food need drives my day)) its also the little things that can break my day too. Hence satsuma lackage = foul mood.

So until now all I could see, all that was driving me, was my toast. Past that was irrelevant when I was on my journey in to the office. But now the toast's hump of happiness has now decreased into a desolate plain, a wasteland, my toast is merely a shopping trolley in a supermarket carpark. I can see through the gaps, I can see over it, I can see under it. I'm tall enough that it doesn't even really make a dent in my vision. In fact I could probably even skip the toast now. (but, of course, I wouldn't. That's just bloody rediculous).

Yesterday I spent my day slicing, erasing and cloning various parts of children. While that gives me a little chuckle, I am also comforted by the knowledge that my reader will know I'm a web designer and it comes with the territory. But even this, while sounding vaguely fun and entertaining, is tedious. And what's worse its tedious AND stressful. Now that really does suck. Although I do, when I get really pissed off, get to literally wipe the smug look off some small pretentious mini person's face (and then quickly put it back and get on with my work, praise be for the history function).

Now I'd like to point out here there are times when I enjoy what I do. But through several knockings of my already half-cut confidence I don't have much courage in my design convictions and therefore my design time, usually a time when I can shut out the admin and the phonecalls and the banner ad amendments, is fraught with on-the-fly editing which is never conducive to creativity. I have read over and over that to produce good work you have to plough through the shit first. But volume of turnover / hours of work = enough time to take a piss between designs and that's about it. Try a new idea? Mess about with a new creative? Play around with some suggestions? Hahaha.

Oh well, maybe its for the best. At least I've got an excuse this way. I can just convince myself that I'm a genius really but I just don't have the time to explore my creative potential. That's why, as a left hander, its good playing the guitar right handed. I have a disclaimer. There's always the secret understanding, the knowing, that if I'd have learnt left handed I'd be a rock goddess by now.

Prerequisites of Web Design

My computer is pondering what to do. I asked it to resize an image. Photoshop has thrown up confused white boxes where my tools used to be, the document hidden behind a large white panel, like a magician's assistant undergoing a transformation from duck to big breasted lady. Except if/when my computer rectifies itself I will see that the image I resized isn't quite small enough. So the process begins again.

I have chosen to work from home today. Comfort, the radio, a lie in, no smell of piss (as my office does at the moment, we've tried to deduce where the smell is coming from but have failed). All plus points. Except for the devil that hides in my computer. He's woken up this morning in a foul mood. Maybe because I started at 7 instead of 8, denying him his lie in.

I have had to control-alt-delete-end-task on Photoshop 3 times since starting this post. I have obviously been pushing it too far, asking too much. I am trying to remove a background on an image. I am using the mask tool. This is not brain surgery. The frustrating thing is, when I end task on it Photoshop, grudgingly showing 'not responding' in the task manager, happily and eagerly shuts down, quickly, effectively, efficiently, no hanging, no refusal, no non-responsiveness. Like its saying 'look what I can do!'. I feel maybe I should offer it a little praise for that. I feel like a naughty child has brought me breakfast in bed and I should forgive it for all past, present and future wrongs.

I am hoping my PC is listening to all this but I believe its sulking and will be offended I'm telling the whole world about its flaws. Maybe I'm being too harsh. I've heard a bad workman always blames his tools. Okay, I'll accept the bad workman label, I'll lovingly welcome it into my open arms. Because I will NOT stop blaming my tool.

Artists are supposed to bond with their tools, become one to work their craft, be merely a conduit for their creativity flowing through to their chosen medium. I am arm wrestling my chosen medium.

'Get a new computer'. Okay, yes I hear you. I'd like to believe that would be the end of this fiasco. But I have a reputation among friends and family. I break things. Electrical things. Computers, camcorders, video players, DVD players, TVs, personal stereos (or, getting down and hip with the kids, I've just acquired an MP3 player). Its not as simple as dropping or pouring an entire cup of coffee into my brand new University bought laptop and watching it bubble through the printer port at the back (not that that happened, it was just an example). They have INTERMITTANT PROBLEMS. They 'occasionally' don't work. Their error occurs infrequently, irrationally. And usually only with me.

My sister mentioned to me yesterday that I had left Snowboarder off my list of prerequisites that I had for the career of web designer. This is not technically true. I might say I can snowboard, but I wouldn't go as far as to say I was a snowboarder. Actually, to say I can snowboard is perhaps being a little generous. Side slipping down a blue run then falling over and periodically end up in tears probably doesn't really allow me to say I can snowboard (although I can turn, can possibly link two if going very slowly on a flat piece of snow with my boyfriend pushing me a lot and yelling words of encouragement but it will again end up with me falling over and ending up in tears).

Well, if snowboarding is a prerequisite of web design, then, surely having a reliable, sensible, dependable, consistent computer is.

Its my own fault. I opened my arms, heart, mind to Bill. I let him pour his Windows XP into my soul. I even *ahem* liked bits of XP (I say liked as they are far overshadowed by its flaws). I was told 'get a Mac get a Mac get a Mac'. But I thought 'no I'll just give it one more try. They can't be all bad'. Hahahahahaha.

My computer looks like a beast on paper. It looks like the stuff of dreams. Laid out the parts gleam like the pearly gates in the potential they could convey, the creative juices they could inspire.

But something went wrong. Maybe my cuddly, beautiful little Mogwai had water poured over its innards as a child, inducing gremlin like behaviour forever more. Maybe someone fed it after midnight.

So, I am about to order another computer today. Yes I've bitten the bullet, scoped them up, got my eye on a beauty. And the make? Yes, I'm sorry, I'm offering my soul once more to Bill. I think maybe its some sort of weird sadistic thing. I get a kick out of pouring my money into his pockets. I secretly love the idea of punishing myself with the torture of yet another PC. Unfortunately cash does not permit me to purchase Mac + software so PC it is.

Ooh and just so you know, this is inducing quite a bit of stress. And its only just gone 8am. I guarantee something china related will be broken by lunchtime and tears may well break the surface early this morning. Well, I have to live up to my name.

I am in the process of recruiting a minion.

I already technically have a minion, but seeing as he works in Germany and commutes with me via infrequent skype conversations it doesn't really count. I think, really, as he's a freelancer, maybe I'm his minion. After all he holds within him the power of The Flexible Contract.

So today I am conducting my first interview. I made a vague effort with regards to appearance (all I could muster at half six). I put on make-up. Brushed my hair. Even added some earrings and a long black cardigan to make me look like the whimsical creative sort. I think I've just about pulled it off.

So that's for appearances. I'm trying to conjour up what sort of interviewer I should be. Welcoming? Intimidating? Praising? Impassive? Inquisitive? I am trawling through in my head a list of standard interview questions (none of which I don't think I've ever been asked). And, so, once a list has been vaguely drawn up, what do I expect the interviewee in question to reply? I have no model, no guideline, no frame of reference.

I should go on gut instinct I guess. Perhaps I should go for a new breed of designer, someone far removed from the world of Star Wars Lego. Then, what would we find in common? I guess that breed is the 'artiste' - the art-school-graphic-designer-turned-web-guru. I am, rather than a web designer, a 'web-person'. I fell into this role through an ambigious degree and now I appear to have an ambigious skillset, having tested out all areas of design and development. A Jack of all trades and a master of none. A Jack-of-all-web. I like that. It makes me sound a bit like the del-boy of the web. Wheeling and dealing my way through my career, hoping that noone will spot my flaws.

I feel a little sorry for my interviewee. If the applicant is recruited they will have me, The WebStress, as their line-manager, their boss. They will bear witness to my moods, my 'silent-running' (:headphones on, radio on:), my blatant rejection of nuturing a social relationship with my work colleagues.

But I'm also a little nervous. I'd go as far as to say I'm scared. What if someone exposes me as a fraud? A young wisp of talent breezes in, enthusiastic about banner ads, positively adoring of overtime, addicted to searching through design sites at lunchtime, and (what scares me the most) better than me.

Of course design is subjective, a matter of opinion. I've had work verbally torn apart in front of my eyes while the same piece is praised by another (my opinion lying, as ever, vaguely in the middle, idly kicking its heels in no-man's land, swinging its legs back and forward on the fence trying to maintain balance, wondering which side is right). But passion is what makes creativity brilliant. If passion has gone into work then an opinion is merely that: an opinion. A work can hold strong with passion at its foundations, against any criticism thrown at it. And a passionate artist will accept suggestions willingly and adapt their work to achieve greatness through suggestions, able to filter what would make their work even more beautiful.

I don't have this passion at my foundations, or at least not as much, not any more. I wonder what we will make of each other, my protegee and I.

My well seasoned blogger friend has referred to me in her blog as The Webmistress, she tells me.

I like that, 'The Webmistress'. It sounds like a dominatrix, standing over her minions slaving away at their W3C compliant CSS, sweating under javascript cross-browser issues. I imagine: High heels, PVC clad, whip in hand laughing like an evil cartoon character (I can't currently think of a sexy evil female PVC clad cartoon character, all I can think of is Mumrah, but you get the idea).

However, something went wrong with my career path. I'd like to say I stumbled blindly into the world of web design (and development these days, I can add scripting to my very-unlike-PVC-belt). But that's not true. I took job after job. Interview, contract, client meeting, liaison. I've done it all over and over. I've answered job ads selling my 'assets' over and over. I'd like to blame something or someone but I can do everything but justify my innocence in this situation. I opened my arms to roll-overs. I accepted HTML emails, even encouraged campaign ideas. I even researched into search engine optimisation - that golden word littered throughout freelancers websites, clients desperately seeking the holy grail with the help of someone just like me.

Or perhaps not just like me.

I am a web designer. Admitting that to myself (and increasingly to other people) is like announcing an addiction that must be cured at Alcoholics Anonymous. I feel I deserve a round of applause just for admitting that.

When I initially accepted the anointment and responsibilities with it, it was something you could tell someone without having to justify it. Now, increasingly, I find myself saying 'I'm a web designer, but don't really like it'. Or 'I'm a new media developer', an 'art director', a 'multimedia designer/developer'. Or 'I'm a web designer, but I'm looking at a career change'.

I fit the mould like a round peg in a round hole. On paper. Obsession with Lego. Long running addiction to Star Wars (4, 5 and 6 only). A large collection of Star Wars Lego (lacking the milennium falcon, sadly). But my heart's just not in it.

Now, I'm sat here with my 'last' freelance project on a CD I received in the post today. I'm looking at it and I'm receiving the same familiar sickness of stress that I've suffered from since I began this foolhardy mission into the world of web design. I think: I must have enjoyed it somewhere down the line. But, racking my brains, I can't really find when I did. I enjoyed making little Flash games. Which has so far made up about 10% of my creativity over the past few years.

So here it comes to it: The Webmistress is actually The WebStress. I'd resisted a blog for this long because, well, turning on the computer churns my stomach. It makes me think of the list of edits I need to do on my friend's websites, sites pestered for free or cut price. It makes me think of the deadline for 'really the last freelance project'. And why do I get so stressed when others breeze through their designs, why to I turn into a blubbering wreck when others stand firm in their belief their work is good when criticism is paragraphs of abuse in an email or phone call. Because I don't have any conviction that my work is any good. Criticism for creativity you've given your heart and soul to is hard enough. But criticism for creativity you've given your blood to and held your mind in reserve, drifting thinking about anything other than stylesheets and typeography and interface design is crushing.

I don't think I'll look at it tonight. Well, maybe copy it onto my hard drive. Then pour a large glass of red wine.