I was looking for an old graphic file on my hard drive.
I ended up falling into a bottomless pit of some ridiculously bad graphics once designed for website pipe dreams gone by. I also found a metric fuckton of web pages, code, and whathaveyou for all of those long-dead website plans.
Ten-plus years ago I did not have one flipping clue what I was doing when it came to webdesign.
I probably still don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, but at least my poorly designed graphics are no longer all neon colors on a black background that will burn out your retinas in a single glance.
Amidst all the horrible quality JPEGs, non-animated gifs(!?), day-glo colors, barely functional java script, and framed page layouts, I found a pile of writing I’d forgotten I ever posted (or at least planned to post) on the internet. There was a slew of short stories, some I’d completely forgotten I’d ever written, all of which were truly terrible. And then I found some American Idol fanfiction. Which…subject matter aside…wasn’t actually as bad as I thought it would be. But still, go ahead and judge me on that one. AI Fanfic is…I don’t even know what that is. Inexcusable, probably.
In all my wading through ten-plus years of WTF IS THIS? archives, I stumbled across a title graphic for a story I had absolutely no recollection of ever writing. So I dove into my writing archives to find it and refresh my memory. It did ring a vaguely familiar bell when I found it. And then I started sifting through folder after folder of things I did not remember writing at all. Which I suppose is no great tragedy because the writing was terrible and majority of the plotlines are not worth salvaging. But there are six thousand-some files sitting in my writing directory and all I can say is…SIX THOUSAND FILES OF WHAT???. Though I’ve been writing on a computer for about fifteen years now and apparently that adds up. Imagine if I’d had a computer from day one. I’m sitting at approximately twenty years of writing here. If all those notebooks sitting in plastic bins in my living room were in digital format? I’m sure there’d be double the files in my writing directory.
And then I went and made myself feel really fucking OLD because I have been writing for TWENTY YEARS. I have been writing for roughly two-thirds of my life.
What.
The.
Hell?
Once upon a time I had an affinity for bright, neon colors on black backgrounds for all my graphics.
Also, illegible fonts.
I am NOT a graphic designer.
Because obviously.
Apparently the original incarnation of Chance Records had a compound in Orlando. Unsurprising really, considering my phase of boy band obsession. The other five locations still exist. In my head at least. Though now that I think about it, much of the Chances Are story took place in Orlando, so, there you have it.
The Chances Are logo showcases what were my favorite colors to use in creating all my web graphics. Apparently ten-plus years ago my eyes were far less sensitive to blinding neon.
But hey—at least the story title graphic had a non-black background.
Marc Jenkins has been a long-running reoccurring character in the Chance Records universe. He’s Will Jenkins’ son after all. And Will Jenkins is everybody’s favorite CR executive. But while these days Marc (and sister Kate…the original “Kate”) is producing records for CR artists, apparently he originally managed many of the artists he now produces for. Either that or I just can’t keep my story straight.
And then I found a bunch of band logos I’d designed for other CR artists. Most of which I barely remember ever creating, nor do I remember what stories they were once a part of. But this one stuck out to me because Andrew Mason was the second-ever Chance Records artist. Chances Are opened a few shows for him back in the day.
Though the modern-day incarnation of Mr. Mason plays a completely different type of music. He also actually plays his own music on multiple instruments instead of just singing with a backing band. And his age has been adjusted to better fit the character. If this was the original AM he’d be pushing forty by now. In the CR universe he’s still in his mid-twenties. Because I created him. I can make him how ever old I damn well please.
And thus concludes yet another installment of “Things Only I Will Actually Understand But I Write About Anyway Because Nobody is Forcing Anybody Else to Read This Crap.”
Ahh…memories…
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