Like just about everything else "in the time of COVID," adopting a dog is tricky. No more casually visiting shelters and interacting with a multitude of pups in person. You have to search online and make appointments. You have to meet dogs with half of your face covered and the smell of sanitizer on your hands.

And because everyone is stuck at home, a lot of people—particularly in Colorado—are adopting dogs right now. Inventory is tight. Dogs are flying off the proverbial shelves.

For example, a month or two ago, my husband (Bob) and I found a dog we liked down in Denver. Right before we got in the car for the long drive down (which would prove particularly trafficky and unpleasant that day), we called to make sure the dog was still available. He was. But by the time we arrived at the shelter, the dog was gone.

There were technical troubles with the application. There were emails and phone calls. But before too long ... success! We were deemed fit dog-parents. Before we could even meet this 14-pound creature (he was still in New Mexico), I paid $509.66, signed a contract, and began counting the minutes until we could pick him up.

We knew he'd be exhausted when we went to get him from Farfel's Farm & Rescue in Boulder. He would be coming straight from the vehicle transporting him and other dogs from Texas and New Mexico.

But things were worse than we'd anticipated.

"There's been a little incident," the woman behind the desk at Farfel's let us know when we arrived for our pickup appointment. The "incident" involved a frightened Nolan and a well-intentioned human trying to pick him up. And, well, a bite. (Dog-on-human, if you're wondering.)

OK. So now we were picking up a "dog that bites." But whatever— we were OK with that. (Just look at his picture.) It was decided that Nolan would stay in his dog crate so we could spare him the stress of taking him out. (And maybe spare ourselves from snapping jaws.)

The next few days were rough. The only way we could take Nolan outside for toileting was to carry him in the crate he stayed in all the time. He was very reluctant to leave it. Here he is on his second day with us: standing with three legs out, one leg in. He stayed in this position for a loooong time.

He developed a hardcore case of "stress colitis." That's fancy talk for explosive, unremitting, horrid-smelling diarrhea. So much of it. So often. Day after day. I've done so much carpet cleaning. (You know, I've never made a penny from affiliate links, but I will happily plant one right here for Nature's Miracle.)

This dog was such a basket case, in fact, I had to check with Farfel's Rescue about his backstory. They had described him as "a bit shy at first," but this he was beyond shy. He was a wreck. I texted the lovely woman from Farfel's and got the whole story.

When Bob learned this, he began indicating that he might not want to adopt this dog, after all. Nolan's brain probably isn't wired for human companionship, Bob conjectured.

But I knew we had a full two weeks to "try out" this dog. And I hoped that with enough affection, safety, peace, and consistency, he might begin to settle.

I wanted more than anything to avoid taking him to the vet for his gastrointestinal issues, because I knew it would only traumatize him more. Could strings be pulled with the Farfel's vets? Could we just give them a "sample" from Nolan (what a euphemism!) and get a prescription?

Nope.

​My sage friend Sara Webster told me what I didn't want to hear about the vet:

Sigh.

I bit that bullet and made an appointment.

By this point, Nolan was starting to make some progress. He'd graduated from his opaque Farfel's crate (see above) to a wire one that let him see out and get used to his surroundings. He'd even ventured out loose in the house a little. I hoped that the trauma of a car trip and vet visit wouldn't take him right back to square one.

On his sixth day with us, we took Nolan to the vet.

He survived.

He got meds.

​He got better.

And Bob's been won over. Nolan is a keeper! 🎉

I'm writing this on day ten. Nolan's belly is all better. He has an appetite. He has energy. He has a personality! Now all he needs is a new name.​ (Opinions of the following and suggestions welcome.)

​

I've said before that I am not a grammar Nazi. I have no interest in shaming anyone or trying to prove any kind of superiority. I promise.

I do believe, however, that many people—particularly businesspeople—want to write clearly and correctly, and I'm happy to help them achieve that goal.

So a while back, when a customer service rep typed "your welcome" to me, I shared the above screenshot on LinkedIn. I pointed out that it's an extremely common error and explained ​that when you say "you're welcome," you're creating a contraction of "you are welcome." I thought it might help some people better understand and remember the correct spelling.

(I did not​ write, or even imply, "Look how stupid this person is." I simply explained the correct spelling.)

I was surprised when I got this response from a "senior business development manager":

Huh.

I had to think about that just a bit.

While I was thinking, I did a bit of "research" (read: Googling) about this conviction that so long as we can understand each other, we shouldn't be fussing about apostrophes and spelling.

And I discovered that this senior business development manager's opinion was not unique. I found a meme that echoed his sentiment with just a touch more vulgarity:

I won't even comment on that missing apostrophe. I'll just address the question.

First—in my defense, I never correct people directly unless I know they want me to, and then I only do so privately.

But as for the "correctness" thing, I'll explain "why the fuck" it matters.

It matters because we live in a society. With conventions and expectations. And—occasionally—manners. We abide by certain rules to get along harmoniously. To establish credibility. To gain trust and respect. This is why you don't typically show up for a job interview barefoot or pick your nose when you're meeting your new neighbors. It's why you stand in line and wear pants in Starbucks. It's why your doctor doesn't buff his fingernails while he's listing your treatment options.

Also, writing is about connecting and communicating with our readers. We owe them the kindness of making our message as clear as possible. It's like holding a door open for them. It's polite. We're helping them along. We're putting in a good effort to save them trouble. We're showing them respect.

I admit that writing is a series of judgment calls, and I might write more casually on Twitter than I would on behalf of a higher education client. But fundamentally, I always try to think about the people reading my writing, and I try to treat them well.

So that's "the issue," and that's my position, for anyone who's wondering.

You're welcome.

Pandemic: bad.

Having to put down your beloved dog during a pandemic: extra bad.

Actually, I didn't have to do it myself—thank goodness. The wonderful, compassionate folks at Pets & Pals Veterinary Hospital in Lafayette, Colorado, have stayed open during this outbreak, and they handled the euthanasia. (Thank you, thank you, thank you.)

Below is a piece I wrote for my husband's dog photography website many years ago. I'll leave it here as a tribute to Little Guy, my funny, handsome, and tremendously comforting friend. ❤️

Congratulate me. Seriously. I deserve it.

This week, I finally gave a client a logo I started working on—yes—one year ago.

Want to know why? Because I am not a professional designer.

Why, you may ask, would I create a logo for a client if I am not a designer?

Excellent question.

The answer can be found somewhere in the neighborhood of “enthusiasm” and “curiosity.” Cross street: “naïveté.”

When I began freelancing (as a copywriter, not a designer) in 2016, I quickly decided that I wanted to learn how to use Adobe Illustrator (and maybe a few other applications in Adobe Suite). I started watching instructional videos and practicing and slowly, slowly acquiring knowledge.

But I realized I needed a professional to occasionally lean over my shoulder and give me some guidance. So when a “branding design” class opened up nearby—taught by a creative director I really admire—I paid for it within approximately two minutes and eagerly awaited the first class.

I was going to get to work on logos! Color palettes! Typography! With professional guidance!

The class convened. And it wasn’t quite what I was expecting. We focused a lot on positioning and strategic branding. We worked on articulating brands with words much more than with design. 

But at a certain point, I was given the assignment to develop a brand, complete with logo.

Rather than work for an imaginary client, I thought I’d try to help out a nonprofit. I found one right in my town, met with the managing director, and got going. After some preliminary work, it came time to create … the logo.

The creative director/teacher of my branding class gave me very friendly feedback on the designs I shared, but I could tell he was being way too forgiving. I knew I wasn’t finished with the logo by the time the class concluded.

I kept working. I got help from several designer friends. And eventually, with MUCH assistance, I came up with half a dozen logos. The client chose one, and just this week, I finished creating all the requisite formats, zipped the file, and sent it off. Ta-da!

Now, let me say that part of this year-long logo turnaround has to do with the nonprofit I worked with—how infrequently their board meets, and a definite lack of urgency on their end. But a big part of it has to do with how freaking difficult it is for a non-designer to create a logo.

Yes, I’ve worked closely with professional designers for 30 years. I’ve attended countless design conferences and events. I’m a member of AIGA. I know *something* about design. But I did not earn a degree in design. And this became painfully obvious. Because designing a logo is challenging in about a dozen different ways. And every challenge was amplified by my ignorance.

I learned a lot from this adventure, to be sure. But I won’t enumerate all the lessons I absorbed about typography alignment and CMYK values and Pantone workarounds and EPS files. Instead, I want to tell you my most important takeaways from my Very Challenging Logo Project.

My Three Commandments for Hiring Designers

I’ve felt all of these things throughout my career. But never so strongly as I do now. 

1) Give designers plenty of time.

​Most non-designers have a drastically skewed view of how long it takes to do anything design-wise. The advent of Photoshop contributed to this misperception. Non-designers think everything should take just a few keystrokes to accomplish. Never assume any such thing. Every aspect of design—researching, concepting, creating, tweaking, reviewing, etc.—takes time. Practice saying this with me now so you can say it to your designer later: “How much time do you need?”

2) Give designers plenty of money.

If you are a non-designer, I promise you this: Your designer knows more than you do about design. Designers have worked hard to become educated and savvy professionals. They are artists. They are technicians. They are problem-solvers and problem-preventers. They know how to help you. They are worth every penny. Pay them. Pay them well. Pay them on time.

3) Give designers plenty of respect.

I’ve been in the advertising/marketing business long enough to know that this needs saying. Repeating. Yelling. It’s closely tied with items #1 and #2 above. Don’t impose ridiculous deadlines. Don’t ignore invoices. Don’t wait until the last minute to answer questions. Don’t request changes because your wife doesn’t care for the color green. In fact, if you’re going to request any changes, preface them with this: “Let me know if you think this will compromise what you’re trying to accomplish with your design. If so, let me know. Please tell me what you think.”

Now. Does anyone need a logo? Because I know quite a few designers I’d be happy to recommend.

I have this idea. People may not like it.

Here's what I'm thinking: The world is not black and white. People are not all good or all bad. I know how much we love having villains and heroes, but that really isn't the way it works.

Think of your personal life. Those times when someone's behavior enrages you, you typically aren't really understanding their perspective or rationale. You make assumptions. You simplify. You get self-righteously pissed off.

But after the blow-up, the yelling, the tears, the silent treatment... if you're lucky, you talk. You listen. And you come to understand. More often than not, you realize that your fury wasn't really so appropriate.

What I want is a number. A number that represents how likely your perspective is to be accurate in any of those times you find yourself indignant. If your perspective were perfect during these moments, this number would be 100.

The number could never be 100.

It is my hypothesis that when we find ourselves angry—at a spouse, at a relative, and yes, even at a ideological adversary or politician—this number, on average, is 24.7—at most. Maybe it's 17.9. Or lower.

Let's call that average the Righteousness Quotient. Every time you find yourself upset about someone else's behavior or beliefs, you know that you're only this likely to be correct in all your assumptions.

My hope is that, if we all knew this number, we'd be a little more patient and circumspect. A little slower to react. A little more inclined to listen and understand. Less likely to go on the attack and dig in our heels.

I think we'd all be happier. Less angry, certainly. We'd probably spend less time excoriating one another. We'd spend less energy whipping up others to share in our fury. We'd think of this number—maybe some of us would even tattoo it on the backs of our hands—and we'd remember to slow down and ask questions and work to understand one another.

I think it might make for a better world.

When I was a kid, I had the opposite of claustrophobia. I'd call it claustrophilia, but I don't want to pathologize it. I just enjoyed tucking myself into little hideouts and cozy spots: cabinets, closets, an oversized drawer... even the top of the refrigerator, for a spell. (Maybe I don't want to scrutinize this behavior too much.)

Anyway, this proclivity has carried over to my professional life today. I've discovered that my favorite copywriting challenges are those where space is limited. A billboard that people need to take in while driving 70 miles an hour. A thirty-second radio spot. A digital ad that's half the size of a credit card. The back of a frozen entree. Subject lines. Headlines. Taglines. Tweets.

Related: For the past few years, I've been creating little language lessons about grammar, spelling, punctuation, etymology, etc. (See a sampling below.) Each of these social media posts measures only 1080 x 1080 pixels. That's not a lot of room to explain when you should use "loath" instead of "loathe," or how to avoid committing a comma splice. But that restriction is a big part of why I love creating these things. They're like Rubik's cubes. The challenge: How much memorable information can I fit into the square without it feeling like a Dr. Bronner's label?

Now, If you're one of the millions of people who freelance, you've likely heard the mantra that to succeed, you need to "niche down." (Don't ask me to say that out loud—whichever way you pronounce it, you're sure to annoy somebody.) The more specific your expertise, say all the career coaches, the better. You're supposed to specialize in some industry "vertical": dentistry, landscaping, badminton... something.

But I don't want to. I love promoting all sorts of products and services: beer and banks and boarding schools. If I particularly love the work a client does (like Invest in Girls, say), then that's just icing on the cake. (Oh—I've gotten to write lots about cake. And icing.)

So I think that rather than niching down in the usual sense, I'd like to focus on small spaces. I'll take a pass on the long white papers and ebooks. Bring on the ads. The emails. The out-of-home. I want to work on posters and postcards and packaging. Give me a small space, and I will do big things.℠ 

Just now, I was working on an email that includes a lesson about when to use "awhile" and when to use "a while." And after... well, a while, that "while" and "awhile" business started to look mighty weird. Almost like they weren't words at all but just a meaningless collection of letters.

If you've ever experienced such a phenomenon, then you've felt semantic satiation. Instead of paraphrasing the Wikipedia article, I will simply point you there, should you want to learn more about it.​

​If you didn't know the sensation of semantic satiation before, I'll bet you do now. :)

I am a copywriter, not a designer. But back in 2016 when I started freelancing full-time, I decided that I wanted to learn how to use Adobe Illustrator. I couldn't exactly justify it, but the urge was strong enough that I started paying a hefty chunk of change for an Adobe Suite subscription.

Copywriting always comes first, but whenever I can, I take Skillshare classes* and practice using Adobe Illustrator. One of the first classes I took was taught by Aaron Draplin. He was blazingly fast, but I did my best to follow along. Everything he did was captivating and inspirational.

When I learned that he was going to be giving a workshop in Denver this week, I thought, "What the heck—why not?" I whipped out my credit card and got my spot in a class that sold out in just a few days. It was well worth the price to get in-person teaching time from the guy who's created designs for the likes of Target, Nike, Bernie Sanders, and the US Postal Service.

My dream was that he could give me some one-on-one guidance on a logo I volunteered to create for a local nonprofit. Working on this thing has proven to me that everyone should pay good designers all the money. If you've ever gotten the impression that graphic design is easy or quick, you are woefully mistaken. It is seriously challenging, and it takes time. Lots and lots of time.

Well, at yesterday's workshop, I quickly realized that there could be no personalized guidance from Mr. Draplin. There were way too many people and not enough time. But I learned a lot, and I feel more at ease about finishing up my logo. (Fortunately, I know several talented designers who are willing to help me along.)

Note to self: Do not waste the reader's time by beating yourself up about how long it's taken you to write this blog. No one cares but you.

OK. So.

This summer I decided to take a trip to Boise. (Which—side note—the locals pronounce with a sibilant "s": "BOY-see.")

"Why do you want to go there?" many people asked, including my husband.

Let's see: Because I've heard lots of good things about it. Because I could get a direct flight on my favorite airline, Southwest. Because I've never been there before and now that I'm living in Colorado, it's pretty darn close. Mostly, because I'm a freelancer, and so I CAN.

So I got a flight, arranged a handful of meetings with Boise folks who might need a copywriter, booked a tiny little Airbnb house, and rented a car.

To my frustration, my workload burgeoned during this trip, so I spent many, many hours at the kitchen table of my Airbnb typing out persuasive prose. But I also managed to get out and about a bit. Here are a few of the things I enjoyed. 

In addition to exploring and taking these photos, I learned the following about Boise.

• Lots of folks fleeing San Francisco's ridiculously expensive real estate situation have moved to Boise and hiked up prices.
• Not a lot of bumper stickers in this town.
• No shortage of Caucasians.
• Boise has an enclave of Basque people. Next time I go, I will need to visit the Basque Museum and Cultural Center.
• Boise has license plates that say, "Famous Potatoes."

To me, traveling is one of the greatest perks of freelancing. Next stop: Austin!

That's the name of a 1935 song I've listened to a zillion times—sometimes as a recording by Fats Waller or Louis Armstrong, but most often, belted out by my father, who (as I've mentioned before) adored that sort of music.

Unlike the protagonist of the song, however, I'm not inspired by romance. My goal is sanity. Or perspective, anyway.

See, I've noticed that, depending on circumstances, I can regard the world in drastically different ways.

When I'm approaching the deadline a large writing project, I can be filled with dread, self-doubt, and self-recrimination (for procrastinating). But then, at some point in the writing process, I find myself thinking, "Say! This is really good! I actually love this!" See the discrepancy there? Persona A: pained, fretting, reluctant victim. Persona B: fortunate, fulfilled, happy professional.

Similarly, when circumstances in my life get troublesome, I catastrophize. I am preternaturally talented at this. I can envision loved ones in prison or dead; I can enumerate all the ways my health might fail. It's not that I truly believe the worst is going to happen, exactly; but I sure can picture it. I have a terrific imagination, which can also be a terrible imagination. Eventually however, when my circumstances improve, I can recognize how silly I've been. I'm flooded not only with relief, but optimism. I admonish The Worrier in me and my whole outlook brightens.

So here's what I'm thinking. Why don't I write myself a letter?

When I'm feeling like a self-possessed copywriting pro, why don't I write a letter to the neurotic, tortured incompetent who will certainly show up at some point? I might set down assurances like, "I know you're nervous. But I promise you with absolute certainty: You are going to be fine, and this project is going to turn out great. Just keep on writing. Every word you type will get you closer to a finished result that you love. Go on."

Similarly, at one of those moments when my temporary troubles abate and I see my way out of doom-filled concern into sunshiny rationality, I should write my former (and future) fretting self: "Just cut it out, worrywart. First, it doesn't do you any good. Second, what you're envisioning is truly preposterous."

If I write to myself, I could help myself.

Come to think of it, though, maybe I don't need to write a literal letter. I believe this blog post will do the trick nicely.

Yours sincerely,

​Sara