Yesterday, early in the morning, my boss told me to take the day off.

My boss, of course, is me.

I decided I would do three things:

• Enjoy the wonderful weather.
• Get some exercise by taking a long walk.
• Figure out how to use the regional bus system to get to and from Denver (22 miles from my home).

Since I have a membership at the Denver Art Museum, I made that my destination. They have a fabulous exhibition of Rembrandt's prints right now. And although I'd been to it, I hadn't been able to see it all during my first visit.

​And so, using three different apps, I managed to get down to Union Station using public transportation. (Yes, I did get on the wrong bus initially, but it all worked out.) I took a nice long walk from the station to the museum. Ahhh—just what I wanted.

The museum has a studio where you can make your own prints right now—to complement the Rembrandt exhibit. Printmaking is something I've always wanted to explore, as I've found the whole process sort of mysterious and confusing. The previous time I'd been at the museum, I'd made this print using just a sheet of styrofoam and the tip of a pencil. (Hold your applause.)

Yesterday, when I returned to the museum, I ended up going straight back into the studio. Rembrandt can wait, I thought. I'm going to carve a linoleum print.

I was the first studio visitor of the day, and I got right to work. Again, I drew a simple bird surrounded by foliage. But unlike the styrofoam print, this time, I would need to carve out everything I did *not* want to make an imprint on the paper. And so began a remarkably tricky and time-consuming process of carving linoleum.

I don't think I raised my head once while I worked.

I heard mothers and small children and teenagers and senior citizens come in, make projects, and leave. I heard a tiny person demonstrate her fatigue with several tantrums. I heard a young girl talk about her tricky science project, involving planets and styrofoam spheres. I kept working.

Even though I overheard several warnings about the sharpness of the carving tools. I started to find them insufficiently sharp. Sometimes they seemed to be tearing the linoleum more than cutting it. But I persevered.

I heard people talk about getting lunch. I knew I should eat something. But I couldn't stop.

At long, long last, I felt like my carving was complete. I chose a paint color, applied it to my linoleum, and made a few prints. I hung one up to dry. I looked at the time—I'd been at it for FOUR HOURS.

It was the wonderful David Rakoff who taught me about this phenomenon of unbroken focus in a piece he did for This American Life called "Martha, My Dear." He introduced me to ​Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi and the concept of "flow." Flow is that sensation that's part absorption, part determination, and part hypnosis. It's when you're exactly where you want to be, doing precisely what you want to be doing. And happily, it's how I spent my day off.

I'll admit that when I was in school, I wasn't driven purely by intellectual curiosity. I had some, sure. But more important were my obsession with getting good grades, my competitiveness with other students, and the prevailing expectations about getting into a good college, making my parents proud, and achieving the sweet, sweet reward I craved most: praise.

Even in college—I won't lie—I felt the pull of what Alfie Kohn calls "extrinsic motivators." Yes, I found the intellectual challenges and learning enjoyable, but I also wanted to earn high marks and accolades from my professors and parents.

Fast-forward to today, when I am trying to learn Adobe Illustrator, a tremendously powerful and deep design program. No one told me to. I'm not getting college credits. I'm studying it and practicing it (and paying for the program monthly) because I want to. No one is grading me. No one is competing with me. My parents aren't alive anymore to shower me with compliments.

It turns out that learning what you want to is downright fun. I find my Illustrator endeavors absorbing, exhilarating, and rewarding. Every little micron of progress is gratifying. Every project I complete is  thrilling. Every shortcut I master, every feature I discover, every complex sequence of steps I manage to remember... well, it's even better than getting an A. 

I'm not alone in such self-motivated educational endeavors. My college classmates Heather and Abby are learning piano and drums, respectively. I have friends learning Spanish, pottery, and photography. My husband recently took a sewing class. All of us are beyond the domain of tests and grades and honor rolls. We're adults who are indulging in a primal human desire: to acquire knowledge, to attain skills, to advance and grow.

And if you'll excuse me now, I have some learning I want to do.

As a freelance copywriter, I hear this career advice over and over: "You have to have a niche." To which a voice inside my head whines, "But I don't waaaaaaant to have a niche." (I can't even decide whether I want to pronounce that word "nitch" or "neesh." Please don't make me commit my entire career to one skinny vertical.)

Here's the thing. When it comes to effective advertising and marketing, it's really all the same: You are communicating with human beings. First, you identify what your target customer cares about: What do they yearn for? What are they anxious about? What hurdles do they face? You figure out how [insert product or service here] will improve this target customer's life. How will it eliminate their headaches? How will it save them time, money, or effort? And how will they know that it's the best solution, both before and after their purchase? And how can you get your message across to them in a way that resonates?

I've advertised mutual funds and wedding cakes. I've marketed private schools to discriminating families and washing machines to laundromat owners. B2B, B2C, healthcare, software, décor, travel—you name it, I've probably done it. And if I haven't, I feel certain that I could.

But recently, I do keep asking myself: What do I enjoy working on? And who do I enjoy working with? And here, I'm beginning to sense some discrimination.

With such musing, I experience a certain kind of delight: the same one I relish whenever I have my eyes examined at the optometrist's office. "Which is better," the doctor asks me as I peer through various lenses at the letters on the eye chart. "This? Or this?" "Is it better now? Or now?"

I absolutely LOVE that part of eye exams. I love considering the two competing options, occasionally asking to see them again, and then announcing my answer with confidence. And I love knowing that with every honest, accurate declaration, I am getting one step closer to a vision prescription that is going to improve my life.

Similarly, I may be narrowing my freelancing focus just a teeny bit. My interests remain broad, admittedly, but I'm beginning to ask myself the question "Which is better?" more frequently. And giving more consideration to every answer. I can't wait to see what kind of career prescription I end up with.

Ignite. Have you ever heard of Ignite events? Presenters are given exactly five minutes to speak. They prepare 20 slides, which advance automatically every 15 seconds. The result is a very fast-paced, high-energy talk. I decided to speak about eggcorns, and I had a blast. We'll hope this tweet by Julie T. Ewald was honest, and that it went well.

​Austin. This is my favorite part of Texas—funky, flavorful, and fun.

Neato know-how. Ohmygosh, where to begin with the knowledge I gained? I learned about all kinds of great apps like UNUM, Smarthash, LastPass, and Appear.in. Some, like Evernote and Zapier, I'd known about, but now I'm fired up about their functionality. I also got ideas about using social media, finding new business, gaining efficiency, and more.

The chance to travel! I absolutely love going new places. And it's dawning on me that freelancing can afford me this opportunity. This trip really whetted my appetite, and a presentation at the conference by Alicia White called "Speak to Grow Your Business" is fueling a fantasy of mine to start speaking at various events.

​So stay tuned, and we'll see where the freelance life takes me next!

I've been attending a nifty little series hosted by AIGA Colorado for freelancers and entrepreneurs. Last night, the topic was "Workspace Matters," and the panel of speakers discussed coworking spaces, work habits, and the like.

At the conclusion, the moderator asked us to assess our own working spaces. And so I will.

Many days, I commute a whopping two miles to a fabulous coworking space called Confluence. I take advantage of their "hotdesk" membership, which lets me grab any open spot in a lovely central room. Confluence has free parking (though I may start biking or walking), a great kitchen and dining area, and complimentary coffee, soft drinks, and yes, beer. They host social/networking events where all of the members can get to know one another and learn what each of us does for work. We're going to start doing some volunteer work together, too. Possibly my favorite part about Confluence is the book club they hold every three weeks. To me, nothing beats a good book club, particularly one taking place about 20 paces from where I work. So my assessment of my coworking office is A-double-plus.

Now, some days (like today), I work from home. I love my home office, too. I can nap and fold laundry as needed, and I can work whenever I like—including before sunrise.

The central feature of my home office is my coworker, who shares an office chair with me. Little Guy is a chiweenie (chihuahua + dachshund) who loves to snooze on an old sleeping bag directly behind my back. My husband is chagrined by the ergonomic implications of the way I sit and implores me to invest in an Aeron chair. But if I were to do that, I think I'd have to keep Little Guy and his claws off of it, and I don't think I could bear it. I mean, really: could you?

​

I think it all started with the Holstee Manifesto. You know the one—the all-caps declaration that "THIS IS YOUR LIFE" followed by a series of bossy commandments: "DO WHAT YOU LOVE, AND DO IT OFTEN. IF YOU DON'T LIKE SOMETHING, CHANGE IT. IF YOU DON'T LIKE YOUR JOB, QUIT." Etc., etc., etc. All available as an 18"x24" letterpress poster for just $36 plus tax and shipping.

All over the interwebs, I'm told that I'm supposed to dance like no one is watching and love like I've never been hurt. I'm supposed to live fearlessly, forgive indiscriminately, and eat dessert first. I need to keep my chin up. Follow my heart. Let go of the past and embrace opportunity. Behave like my dog. Laugh like a child. I'm just making this stuff up now. I could go on for days.

Here's the thing: 90% of what gives these commandments their appeal is their design. They're carefully typeset or charmingly hand-lettered. They're writ large on rustic farmhouse-style faux-distressed wood. They feature frolicking children and adorable kittens.

They're worded irresistibly, too. Authoritative. Simple. And pithy. How nice: The secret to happiness can fit right on my phone screen.

But here's the thing. Life isn't simple. It's full of deadlines and disappointments and dry cleaning. Sure, dancing and laughter are lovely, and I try to work them in as appropriate. But I've got other things to get done. I need to vacuum. Get my tires rotated. And floss my teeth.

And don't tell me what I'm going to regret on my deathbed, because frankly, my stint on my deathbed (if I even have that luxury) will be but a minuscule fraction of my entire life. It doesn't really count for all that much, in my book.

So, thanks for all the advice, Holstee and everybody else. I'll give it some thought. And then I'll get on with the business of living my unique life—with all its mundane challenges, delights, and experiences, and its irreducible complexity.

I lived in Florida for 14 years, so I grew accustomed to the state's unique flavor. The kaleidoscopic sunsets and jacked-up trucks; the alligators, anole lizards, fire ants, and palmetto bugs; the megachurches, Confederate flags, sweet tea, rampant lightning, and drive-through liquor stores; the sweet smell of orange blossoms and the strange sight of sandhill cranes in parking lots. All of it adds up to a pastiche you'll only find in the Sunshine State.

I became able to recognize that Florida je ne sais quoi when I saw it in certain headlines. "That's got to be Florida," I'd think, when I saw a distinctive combination of recklessness, lawlessness, debauchery, and absurdity. "Nudist surprises dentist's office when he arrives for a cleaning," it might read. Or, "Bank robber's gorilla costume hinders his escape." You just know it when you see it.

So a couple of weeks ago, I started a fun little project: finding these distinctive headlines and designing them for display on Instagram with the hashtag #quintessentiallyfloridaheadlines. This was my first one:

Amazingly, I've been able to find a post-worthy headline every single day since I began. Eventually, my friend Alex said I should start a dedicated Instagram account. And so I began @quintessentiallyflorida.

I hope my Florida friends won't take it the wrong way. I'm not criticizing the state; I'm just holding it up for all to see and admire. And maybe to smile a bit.

I don't mean the horror franchise. Rather, I love it when the 13th day of the month falls on a Friday. Because I am consciously, pointedly, relentlessly un-superstitious. I'm comfortable spilling salt. I have no trouble with the number 666. I've even opened an umbrella indoors within the past week.

I identify as a skeptic. I value facts and science, peer-reviewed studies and reproducible results. I fact-check on Snopes. I question authority. When I lived in Sarasota, I happily fraternized with the Suncoast Skeptics. I appreciate science-based medicine—both the concept and the website founded by Steven P. Novella. And I love the podcast he hosts: The Skeptics Guide to the Universe. And though I like to consider myself a critical thinker, I also know how susceptible all humans are to a multitude of rhetorical and logical fallacies.

So I diligently resist being swayed by myths and mysticism, and instead focus on and embrace reality. Consequently, I live a life free of paraskevidekatriaphobia. So: Happy Friday the 13th, everybody!

There's a lot to hate about Twitter: vitriol, slander, ghastly current events, and rampant comma abuse. But there's also a lot to love. Following are a handful of my favorite accounts at the moment.

70s Dinner Party (@70s_party)
Despite the name, this account does not only focus on the '70s. Its dominant theme can only be described as "terrifying food."

​Nature is Scary (@NatureisScary)
You know what? I'm not even going to share any of this account's tweets. Because they're really not for everyone. But if you do check out Nature is Scary, you will see the circle of life in all its heartless glory.

Florida Man (@FloridaMan__)
You may know Florida Man. (Florida Woman is also a thing, but it hasn't been very active recently.) Thanks to the Sunshine State's ability to create news that is a unique blend of outrageousness, stupidity, recklessness, debauchery, and greed, all Florida Man really has to do is share headlines and links to current articles. The tweets simply begin with "Florida Man."

Damien Kempf (@DamienKempf)
A self-described "Medieval manuscripts explorer," Damien Kempf shares amazing ancient illustrations that I would never be able to see otherwise. Sometimes they're funny (particularly with his commentary); sometimes they're enchanting. They're always compelling.

​
​Back when I started on Twitter (nearly a decade ago—egads!), it was common for people to highlight follow-worthy accounts with an #FF or #followfriday hashtag every week. That practice has abated, so here is my attempt to make up for it. I hope you enjoy these accounts—I'll try to highlight more in the future.

​To leave or read comments, just click on the red "comments" link at the top of this post.

I was just visiting a website and a pop-up window gave me two choices. I could either click on a big orange button that read, "Yes, I Want Access!" or I could instead click on grey, unembellished text beneath it that said, "No, thanks, I don't want the FREE online course. I'll let my competition watch instead."

I just couldn't bring myself to click on the "No thanks" text. I searched for the discreet little X to close the pop-up. Thank God for that nonjudgmental little X, because anyone who chooses the "No thanks" text is clearly a rube. A boob. A chump.

Now, I'm sure that such pop-up windows are effective—I see them all the time these days. But they're just so... heavy-handed. They're like a salesman who leaps directly in your path, thrusting himself into your personal space, demanding "just a minute of your time."

"Hi, there, friend," he begins, uninvited. "I have just a quick question for you. Do you want to be happy, healthy, and sexually fulfilled? Would you like to eat all the fried foods and desserts you crave but never gain an ounce? Would you like to double your income, your physical endurance, and your lifespan? Would you like to eliminate fatigue, wrinkles, and anxiety? Would you like to regain your youth, double your salary, and bring back your favorite pets from the dead?"

"Or would you instead like to ruin absolutely everything? Would you prefer to live in incessant pain and regret, weeping yourself to sleep at night only to be plagued by a stream of harrowing nightmares? Would you like to be kidnapped and tortured by bandits, infested by intestinal parasites, and covered with an itchy, unsightly rash?"

"The choice is yours, friend. You can enjoy boundless pleasure and fulfillment, or settle for crushing disappointment and despair. So: What'll it be?"

I'll opt for the little X, please.