​

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. ❤️

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. :)

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

The good news is that I've been busy lately.

The bad news is that I haven't had time to do all the stuff I love to do, including writing for me. I've started a LinkedIn article called "Don't Write Like a Psychopath" that I can't wait to finish. I've been invited to write a blog for the fine folks at CreativePro.com but haven't had a chance to do it just yet. And I want to put together the Ignite talk I'm giving at CreativePro Week in June, but that's not happening just yet.

But dangit, I'm going to write a blog right now, and everything else can wait. I'm going to make this quick—and hopefully compelling and/or informative.

• I attended Crop last week in Baton Rouge, and it was FABulous. I'm so glad I went. In addition to learning from and meeting some amazing designers, I got to spend several hours in New Orleans eating a great meal at Atchafalaya and walking up and down Magazine Street.
• I've been binge-listening to My Favorite Murder, the wildly popular true-crime comedy podcast. I'm not sure I'm ready to call myself a murderino, but I may be getting there.
• I've gotten involved with a great freelancing group in Denver. We're going to host Freelance Business Week in Denver September 30–October 4, 2019, should anyone want to speak, attend, or volunteer.
• I got help from Drew Hornbein and I now have sign-up pages for two emails I send out. One is a listing of events in the Denver-Boulder area that freelancers, graphic designers, and other creative types might appreciate; the other is an email that includes the little grammar/spelling lessons I've been sharing on social media. Feel free to sign up!
• I attended the Ad Club Freelancer Fling this week, and it was a great opportunity to share my wonderful new business cards, designed by my friend Michael Reardon. Each card has a different fun word and definition on the back, including "sesquipedalian," "collywobbles," and "hornswoggle."
• I've been volunteering a lot lately, not only for the aforementioned freelancers group but for the wonderful Sister Carmen Food Bank, AIGA Colorado, and The One Club for Creativity Denver. 
• This weekend, I'm getting together with 11 of my friends from college--an event I look forward to every year.

​
Those are the highlights. Consider this weblog updated!

We live in a time when I need to say this: Nazis are bad.

And I could use this space to analyze when the word "Nazi" has managed to qualify as amusing, and when it hasn't, and why. But that's not what I want to focus on.*

Let's leave the word "Nazi" aside for a few minutes and instead talk about the common prototype of  a dictatorial, hairsplitting, pedantic, shrill, strident curmudgeon who haughtily corrects everyone around her. Call it a grammar cop. Or a grammar dominatrix. A grammar fire-breathing dragon.

I'm none of those things.

What I am is a language lover. I'm a fan of clear, well-crafted sentences. And yes, I've been known to cringe when I hear or see errors of grammar, spelling, punctuation, and the like. But I'm not going to push anyone's nose in their mess and shame them for making a mistake.**

Instead, I try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt and assume that all of us are doing our best. We've all had different upbringings and educational opportunities, and we all have different kinds of brains. (Some people, for example, are predisposed to utter spoonerisms or misspell words. You can blame your genes.)

For those who want to write and speak more clearly and correctly, I will happily share what I know and try to provide assistance. Almost daily, I post little spelling and grammar hints (many of which you can see here) on LinkedIn, Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter. I want to help people distinguish between "me," "myself," and "I" and know their "they'res" from their "theres."

Essentially, my attitude toward language is one of fascination and appreciation. I want to share my enthusiasm. I want to spread the love. And there's nothing Nazi-like about that.

I'm so sorry, whoever you were.

I suspect it happened during a game of Spin the Bottle at somebody's bar mitzvah. I'm sure it involved insecurity and mortification on my part. I'm certain it was a boy I kissed. But honestly, that's about all I can report.

My childhood memories are... spotty. I can remember the physical layout of my childhood home in great detail, inside and out. I remember the name I gave a cactus that sat on my bathroom windowsill (Horatio), probably because I labeled it with a machine like the one shown here. ​I'll never forget the aroma of the disinfectant powder that got sprinkled on kids' vomit at school. I remember my friend Amy's port wine stain birthmark and my friend Stephanie's phone number. I remember a time I saw a huge white rat in our backyard that turned out to be a possum. There are scenarios and personalities and happenings I can pull up, vaguely. But as for recalling exact sequences of events? No way.

So now, when I read (or listen to) memoirs, as I often do, I am just *astonished* by authors' abilities to recall precisely what they lived through. Currently, I'm listening to Small Fry, by Steve Jobs' daughter, Lisa Brennan-Jobs. She recounts in great detail specific conversations she had, when and where she had them, and what each of the interlocutors were wearing. How? How?

Well, she kept journals, which can certainly help. If you read David Sedaris's Theft by Finding: Diaries 1977–2002, you can see that his meticulous (obsessive?) record-keeping is a big part of his skill as a memoirist and raconteur.

I do have a box of old diaries, so I suppose I might be able to jog my memory and recreate a few series of events. But for now, I'm just going to keep enjoying—and marveling at—other people's stories.

P.S. If you love good memoirs as much as I do, let me know your favorites. Some of mine are The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls, The Sound of Gravel by Ruth Wariner, and The World's Strongest Librarian: A Book Lover's Adventures by Josh Hanagarne (about growing up with Tourette Syndrome in a Mormon family). Oh, and of course Educated by Tara Westover is great. And all these memoirs by comedians. And so many more.

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.

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.