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

I just returned from a full seven days in Seattle—my first time visiting. I was attending CreativePro Week, a fantabulous conference I highly recommend for graphic designers. (Next year's will be held in Austin.)

Here are a few things I loved about it.

• Within my first fifteen minutes at the conference, I ran into one of my favorite former colleagues from Publix Super Markets, Inc., dynamite designer and lovely human Neal Mitchell. As you can see, we were a good distance from the office we used to work in together. Small world and all that.

​

• I gave an Ignite talk (20 slides auto-advancing every 15 seconds over 5 minutes) about the history of "lorem ipsum" placeholder text and many other topics having to do with English, etymology, printing, and the like. I learned SO MUCH preparing this talk. Did you know, for example, that the man who gave Timex its name, according to his son, liked to read Time magazine and used a lot of Kleenex, so he put the two names together? (This is a slide from my presentation.)

That photo is a pretty good representation of my trip: just lovely. I'm so glad I went, and I'm looking forward to CreativePro Week 2020!

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.

My father loved music and did a lot of singing. Peggy Lee, Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong—that sort of thing. He'd sing "Flat-Foot Floogie (with a Floy Floy)," "I'm Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter," "Why Don't You Love Me Like You Used to Do," and on and on. I mean, there were a lot of songs, and he knew all the lyrics.

One song he sang frequently reflected his outlook, I believe: "​Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive," penned by Johnny Mercer, pictured above. You can easily find the complete lyrics online (or just listen to the song), but here's the crux:

You got to ac-cent-tchu-ate the positive
E-lim-i-nate the negative
And latch on to the affirmative
Don't mess with Mr. In-Between

You got to spread joy up to the maximum
Bring gloom down to the minimum
And have faith, or pandemonium
Liable to walk upon the scene

I absorbed this lesson pretty deeply as a kid. It's how I generally made my way through life as a young person—latching onto the affirmative. Also e-lim-i-nating the negative, which is sometimes less snazzily called "denial." When faced with less-than-ideal situations, I was pretty adept at pretending they didn't exist.

I suspect that's part of the reason l became a copywriter. I can play up whatever is good about a product and downplay anything that might be not-so-good. It comes naturally to me.

When I hear about a problem, the first words out of my mouth are often "At least..." followed by some silver lining or another. "At least she'll still have one leg," I might say, upon hearing of someone's amputation. "At least I learned a lesson," I might comfort myself after losing money due to some numbskulled mistake.

This trait can get preposterous if you're not careful. As demonstrated unforgettably in Monty Python's Life of Brian:​

I volunteered for the High Plains Comedy Festival back in August. At orientation, all the volunteers took a moment to introduce themselves, explain their volunteering roles, and name their favorite comedians. When I admitted that my favorite comic was Louis C.K., it was with a lot of angst-ridden facial expressions, wringing hands, and the preface of, "I know this is bad, but..."

My strenuous ambivalence was due to the revelation that Louis C.K. had, over the years, engaged what is euphemistically called "sexual misconduct," but which was, more accurately, "masturbating in front of women who were intimidated by him."

Fast-forward to the end of last month, when a bootleg recording of a recent Louis C.K. performance surfaced. It contained disparaging comments about "kids today" (my cliché, not his), painting them as overly confident, overly demanding, and overly entitled. Specifically, he derided 1) the survivors of the mass shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida, and 2) kids who don't identify as male or female and have the audacity to say so.

I'm not going to talk here about whether this was cruel or tasteless. I'm not going to opine about whether it was funny or not.

I'm just going to say this: The idea that today's teenagers should behave exactly like Louis CK did in the early 1980s is not only fallacious, it's the very definition of anti-progressive. It's no different from crotchety old racists who want to keep abusing black people because that's what they've always done. Progress means recognizing that old does not equal good, and that we always need to work to recognize our shortcomings and mistakes and commit to do better.  

So, though the rosy tableau Louis C.K. paints of youths of lore "finger-fucking each other and doing Jello shots" is surely charming, I'm going to point out that It's not the immutable ideal. It's not helpful. It's not good enough.

Progress means realizing that when your friends and siblings are getting gunned down in front of you and adults are doing absolutely nothing to stop it, it's time for you to effect change. Despite Louis C.K.'s declaration to teens that, "You’re young. You should be crazy. You should be unhinged," they can't really afford to indulge themselves like you did, Louie.

Look at Mari Copeny. This child isn't even a teenager yet and she's done more for residents of Flint, Michigan (whose water is still poisoned), than politicians five times her age seem to be able to. She's raised tens of thousands of dollars to provide residents with clean water and to give students backpacks filled with school supplies. I wish this little girl could enjoy a more carefree life. But I deeply respect the fact that she decided she can't afford to. She has a true moral compass. A commitment to positive change. She has optimism and a conscience, and she serves as a shining example for how we can—and should—do better.

Louis C.K. could learn a lot from her.

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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.

It was just over a year ago that I blogged here about how much I love The Jackie & Laurie Show podcast, hosted by comedians Jackie Kashian and Laurie Kilmartin​. Well, my opinion hasn't changed a bit—I've listened to every single podcast episode since I posted that blog. 

Also over the past year, I've continued to work at learning Adobe Suite—Illustrator and InDesign in particular. I've taken Lynda classes (which, chances are, you can access through your public library!) as well as SkillShare classes. (If you'd like two free months of SkillShare Premium, which is terrific, you can use this link.) I certainly haven't *mastered* these complex programs, but I can honestly say that I've learned a lot and have significantly more capabilities than I used to.

So, to kill two cravings with one stone, I volunteered to typeset something for The Jackie and Laurie Show: a list of their "Comics of the Week"—female comedians they think are particularly wonderful.

Quick aside: The comedy world continues to be grossly imbalanced, gender-wise. Women comedians still get less credit and fewer opportunities, and are simply less well known than their male counterparts. Therefore,  the "Comic of the Week" is a great vehicle for improving women comedians' visibility, attendance, bookings, and success.

So about a year ago, I took all of Jackie and Laurie's Comics of the Week and used Adobe InDesign to arrange them into a shareworthy list entitled, "Laugh More in 2018." And recently, since the list of comedians had grown to 150, I laid out a new list. And here it is! Give it a good look, and then check out these great comedians. Watch their videos. Listen to their albums. And go see them live—you'll be glad you did, and so will they.

I maintain that life is merely the procrastination of death. So to me, procrastination is not inherently a bad thing.

I'm not talking about missing deadlines (bad) or letting people down (also bad). I'm talking about simply opting to put certain tasks off for a bit. Until the flames of an encroaching deadline burn a bit hotter, gifting me with greater fervor and efficiency.

From what I can tell, if we look to the Latin, procrastination technically means to put something off from one day to another, with "pro" meaning "forward" and "crastinus" meaning "of tomorrow."

But a skilled procrastinator (👋) might put something off for only a couple of hours. Or possibly a couple of days. Ideally, you put a task off until precisely the point when you have to get going on it to complete it on time (and well). If you're like me, your subconscious knows exactly—miraculously—when this moment is.

Procrastination has all sorts of judgy connotations. As Merriam-Webster puts it, "It typically implies blameworthy delay especially through laziness or apathy."

I'm here to tell you different. Done right, procrastination can increase productivity and improve quality of life.

​I began discovering this in college, when I found myself reading one assigned book to avoid reading another one. I was still getting things done, just not in the most linear way.

Today, my procrastination game is strong. I will vacuum rather than work on taxes. I will record my expenses rather than writing a brochure. I will create social media posts instead of writing a blog.

But eventually (as you can see), I will write that blog. I will meet my deadlines. I will get everything done, in good time, in the most procrastinabulous way.

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.

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