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?

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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.

I'd love to tell you that I was bitten by a shark. Or a dog. Or even some bratty first grader. But none of that happened. Truthfully, my life to date has involved a good deal of reading and typing, and not a lot of violence.

However, I do seem to have collected a goodly number of scars throughout the years, and each one reminds me of its provenance.

Chicken pox. You kids today—you don't know from chicken pox. You get your nifty varicella vaccines and avoid the whole mess. I, on the other hand, was ravaged by chicken pox back in the '70s. I HAD THEM IN MY THROAT. And for my trouble, I ended up with a nice divot on the tip of my nose. And a few other places as well, but the nose was the biggie.

Surgeries. The ACL reconstruction (which I stayed awake for and watched!). The removal of suspicious dark spots and various little subcutaneous growths. (Look up "Bible bumps"—ewww.) And three basal cell cancers, all on the left side of my face. (Yes, you get sun exposure when you're driving a car. I'll bet that in England, skin cancer is more prevalent on the right side of the face.)

My butt dent. Oh, heck. Why not tell you about it? That time in 1991 when I slipped going down the stairs to the subway in Boston and fell so hard on the edge of a step that it actually left a dent in my tush that remains there to this day. I'm sure that's the only thing that has stood between me and a thriving porn career.

Etc. There are oven burns and a trace of a run-in with the bottom of a swimming pool. And the place where the edge of metal mesh on my gym locker sliced me, but good.

If I think about it, my scars have been mostly caused by disease and clumsiness. But like all scars, they demonstrate healing and survival, which is a win, in my book. I'll take 'em gladly, and any more I'm lucky enough accumulate in the future. Stay tuned.