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'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 was 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.

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

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 concise. 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.