Something clicked in me this morning. No, not a funky joint or popping tendon or something in my back (although my left arm likes to make a strange clicking noise in my shoulder when I raise it), but something in my brain.

And in my heart.

I walked into my office, put my stuff down, fired up the computer and – almost clear as day – had a thought come to mind:

“It’s a good day to write a play,” was the thought.

I smiled to myself and, in response to the thought, gave it a reply.

“Finally!”

Have there been bad days for writing? Not necessarily. Any day is a good day, and each day has the same amount of hours that we (read: I) can choose to do something with – or not. But “bad” in the sense of I can’t get out of neutral and get started on my work again? Absolutely.

The clarity of the thought was nothing short of liberating. Aside from hoping that I’d be able to finish some of my written projects in the next couple of months, there was also the voice in the back of my head that kept a question clearly on my radar: Desire aside, do I even have the drive to get it done? To sit down and crank something out, even though every time – without fail – that I finally do X, Y or Z, I always think, “Why did I wait so long?”

The agonizing that I put myself through is always 100% worse than the actual act of sitting down and just writing to see what comes out. And there’s always time to go back and refine.

(See “Guides” post from yesterday.)

And even though I know this, I’ve been idling for quite some time.

Until, I think, this evening.

Today I am thankful for the feeling that the worst is behind me, that I’m finally going to get it into gear, for the feeling of liberation and for the creative energy that one beautiful, inspiring split-second this morning gave to me.

Recently I was watching a calligraphy tutorial, and the individual was doing a beautiful job. His lettering was deliberate and purposeful by design as he verbally walked the viewer through each curve and flourish. He was patiently going at a speed slower than what he was used to.

He explained that while not all letters look alike (for example, one person’s Old English letters may differ slightly from another artist’s), there are rules to help guide you toward creating beautiful calligraphy.

“However,” he said, “sometimes the rules can be broken.” This is where our individual take on something – whether calligraphy or otherwise – can shine through.

This is so important to hear.

There’s a TV commercial for Delta that has one of the best lines. “Never let the rules overrule common sense,” it says.

Now, regardless of whether they adhere to the beautiful words of a talented copywriter as often as they can, they’re good words to live by, yes?

I’m really, really good at getting into “analysis paralysis,” meaning – in the case of my endeavors of late – that unfortunately the more I know about something I want to try my hand at, the more I’ll stall and overthink all the rules that are there to help guide me.

And that’s the key word: guide.

If you were to ask me whether every screenplay that’s been produced in Hollywood has had perfect formatting, exact margins and not contained any wording that infringes on the director’s territory, I would of course tell you that I’m sure there are many which have broken these rules. Granted, I’m sure many of those rule-breakers are people with connections who will overlook the errors, unlike the rest of us who are told repeatedly that having a flawlessly formatted script is one of the best ways to get someone to read beyond the first few pages.

Guides.

Same thing with plays: every person in the playwriting group I hope to someday be part of is there to provide feedback and constructive criticism to the one who wrote it. You name it, they’ll comment on it: dialogue, scene pacing – anything. Which goes to prove that everything is a work in progress. Even when it’s in production and on-stage I’ve heard the writer say that they would’ve done something differently now that they see it acted out.

Guides. To help us get the first draft down, after which point you can go back and make sure the formatting is correct.

My problem is remembering that the first step doesn’t have to be perfect. In anything.

Over the weekend, something came to mind that a relative told me a few months back: “There will always be people who are happy to criticize you. Don’t be one of them.”

So true.

Today I am thankful for all of these little reminders and whispers that banded together, reminding me that they’re just guides and that it’s perfectly fine to color outside the lines, to sometimes break the rules and to just do it. There can only be beauty in the flourish surrounding a calligraphy letter if we first have the courage to make it.

One of the best things about organizing and getting rid of stuff is that feeling that’s akin to getting your hair cut when it’s been too long.

“Ahhh,” you think. “So much better.”

I just spent a few hours going through paperwork odds and ends, tossing most into the recycling barrel and will spend a while longer shredding personal information: name, address, old bills with account info, etc.

Not the most glamorous Sunday night, but a necessary evil.

Better yet is the clarity that comes with decluttering. My home office is one that I desperately need and want to makeover, but I’ve yet to find a desk that I like.

And then it hit me: make my own.

The more I look at the myriad ways to create a custom desk, the more I realize how how girly my tool selection is. I need a router? Really?

Probably not. There are easier versions of custom-made desks that I’ve found online, and some that could be done for a few hundred versus over a thousand. Score.

I can picture it here in this room, and I think how nice it would look; it would really open things up. I would have more space to learn, to do. I’ve always wanted to learn calligraphy, but never had the right space in which to practice. But the desk in my mind’s eye invites so much: it invites creativity, invites me to sit for hours and finish my plays, invites me to practice, to paint, to create anything and everything. Right now, I have random pieces that make up my office. And those random pieces stir up the same unfocused randomness in me.

I’m in need of some order, and order I shall find.

Tonight I am thankful for the simple task of organizing and going through paperwork which led me to thinking about buying a new desk, then about making my own, which then led to the dusting-off of a few things I’ve always wanted to do but haven’t yet. If you have a need for any calligraphy work in the next couple of years, give me a call. I should be ready to go and well-practiced by then.

Earlier this evening, my cousin asked me if I was still doing my blog every day. I said I was, but that I felt like my writing was lacking something as of late. I explained that I felt like I was writing about shallow things, things that I was only scratching the surface of.

He asked why.

I thought about it for a few seconds, then told him I just felt like I wasn’t adding much dimension to my life lately. I wasn’t getting out, seeing new places, meeting new people or hearing new stories that would spark a deeper thought within.

That said, I think there are some posts of late that have had more substance than others, especially to me. Writing about something my parents taught me as a child has far more meaning to me than a regurgitated story about how I will eternally be on a mission to find a bra that fits. But at the end of the day, this blog is simply about things for which I’m thankful, and it’s meant to be done daily as part of a greater personal mission and exercise; I liken it to working out each night. But lately I’ve felt that I’m checking the boxes, but not feeling as content as I used to about the material.

Starting a new job has had something to do with this feeling. While I love my new gig, the mental and emotional drain that has come along with learning what amounts to a new trade has left me feeling exhausted. That said, I couldn’t be happier these days. But people I would’ve struck up a conversation with while out running errands are no longer the recipients of any chatty interaction. They get a tired person in the place of a conversational one, a faint smile instead of a, “Hey, how’s it going?” Even that simple question has yielded a reply that has sparked a blog post a number of times before. And I miss it. I barely have enough energy to water my yard and tend to the weeds, let alone sit down and write for an hour or two — a potential recipe for disaster.

After all, who wants a brown lawn and a neglected blog? Not I.

A few days ago, I was online looking at things I could do to jumpstart my interaction with places, things and people once again — ideally in the hopes of getting some energy injected back into my life, not to mention some substance to the writing. Interestingly, I found that I was gravitating toward a lot of farmers’ markets, gardens, parks, museums and arboretums in the area. (How old do I sound right now?) Regardless of the location, whenever we venture out into places that are of genuine interest to each of us, we stand a chance at finding a new way of looking at something — thanks to something we’ve seen and considered in a different light, or thanks to the dialogue with another. We also stand a chance at encountering equally interesting people who share those same passions, and in the meetings with those people is the possibility for a connection of some sort — either for a few seconds, or longer.

Tonight I am thankful for the simple question asked by my cousin, because it started a train of thought that helped me understand why I’ve been less than thrilled lately with most of my writing. Asking why is one of the shortest questions you can throw out at somebody, but the reply and thought process that follows can be most enlightening.

I have many memories of accompanying my mom to the grocery store when I was little. We’d go up and down the aisles, methodically checking everything off our list.

Each season, the front of the grocery store would be papered with art done by children in the area, myself included. To clarify, it wasn’t so much “art” as it was simply a display of pictures — all the same — with various takes on how best to color them in. Each December, there would be rows upon rows of the same Christmas tree outline, all colored in differently. Some had stars on top, some had candles resting on the branches, most had been adorned with ornaments; some were the expected green hue, while others had seemingly fallen into the hands of a world-class scribbler who opted to go for an orange or yellow pine tree.

By spring, Christmas trees would be traded for Easter scenes. Summertime brought pictures of palm trees and beach balls, and the fall showcased pictures of Thanksgiving turkeys followed by Jack-o’-Lanterns. I can’t remember if it was just a chance for kids to see their creativity on display, or if there was an award to see who colored within the lines the best. But I remember it all like it was yesterday.

Today I got home and needed a quick snack, so I grabbed my bag of pita chips from the cupboard, munched away for a few minutes, then began to put the bag back.

I squeezed all the air out, rolled the top of the bag down and reached for the clip that held it closed — and then a memory came rushing back.

It’s funny how some things that you look back on take on new meaning with age. What I never realized when I was growing up was how good my parents were at sticking to a budget because they were young adults with two kids to raise. Up and down the aisles my mom and I would go, and I’m sure I would reach for the brightly colored twisty straws and ask if we could get them, or a sheet of girly, sparkly stickers that hung from a skinny display rod that jutted out from the shelving. Each time my mom would gently explain that we didn’t need them, that we needed to get what we came for, and then we’d head home.

It was a similar story with things like chip clips. Their vibrant shades were always catching my eye, and I always thought how much more sense it made to use them, instead of using a recycled rubber band or wooden clothespin.

What’s even more funny is how all through my 20s I would go to the grocery store and never buy those same chip clips. I’d see them, admire their colors, then think to myself, “Nope, don’t need ’em,” and I’d continue on my journey through Ralphs. If you’d seen my cupboards back in the day, you would’ve caught a glimpse of bags held shut with rubber bands like those from my childhood, or even with a paperclip bent in a crafty manner. I’ve also (and often) used that heavy duty silver duct tape, which I’ve found to be a wonderful solution to any single girl’s needs (I put it in the same category as Windex in My Big Fat Greek Wedding – it “fixes” a ton of things).

(Truth be told, that silver duct tape does hold a partially used bag of dry cat food closed really, really well.)

A couple years ago, I decided I would buy a few chip clips, and the next time I went to the store, I snagged some. Interestingly, it wasn’t without a slight feeling of guilt. I knew I didn’t need them, but there was something so exciting about being able to finally have my own, and to be able to use them. Unnecessary, yes — but I’m grateful for that valuable lesson that I’ll always carry with me.

Tonight I am thankful for the lesson that a clothespin and a rubber band can teach. When remembering how much I thought it made sense to have them, what has made more sense to me over the years is the value of doing without those small things we talk ourself into thinking we need. The clothespin and the rubber band remind me that even though something may look great and worthy of a purchase, it’s often times unnecessary. “Want” versus “need” is something I try to consider more regularly, and while I caved and now have my very own set of four chip clips (the purple is my favorite), I will forever value my penchant for saving rubber bands and finding new, crafty ways of using duct tape around the house (and kitchen).

I used to have my homepage set to CNN.com, but over the last few years, the amount of discouraging, disheartening, depressing and disturbing news became too much. I’ve since made my homepage Google.

I’m the first to admit that the art of avoidance isn’t always the best course of action. But one of the reasons for this blog, aside from it merely being a personal commitment to writing every day, is to focus my thoughts on things I’m thankful for, versus getting sucked into the vast amounts of negativity in the world. It’s easy enough to look around and find things in our communities, on our drives to and from work and while we’re simply out running errands that cast a shadow over our waking hours, and I personally can do without the seemingly steady stream of news that makes me think (more often than not), “Really? This is what the world is coming to?”

Enter: GoodOverBad.com

Only good news!

After perusing CNN earlier (for what reason, I’m not exactly sure), and with the exception of a well-written, uplifting article here and there, I was sucked in to story after story which left me feeling down, angry and sad. And it was only 9am.

I did a quick search for the opposite of what I’d been wading through and came across the above site – as well as another one a short time later: GoodNewsNetwork.org

After reading through some of their articles they’ve aggregated, I felt as though I’d just breathed a sigh of relief. It’s not as though the articles are all fluff and kittens and ponies and rainbows – they’re real stories that just have a positive or hopeful outcome.

Works for me.

Today I am thankful for wandering back over to CNN which, while disheartening at first, inspired a search for a more uplifting channel. Finding not just one – but two – sites (with countless others also available for your perusal), not only gives me a bit of hope for humanity, it also makes me want to go out and help create that same good news that compiled each day.

One of my favorite movies was on TV tonight — I stop and watch it every time it’s on. It was on a lot late last summer, and I know I’ve written about it before. That movie is Under the Tuscan Sun.

The first time I saw it, I was on a plane. I didn’t like it.

The second time, it was one of the only things on TV so I sat through it. And I fell in love. Since then, I’ve watched it countless times.

There are so many lines in that movie that I seem to not notice until something in my life makes them relevant for me. And I found a new one tonight.

“No matter what happens, always keep your childish innocence. It’s the most important thing.”

It’s so easy to let those things that we admire about children get lost as we get older. Their ability to imagine, to make believe, to pretend.

To be carefree, to giggle uncontrollably, to see new things with eyes that light up the way they might have when running to the tree on Christmas morning to see what Santa might have left.

To be curious.

To wonder.

To dream.

To hope.

The most important thing? I would tend to agree.

We let real life drown out the innocence sometimes. And while it’s good to be a responsible adult, how often are we being responsible and not forgetting the child within?

Want to learn something new? Kids do it all the time. They think they can, and they can. So they do. Adults do it, too, but less often. You know, because of that whole “real life” thing.

In the process of doing something but feeling held back? Do what kids do: keep going. They don’t listen to the voices in their heads telling them they might not succeed, because they can’t hear them yet. Not enough years have passed to where the self-doubt has taken hold and built up. They haven’t had their innocence taken away. They just know it’s possible and, again, they do.

One foot in front of the other.

Tonight I am thankful for my movie being on, for having the time to watch it and for gleaning yet another bit of advice when it’s most relevant to my life.

Without fail, whenever I find a makeup product that works well for me, it’s discontinued shortly thereafter.

I’ve been running low on a few things, and on my way home from work, I decided to finally stock up again. The items in question were all from NARS, so I made a beeline for the Sephora to snag my favorite gloss, lip liner and their bronzer.

Greek Holiday gloss? Check. Laguna bronzer? At first I thought they were out, but I found the stash. Whew. Check!

Lip liner? Oh dear.

Not again.

Of all the liners they had on display, not one of them seemed to match the pathetically small nub I was toting around in my makeup bag. It was so short it was impossible to sharpen, so I’d deal with the irritation as I eked out the last bit of color with the surrounding wood scraping my lips.

Good times. (And yes, it’s that good of a color.)

Even with it still on the market, I’ve tried to find a replacement for it if — and when — that day comes when it’s permanently kaput.

Everything is wrong: the ones that look like they match are too pale, too peach, too pink, and the ones that match the closest end up needing serious use to even begin to match the pencil I have (my pencil which, by the way, takes one stroke and a gentle hand for the color to be apparent).

I’ve seen makeup gals rub the pencil over and over and over and over and over and over and over again on the back of my hand until they’ve used up half the darned thing. Then they proudly proclaim, “See? It’s a perfect match!”

Yeah. As much as I’d love to use half the lip pencil in the morning before work and ther other half when I re-apply after lunch, I’ll pass. Although I do appreciate their determination and their attempts to sell me a product which clearly isn’t “the one.”

At any rate, back to Sephora. My heart simultaneously sank and skipped a beat as I realized the day had come: my lip liner was on to greener (or at least more taupe-y) pastures. Hmpf.

One of the Sephora-ettes wandered over to me and asked if she could help. Knowing full well that I’ve been through that store before with no luck at finding a matching shade, I reluctantly pulled out the nub of lip liner and showed her what I had.

“OH!” she exclaimed. “That’s actually not by NARS, it’s by LORAC.”

!!!

I should’ve remembered that. Of course! My bad.

I perked up and looked around the store for the Lorac section.

“And we don’t carry LORAC here,” she continued.

Of course! Always a glitch.

I thanked her for showing me the light and figured I’d head back to Nordstrom to snag one there. Greek Holiday, Laguna and I exited. Two out of three wasn’t bad, I figured.

I made it to Nordstrom and, long story short, learned that they didn’t carry LORAC there, either.

Not surprising.

I looked at the girl with exhaustion and said, “I can’t go anywhere else. Look at this thing (I held up the nub). Can you help me match it?” She snickered at the nub and said she’d try.

In return, I said a quick, silent prayer for her.

Within seconds, she was going down the path so many others before her had been down. One by one, she tried other lip liners to see if any were a match.

Too pink.

Too peach.

Too cool.

Too brown.

Too red.

We had depleted two different brands’ lip liner offerings, and she looked a little defeated. She stood there deep in thought and mentally scanning the makeup displays to see if another lip liner came to mind. Suddenly, she sprung back into action.

“Hold on!” she said as she scurried around to the other side of the display. “I think Lancôme might have one.”

I didn’t hold my breath.

She came back with two pencils, and sure enough, one was a match.

Fittingly, its color was called “Ideal.”

Indeed.

While my LORAC #08 taupe lip liner still exists, it’s nice to know that there’s another liner that can step into the starring role after earning its stripes as an understudy (unbeknownst to me) for years. I’m thankful for the gal at the makeup counter who happily took on a challenge so many others had failed at, and it made me think that no matter how often we may turn to our trusty, tried and true products (or even people or habits), looking just beyond the usual may be an enlightening experience and one that opens our eyes to new possibilities.

Yesterday afternoon, I buzzed my local car wash before hopping on the freeway and heading to a gathering of Michigan State alumni down in Corona del Mar.

When I got to the wash, they weren’t busy at all, so I was in and out in record time — but not before I was able to squeeze in a girly round of nail-painting while I waited.

There was no traffic on the 91/55/405, so I also reached my exit in record time. I decided I was hungry and needed to get a quick snack, so I swung into a Starbucks for an iced coffee.

The day was really quite swell up until that point. Empty car wash, empty freeways, beautiful weather with evening fog rolling in off the coast, parking spot right in front of Starbucks for my newly washed car and, even though I’d been rushing around most of the day, my hair hadn’t fallen.

It was a good afternoon, indeed.

As I exited my car and headed for the front door of Starbucks, there was a family of five leaving. I walked in as they walked out, and as I turned to admire my clean, shiny car, I noticed that the dad — engrossed in a loud conversation on his cell — stopped by my car.

He paused, looking a little confused and trying to figure out what he wanted to do with his coffee cup that he was holding in his right hand. In his left, he held his cell phone that he was speaking into in a very animated fashion.

And then he decided that my car would be a great place for his coffee cup.

I stared in disbelief, wondering if I was really seeing him get cozy with The Lex. I can’t remember the last time I sauntered over to a car that wasn’t mine and acted like it was.

Oh, right — I can’t remember because I’ve never done that.

As I watched the guy, I saw him check his appearance by looking at his reflection on my window. He put a few rogue hairs back in place and seemed satisfied that he a) looked better and b) had found a place to rest his coffee cup.

Then he decided to get a little too friendly. He leaned up against my car, all but sprawling out across the top. Clearly he wanted to make himself at home; that conversation he was having sure seemed to be taking up a lot of his energy. As he pseudo-lounged, I’m pretty sure his right armpit was trying to make a move on my B-pillar.

Just as the barista asked me, “Hi, what can I get started for you today?” I swiftly replied, “Nothing yet. Hold on a second for me.”

I walked outside and approached the guy leaning against The Lex.

My Lex.

Since he was still yacking away, I loudly announced my presence with a polite (in choice of words only) but firm, “Excuse me, sir.”

He looked at me and gave me a look that reeked of, “Yeah? What do you want?”

So I gave him the hands. The hands that are a calm combination of “what gives?” followed by, “and whose car do you think this is?”

I honestly don’t know if he thought it was his, or what his deal was. But he snickered, grabbed his coffee and walked off.

I went back inside, still a bit stunned. The barista was waiting for me, and I told him what happened. He shook his head and said, “You know, I’ve worked here for a few years, and I’ve had the opportunity to do a lot of people watching. The art of getting food cleanly into your mouth? Gone.”

He motioned with his head toward the window, and I looked at the table next to it to see a pile of discarded food with crumbs all around that would’ve fed a flock of birds for days.

No, wait — pterodactyls.

He continued, “The art of being courteous? Cleaning up after yourself? Gone, and gone.”

Yep. Agree.

In the wake of experiencing this incredibly bizarre situation, I’m thankful for two things: one, that there seems to be at least a few other people like me in the world who are constantly stunned at the cojones that people have — people who seem to think they created the planet and everything on it. But more importantly (and in all seriousness) I’m thankful that we live in a country where people can, for the most part, freely do whatever they want.

Am I glad that the guy was putting some moves on The Silver Bullet? No. But am I grateful that we live in a country where we’re not constantly on alert and wondering who’s watching our every move, and where we’re able to roam without fear of being kidnapped, decapitated and every other horrendous thing that’s going on not too far from California’s borders — as well as other countries around the world?

You bet.

Ours is a country that allows people to be complete tools at times. But I’ll take that over the alternative any day.

More often than not, I opt for quiet time versus time doing anything else.

Quiet time is also known as time to myself, time to recharge, time to veg, time to rest and time to just be. I find that a lot of this time is needed because I’m a) in the middle of learning a new job, b) getting older, c) getting more boring and d) am still recovering from knee surgery (as bizarre as that sounds since it’s been six months).

Sometimes, however, there are times when I sign up for an event, an outing or a class on something of a whim and I’m pleasantly surprised that I did something out of the ordinary.

For as often as I look around in the world today and see depressing headline after depressing headline in the news, it was nice to be among college alumni tonight in an environment that was welcoming, uplifting and renewing. The wine, of course, probably didn’t hurt.

In the spirit of simplicity reigning, tonight’s post is short and sweet, and to the point — “the point” being that occasionally the most pleasant of times are those simply spent among good people, with good conversation, talking about the good old days.

Tonight I am thankful that I chose to step outside of my bubble and enjoy a great evening in a beautiful part of Orange County — while talking about a beautiful part of the country, its chilly winters, humid summers and everything in between…including our beloved alma mater.

Go green, go white.