Journal

Some of the most heartfelt, life-altering discussions I’ve had with my wife happened whilst we were walking together, slowly, in nature.

Some of my more meaningful and impactful 1:1 conversations with colleagues took place whilst strolling the grounds of the Barbican.

Some of my most profound personal reflections and realizations occurred whilst hiking in total silence, alone, for hours.

I like running, and over the years I’ve ran a lot—on, and then off, and then really off. Over the past few years, I haven’t ran much at all.

Today I went for a run—and it was truly pathetic.

I should clarify: that’s a compliment! One of my favorite things to do is take labels often used to chastise (usually myself) and turn them into something positive. A badge that I’d proudly wear: Proudly Pathetic.

In running and in almost everything else, I used to think that I needed to start on day zero with a massive plan. Grand ambitions. Something that people would notice. I wanted to get all of the satisfaction and glory as soon as possible, even if it was painful.

The problem is that most of those things never worked out, because I’d hate how it actually felt. I’d run until I was hurt and exhausted and never want to do it again. I’d sit down to plan out a massive project and immediately feel the weight of it, so I’d abandon it.

Over the years, I’ve found so much more fulfillment, enthusiasm and joy from trying to make things as small as possible when starting out. So small that I feel sort of embarrassed to even do it.

You’re running a block, not a marathon.

You’re reading a page, not a book.

Jumping rope for 30 seconds.

Drawing a single letter.

You could go smaller than all of those (and I do, all the time), and it’s still forward progress. One block is more than none. The next page is eventually the last page. Many single letters make the alphabet.

My run today had a single goal: for the whole run to be an actual run, which meant (for me, right now) the pace had to be absolutely pathetic—and I felt great about it. I didn’t hunch over with a stitch, my breath wasn’t ragged, and I didn’t constantly think about when it would (please) end.

Instead, I just ran. A Proudly Pathetic run.

It turns out that pacing yourself and listening to your body (including your brain) is the simple secret to sustaining something that you care about, and that you want to actually enjoy.

It’s one of those truths that we all know about already, but that we willfully and regularly ignore. It doesn’t mean that we don’t push ourselves, and it doesn’t mean that we don’t show up on race day—it just means that running ourselves ragged isn’t the default.

I’m still learning this lesson, and there are so many things that I want to do with my life that I still find myself wishing that I could skip ahead, but the only things that I keep doing are the ones where I start small.

Join my club. The Proudly Pathetic club.

If you look back through my previous posts, you’ll likely notice a compulsive habit of mine: unless I really force myself not to, I “need” paragraphs to be the same length.

I don’t know when it started, but I know that it’s been years. I know that I’ve thought about it for years; been pained by it for years. I’m doing it right now, in fact—right this minute.

The problem is that some peculiar part of my brain thinks it must be beautiful for every paragraph to be the same length.

In truth, the opposite is true.

When you vary sentence and paragraph length, and have the shape of the words match their natural rhythm, that’s beautiful.

You can already start to see it here, I think.

I’m really forcing myself to break my compulsive habit. To make it secondary to the writing and to stop centering my compulsion. I tried to do it in another post, too, and to me it looks much more beautiful.

When there’s variation and rhythm and—almost but not actually—randomness in writing, it feels like jazz to me.

There’s beauty to it, I think.

It starts too feel alive; to dance across the page.

I’m pulled into it, and then through it.

I’m obviously forcing myself to do the opposite now. To force a rhythm that maybe doesn’t even make sense—but sometimes I have to over-index to really see the difference it makes.

It’s difficult to write about this. There’s a certain amount of shame attached to it. To compulsively doing something that is in conflict with my own taste and judgement (and then to tell people about it).

My hope, though, is that by admitting it to myself and talking about it openly, I can catch myself and try to avoid doing it.

The funny thing is, of course, that this isn’t the printed page. We’re here on the web! You could be on a different device or have a different viewport width! I have no idea how you’ll really see it!

Rational thought rarely affects compulsive behaviors.

I could simply try to stop thinking about it. To write how I write, and to accept it. I consider myself the primary reader of my writing though—and whilst my writer-self thinks equal paragraphs are beautiful, my reader-self does not. My reader-self wants jazz.

I love writing, but I really love reading. I want to read what I write and feel joy; to feel proud of what I’ve written.

Here’s post number one to help create that feeling.

I didn’t decide to live where I was born (though it’s a wonderful place to have been born), and whilst I really decided to live in London, it came together pretty easily in the grand scheme of things.

Now, I’m living in California. I really decided to live here. It took effort, money, and lots of time. It meant selling most of my possessions and moving a few thousand miles (and then a few thousand more).

Now that I’m here, in this idyllic place, I find myself wanting to document it. To observe it well enough to capture it authentically. To share it with others in a way that makes them feel something.

My wonderful wife gifted me two things to help: A Ricoh GRIII and an OM System LS-P5. Two wonderful, tiny tools that I can take anywhere in my pocket(s). I added to that the Soundman OKM binaural mics.

My plan was (and is) to capture the most beautiful places in Northern California as they are. That is, as they actually are, not how I wish they were. I’m starting with one of my favorites: Point Reyes Lighthouse.

I’ll write more about that someday, but I’m going to take a detour here, because whilst the intention of these tools was for a single, specific purpose, the mere fact of their existence and presence has changed me.

A quote often attributed to Marshall McLuhan (unsure of actual source) goes: “we shape our tools, and thereafter our tools shape us.” We might make (or buy) a tool for one purpose, but the tools change us.

When I walk my dog (Cacio), I often now throw my camera strap around my neck before heading out the door. Every time I do, I notice things (new and old) that I simply don’t seem to notice sans-camera.

When I know that my recorder is in my pocket, I find myself listening more intently during a lull in conversation or when I’m having a quiet moment—just in case there’s something interesting to capture.

Simply knowing that I have these tools—and knowing what they’re capable of—makes me more observant; more mindful. I notice—acutely—the difference between when I do have them and when I don’t.

Tools are just… tools, but the right tool can help you think differently. Can you make you notice. Can make you pay more attention, or more care. The tools don’t need to be fancy, they just need a purpose.

We shape our tools, and thereafter our tools shape us. If you’re looking to encourage something in yourself, it’s worth thinking about the tools that might help you get there and investing in them.

I was living back in my hometown after spending a pretty random year living with a friend in Cardiff, and I was trying to figure out what to do with my life. It was difficult to figure out what I did want to do, so I thought I’d start by figuring out what I didn’t want to do.

If I thought of something that mildly interested me, I’d just try it. This led me to all sorts of strange places, like trying to make the perfect leather belt, pitching “imaginary friends” to a large U.K. charity, having a trial day as a dental technician, and pitching articles to newspapers.

I’ll write about those some day, suffice to say that I was casting a wide net. Next, I started drawing, and then I drew some more, and suddenly I had stacks of sketchbooks. I emailed a university professor and asked if I could study art. After a cup of tea on campus, they said yes.

For the first year, I studied both art and design. I did reportage drawing in the rafters of a cathedral. I made expressive sketches of the naked form in charcoal. I etched, screen printed, painted and more. It was wonderful. It filled me up and gave me a new community.

At the same time, I started to tinker with computers again. I’d always loved computers—they created a world to which I could escape when I needed to. They let me learn things, make things, and meet people. I started to wonder if I should be making things on the computer.

From my second year at university, I started majoring in design, with art taking more of a back seat. I started making things on the computer, but it wasn’t fulfilling me in the ways that I’d hoped. I was making things on the computer, but I wasn’t making things for the computer.

If I was to make things destined for the physical world, I wanted to make them with physical media. I could do that in art class, so more and more I made things for the computer (by which I mean: software). If the computer was the tool, software was the medium.

I quickly realized that the medium wasn’t a picture of software though, it was the software itself. That could mean many things, but for me it at least meant “code”. I started to teach myself programming using books from the library, and turned every assignment into software.

That stuck, and in the years since I’ve helped to design and build lots of software. If you’d asked me what I wanted to at the beginning, I don’t think that “designing and building software” would have rolled off the tongue. I had no real archetypes demonstrating that it was possible.

So often, the things that resonate with us are a complete mystery. You can think long and hard about it, but it’s really difficult to think about whether you might enjoy something that you can’t yet fully imagine—let alone something you haven’t actually experienced.

Sometimes, you just have to start. You simply have to start doing, start making. You have to make something, anything, and it might lead to the next thing, and the next. We try so hard to think about the actions that we should take, but sometimes we should simply act.

I say this as I sit here, quite content making software, but suddenly wanting to make more art. I started writing here every day for that exact reason: to begin exploring my art. I’m writing about something, anything and seeing where it leads. Maybe more writing, maybe much more.

Life isn’t linear. The pace doesn’t have to stay the same. You don’t have to do only one thing. You can do many things. The one thing that’s still true for me though: you just have to start.

Sometimes it’s okay to show up briefly. To give yourself a rest day. I think that’s true in any area of life, but here I’m talking about this very post.

For me, it’s more important to show up every day—even if it’s just a little—rather than hope you’ll show up in a really big way every so often.

This post brought to you as I type directly into GitHub, flopped on the couch, with my dog next to me. Taking it easy today, but showing up.

Sent from my iPhone.

One of the most useful concepts I took from The War of Art by Steven Pressfield is that of Resistance: the insidious force which attempts to steer you away from the work you’re meant to do.

I’ll write about Resistance some other day maybe, but I’m writing this to reflect on a strategy to counter Resistance: Little Successes. A quote from Steven’s conversation with Tim Ferris:

Resistance with a capital R—that force of self-sabotage—will try to stop you, as a writer, or an artist, or anybody, from achieving your best work; from following your calling. It will try to distract you, undermine your self-confidence, make you procrastinate, make you quit, make you give into fear—or, on the other hand, make you such a perfectionist that you spend all day on one paragraph and you accomplish nothing. The concept of little successes, or of a routine, is to help you overcome that Resistance.

The concept of Little Successes was shared with Steven by his friend Randy (Randall Wallace, writer of Braveheart), and is basically this: before you sit down to do The Work, count all of the small wins that you accumulate along the way—and they can be tiny.

Made the bed? That’s a Little Success.

Showered and brushed your teeth? A couple more.

Brewed a cup of coffee and read a page or two? Count both of ‘em.

By the time you sit down, you’ve already accomplished so much. You’re not sitting there staring down a big, immovable task—you’re just doing the next thing, accumulating more successes.

Every morning, I sit down and write out a little Analog task card by Ugmonk. On the front I write my tasks for the day (work and personal), and on the back I write down the habits I’d like to keep up: jump rope, shower, make coffee, write morning pages (and so on).

I knock a couple of those out before I get started with The Work, and it warms me up for the day. I already feel accomplished, just from making coffee. You could make them even smaller (and I probably should)—you could accumulate 10 Little Successes before you start The Work.

At first it feels a bit silly, but the older I get the more I’m convinced that the primary obstacle to success is that of “feeling cringe”. Push past it, and you’ll start to feel good (or at least, I did).

You accomplish so many Little Successes every day. Count them.

When I wrote (half-jokingly) about being a good boy, I left out my commentary, which is: for me, in the way that it manifests in me specifically¹, it’s generally not a good thing to indulge in.

Unless I’m unique in this, the temptation to be seen as a good boy is so very strong, but only ever seems to result in compromise and crappy work. Doing things quickly almost always makes you a good boy, for example, even if you make total shit.

Being stubborn, by contrast, is almost always seen as bad, or annoying, or disobedient. What are we to do if we have strong conviction though? A good boy would roll over and accept the belly rub. It’s a trap, don’t accept every belly rub.

If your role in life (and especially at work) was simply to make people like you, this would obviously be a perfectly reasonable thing to do. If your goal was to make people happy, it might seem like the right thing to do. Rarely are either of those your role though—or anyone’s role.

I’d argue that a seemingly-similar but actually-quite-different approach is simply to try hard. Not be seen as a try-hard maybe, but to actually, properly try hard—to really try, very hard.

They sound similar because a try-hard often tries to make people like them, or tries to make people superficially and usually-temporarily happy. To actually try hard though means to try doing the right thing, and to be stubborn in your resolve to actually do it.

Sometimes trying hard doesn’t work out. Some cultures celebrate the good boy and the try-hard. Sometimes they actively resent those trying hard. I think that it’s worth trying even harder in these cases, but perhaps at some place that actually wants you to. In some places, trying hard is celebrated, and not only in hindsight.

Whenever I feel the pull to be a good boy, I try to ask myself whether I want to try hard or if I’m just being a try-hard. For me at least, it takes consistent effort to avoid simply being a good boy for the belly rubs, but it’s worth the effort.

Making good work sometimes requires being stubborn, having conviction, and (frankly) just being a bit of a nause.

Being a good boy requires no such resolve.

Nothing to do with the movie.

This is the 28th post, which—considering I post every day—means it’s the 28th day since I committed to a practice of publishing online.

Over the years, I’ve started and almost-started so many projects, but eventually abandoned them when I couldn’t find the elusive perfect time to work on them; to fit them into or around my life.

It turns out (for me at least) it doesn’t really work like that. The perfect time never presents itself (because it doesn’t exist). The beautifully uninterrupted hours, days or weeks where you can simply commit “enough” time never quite come together.

Something that I’ve started to realize (more slowly than I’d like) is that I didn’t need a project, but a practice. A project feels big—you have to start and end it, and there’s a big scary stretch in the middle that only seems to get wider; the end further away.

A practice, however, is just something you show up for (in my interpretation at least). It doesn’t have a real beginning and certainly doesn’t have an end. To the extent it has a middle, it’s unbounded, but not in the same way as the long stretch of a project. It goes on forever because it’s actually supposed to.

Publishing every day isn’t a project for me, it’s a practice.

So far, my practice has existed for 28 days, and my plan is for it to continue forever. This is an important milestone because—subjectively; symbolically—it proves I can commit. If I can do it for 28 days (4 weeks) I can do it for 3 months, then for 12, and beyond.

It’s helped me to see past projects through a new lens. If I were to build them around a practice, what might have happened? If I commit to a practice related to my other interests, where might that lead?

Here’s to finding out, and to the next 28 days.

In an interview with Rachel Martin on the podcast Wild Card (and you should listen, it’s great), Ira Glass answers the question “what truth guides your life more than any other” with the following (edited):

I don’t know the best way to put this, but it’s like I’m trying to be, like, a good boy. Like I’m trying to be… I’m just trying to show… I really am trying my hardest all the time to those around me. I’m going to show you how good I am—but not good like you’ll be impressed, just you’ll think like “oh, look, you were good”, like with a dog, like “good boy”. Like “you really tried, good boy.”

At first I found it funny, and then I found it… maybe one of the most accurate descriptions of how most people act most of the time (including me). Like, even if it’s just for myself, I just want to be a good boy.