johnmaconline

Nobody brags about their short game.

When guys sit around over a beer and talk about their golf games, we always talk about the length of our drives. And 300 yards is the measuring stick.

“I’m usually around 300.”
“When I get it on the screws, I’m 320.”
“Ah, crap. Hit it a little thin. Looks like only 260.”

Even if the drive is a spectacular failure, slicing into oblivion or hooking onto an adjacent fairway, it’s the distance that dazzles us.

And we love to talk about our driver. We never talk about our 7-iron or pitching wedge. We brag about and debate companies, models, shafts, grips, and loft angles. Clever club manufacturers know this, so they design and market drivers with as much character and charisma as a classic Hollywood star.

However, how far one hits their drive rarely determines their score.

Consistency, precision, and control are what chip away at your strokes. Subtlety and nuance matter. Knowledge matters. A good short game trumps long drives every time. But the short game ain’t sexy. Laying up ain’t sexy.

If you want to improve your golf game or anything else in your life, ignore the sexy and focus on what really matters.

Say it with me:

“We don’t need the office. I trust my people. We can build amazing remote teams.” 
“We don’t need the office. I trust my people. We can build amazing remote teams.”
“We don’t need the office. I trust my people. We can build amazing remote teams.”

The industrial machine begs to differ because the industrial machine demands adherence. It demands conformity. It demands easily measurable productivity.

But the industrial machine is in its death throws.

What if, instead, the new paradigm demands questions, humanity, and the hard work of new types of measurements?

Companies resisting this shift risk being left behind, just as those who scoffed at the assembly line fell into oblivion. Modern tools, responsibility, empowerment, and trust render the office factory obsolete.

Don’t be confused, though. Remote work isn’t just about saving on commuting or office space costs. It’s a revolution in work culture. 

History shows us that those who fail to adapt to major shifts risk obsolescence. 

Embrace the future. The new paradigm is remote.

We software developers use a tool every day called “git.” Yup, that’s a funny name. You can blame Linus for it.

Git is like a farming co-op; each farmer (developer) can tend to their own plot (branch), experiment with different crops (code changes), and when the harvest is bountiful (the changes are beneficial), they can contribute it back to the main field (master branch) for everyone to enjoy.

Git has a function known as ‘git blame.’ Its name suggests a tool designed to point fingers, to scapegoat, to assign fault. 

It looks like this:

0d4f6aee (John Macdonald 2023-05-04 15:04:39 -0400 137) 'asvt': ['ASVT', 'ASVT-Development'],

It tells me who contributed that line of code (in this case, me) and when.

But ‘blame’ is a bad name for this function. Because it’s really about understanding. It’s a detective tool, a guide that leads us through the tangled forest of code revisions to the genesis of a line, a change, a function. Its aim isn’t to identify culprits, but to provide insights into the ‘why’ behind each alteration.

Today’s social and communicative technologies have turned people into public blamers. When problems arise, it’s tempting to locate a target for our frustrations, to find someone to blame. We blame to assign fault, boost ourselves, and diminish our enemies. 

Someone is to blame. And if it’s someone else, it’s not me. 

Yet, much like ‘git blame’, our real aim should be understanding. To seek the ‘why’ instead of the ‘who,’ because ‘why’ grants us the tools for long-lasting resolution and growth. 

Rather than blame, let’s find empathy. 

The passionate craftsman cares about context.

The passionate cabinet maker cares about how the cabinet looks when it leaves his shop. But he also cares a great deal about how it looks after installation.

Is it level?
Is it placed at the proper height?
Was it cleaned after installation?
Do the colors work in the room?

He would love to show you the cabinets in someone’s home when installed up to his specifications. In fact, if you ask to see them, he knows you care about him.

The passionate craftsman cares about tools.

When a passionate chef shows up at the restaurant, she brings her own knives, and she likely won’t let you use them.

She cares about her knives and who uses them because they are an extension of her. They feel familiar and sound in her hands. They give her confidence in her ability because of this familiarity. They never distract her.

In reward for their service, she carefully cleans, sharpens, and stores them.

You should ask her about her knives because although she may not let you use them, she’d love to tell you about them. In fact, this is how she knows you care about her.

You want a craftsman on your team. To find one, start by asking about context and tools.

At 22, I dove headfirst into corporate life at a large defense contractor making satellites. Guided by Jim, a veteran colleague, I worked on a team that tackled satellite nuclear survivability — a highly specialized and novel expertise in the industry. 

However, three months in, my first test arrived. Charlie, my manager, asked me to learn some specialized modeling techniques from Bill. So I bounded over like an eager puppy dog.

“Charlie wants you to teach me how you do your modeling so I can help.”

[OK, in hindsight, I can see the error in my approach]

Bill paused, turned around slowly, peered over his reading glasses and said, “Get the hell out of here.” 

Smacked right in the face. At first, I wasn’t sure he was serious.

“Um…um….what?” 

“Get out of here. This is what I do. It’s my job. If I teach you what I do, then they’ll just lay me off. Tell Charlie, ‘no way.'”

Confused and dejected, I turned to Jim. He consoled me, saying we could master the task ourselves. Sure enough, with Jim’s help, I quickly picked up the guarded techniques.

A year later, I was flourishing, Jim had been promoted, and Bill was laid off. His fear had turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Bill’s refusal stung, but Jim’s willingness to guide me ignited my passion. I can still feel that terrible feeling as Bill refused me. 

The incident underscored the importance of adaptability, mentorship, collaboration, and continuous learning. It taught me that being a valuable team member isn’t only about expertise—it’s also about caring for your colleagues.

There are no wrong questions. Or sometimes we say there are no dumb questions.

You know this isn’t true. That’s just something we say, albeit with good intentions.

Ever been frustrated getting answers from your toddler? What about your spouse? How about getting what you want from Google?

Last week, I needed Google to help me solve a problem. I needed to verify (or refute) the validity of an inspection sticker on a truck we just bought (because I got taken). I had an ID number from the sticker, but I didn’t know the terminology or the right question to ask. I needed to do some prompt engineering. Here’s what I tried:

“pa state inspection licenses” — no
“pa state inspection licensees” — no
“find pa state inspection by knowing the ID” — aha!

That gave me something that looked interesting: Safety Station List by County for the Web

That was the right question.

When you ask the right question, you get what you want. Sometimes that’s information back to you (aside: as I suspected, the ID from the sticker was not on the list — the sticker is fraudulent). Sometimes the question passes the information in the other direction. And sometimes, the right question inspires, motivates our caring engine, and sets us on the journey.

Prompt engineering has been around since a human asked the first question. We invented the name recently, but we’ve been engineering prompts since we opened our mouths.

Who is a good prompt engineer? Someone who asks the right question.

It can’t go down any further.
It’s always cheaper to fix it rather than buy new.
But if I quit, I lose all of my vacation.
I’m full, but I spent good money on this meal.
I’ve already got 3 years into this degree.
Quitters never win.

I worked at Lucent Technologies during its heyday.

As an employee, I benefitted through an employee stock purchase program which allowed me to purchase shares at a 15% discount.

This was great because the stock just kept going up and up and up. So I kept buying and watched the value of my account go up and up and up right along with the stock price. I did this for several years.

And then the news came out — Lucent was cooking the books.

Crash. Overnight, the stock price and the value of my account cut in half.

I remember when that happened, my colleagues and I said to each other, “Should we sell today? It can’t go down any further, right? We should just sit tight.”

But it did go down. And down and down and down. I rode it right into the ground. By the time I sold it, I had lost $27000 real dollars. Not a paper loss, or a missed gain. I had spent $27000 that no longer existed.

Why? Emotions. Sunk cost emotions.

Sometimes the smartest ones simply know when to quit.