I'm writing to think, learn, and remember in public. I'll be here everyday.
I can’t handle a wobbly table.
If it’s my table, no big deal. I have all the time and resources to fix it myself. And I do. I can’t move on without making it stable.
But what about the wobbly table at the restaurant or in the office?
Well, I certainly try, but I might not have the ability. Can I adjust the foot? Can I put a coaster under it? Can we move it slightly? Can someone else help?
Maybe. But maybe not.
Sometimes you just gotta find a new table.
Maybe the old road you were on just dead-ended.
Maybe the bridge is out.
Maybe it’s closed due to weather or an accident.
Whatever the reason, you need a new road. A new direction.
If you’ve been committed to a particular road, it can be hard to change your thinking. You were focused. You were sure. It’s emotional, every bit as intellectual.
But new roads have something that old roads don’t — possibilities. Including the freedom to choose again.
What does successful mean?
Well, it depends on you.
It doesn’t need to mean a million sales, readers, or followers.
Thankfully, it can mean you’re willing to do it, put it out there, and keep getting better.
Keep going. With intention. With humility. With a desire to make it better.
Sometimes it feels like you were almost there, or you should be there, or it’s taking longer than it should.
But if you’re not there yet, keep going.
Keep rowing. Keep digging. Keep walking.
The only way to get there is to keep going.
I talk a lot here about what AI can help you do. How you can and should be using it.
However, here are some things it can’t, and will never be able to do.
It can’t help you want.
It can’t make you care.
It can’t replace courage.
It can’t tell a story about your son at his wedding.
It can’t give your daughter a hug.
It can’t tell you what it’s worth to you.
It can’t risk.
It can’t love.
It can’t be awed.
It can’t be sad.
It can’t forgive.
It can’t worry.
It can’t look forward to the sunset.
It can’t be apprehensive about the upcoming speech.
These are all yours.
When we talk about productivity with people, we’re generally talking about doing more in the same amount of time. Better efficiency. How can we minimize steps? How can we reduce repetitiveness? We sometimes call it working smarter, not harder.
We rarely mean we want them to work more hours (except in the service industry).
It’s the opposite with machines.
When we build automated testing into our product development workflow, we want those machines running 24×7. Lights out. Hands off. Keep those machines running as many hours as possible. How can we maximize the number of steps? How can we increase repetitiveness?
We want those machines to work longer.
The good news is that’s what machines are good at. They are great at repetition. They don’t get tired. They don’t get worse at it the longer they do it. They don’t decide they don’t want to. They run equally as well at 3am as they do at 3pm. They have no idea it’s Christmas Day.
The same is true for AI.
It’s not about having AI replace all of the things our people do. It’s about how do we give the right tasks to AI so that it can work all day and all night, so we can help our people work smarter?
Your clothes. Your car (or lack of). Your social media bio. Your hair style (or lack of). The color of the sheets on your bed. Your job title on LinkedIn.
The question isn’t if you’re telling a story, but which one.
For thousands of years, artisans were bound by geography, tools, material, time, people, and skill.
The sculptor needed the stone, honed chisels, and a small army to move the block into place.
The wooden bowlmaker needed the wood, a sharp blade, the means to turn it, and a village willing to trade.
The dressmaker needed the fabric, a steady hand, and the helpers who kept the loom rolling and dyed the thread.
Today, for about a $1000, you can own a laser cutter, 3D printer, and a Cricut. And you’ll have them tomorrow. By the evening, you’ll have your first widget.
Technology turned the roadblocks of old into mere speed bumps. You can learn from the best with a click. You can prototype and iterate with a click. You can personalize and ship anywhere in the world with a click.
The challenge is no longer access. It’s intention.
No one’s stopping you.
With the power to make nearly anything comes the responsibility to make something worth making. Something that provides value. Something worth talking about.
That is what an artisan is. Somebody who makes something worthwhile.
The tools are ready.
What will you make?
When I hit my finger with the hammer, I usually blame the hammer. “Damn thing!”
Same goes if I bang my knuckles using the wrench, I drop my phone, or if I trip over my untied shoelaces.
Of course, it’s my fault.
And there you have it. That’s step one.
Once you acknowledge that it’s you, then you can figure out step two.
You can’t change what you don’t claim.
The first one should suck.
Your first blog entry, book, video, business idea, Python script, painting, clay bowl, and soufflé should all suck.
Go ahead and hit publish. Buy the ads. Put it in the kiln. Take it out of the oven and dig in.
If they don’t, either you got lucky or you didn’t lean far enough.
Too often, we treat the first draft as the final version. But it’s not. It’s the first draft. It’s the ticket in. It’s the starting line.
The first one isn’t proof of your talent, skill, or whether you might be successful. It’s the proof that you started.
Embrace the cringe. Get the feedback.
The first one should suck.
That’s how you know the second will be better.
