Blog

When I was a kid, there was a board game that was always advertised on TV, it was called ‘Mouse Trap’. It was “…one of the first mass-produced three-dimensional board games. Players at first cooperate to build a working mouse trap in the style of a Rube Goldberg machine. Then, players turn against each other to trap opponents’ mouse-shaped game pieces.”

It was super expensive, and wasn’t something I was about to ask my parents for. So when I went over to a friend’s home, and they had the game, I’d always ask if we could play it.

The funny thing was their response—every single friend—was always that Mouse Trap was broken. The game seemed to have a fundamental flaw that all its small moving pieces left it susceptible to breaking. Til this day, I think I may have only played the game once, and I’m pretty sure that one play through was on a broken set.

If it happens once, it’s an isolated incident.

If it happens all the time, it’s a pattern.

Sometimes I’ll get 90% through a post, and it just feels wrong.

It may feel awkward, or lack direction, or may be missing a point.

The temptation is to push through, but at that point, it’s better to just throw it out.

When it comes to creative work, there are endless other ideas and variants we can pursue. Persisting with something that just doesn’t work does no one any good.

A few months ago, James Clear shared this thought in his newsletter.

“If you do not bend, you will break.
The adaptable prevail. Determined, but flexible.”

In particular I liked the idea that it’s good to be ambitious, aggressive, and determined with our goals, but to remain open to plans changing as new information emerges.

One thing that Maru and I have been consistent with since we met was our prioritisation of experiences over things.

The familiar is comforting, but there are an innumerable number of places to go, foods to taste, people to meet, and activities to try. And we know there won’t be enough time to even scratch the surface of all that the world has to offer.

And the best part is that as we experience new things together, we grow together.

On a flight earlier this year I started watching BBC’s Planet Earth. David Attenborough’s smooth voice coupled with stunning cinematography of the natural world is the perfect escape whilst hurtling in a metal tube around the world.

When I see incredible nature videography, it reminds me of the stories and lessons a nature-focused filmmaker friend has shared with me over the years. Firstly, all the good shots happen at sunrise and sunset. And secondly, if you need to wait eight hours in the rain and cold for that bird to pop it’s head out of it’s nest, you need to wait eight hours in the rain and cold.

I loved the commitment and simplicity with which he spoke about getting the perfect shot. And it felt like many of the shots in Planet Earth required that level of commitment, which is likely what makes it such a compelling watch.

I was recently helping someone with a job application, and by the end of it, we’d tweaked their written submission close to twenty times.

The third, fourth, and fifth drafts weren’t clear enough. Nor was the seventeenth. But after about twenty iterations, they arrived at an output they were happy with.

A lot of people will stop at draft number two. But sometimes it takes much much more to get to the required level of quality. I admire the tenacity of folks who don’t even blink twice when it comes to iterating until things feel right.

Maru and I will sometimes discuss mental load, and how we can share it more evenly.

First, there is the defined load, which is a set split of weekly or monthly responsibilities.

Then there’s the mental load for the things that come up sporadically. Planning meals, communicating with the landlord if there’s an issue, planning social activities, etc.

If the balance falls too much towards one person, we have a conversation about what mental load should shift to other.

I think these conversations are helpful because the size of the mental load remains invisible until someone describes it.

I’ve written before about how the London Underground is filled with advertisements for finance companies.

Investment apps. Crypto. Tax advice. Banks.

The thing that irks me about some of the riskier products advertised is the large print vs. fine print.

Large print: “Where your money works.”

Small print: “Your capital is at risk.”

When one message is 10x larger than the other, are we surprised what people end up focusing on?

I’ve been reminded recently of the quote: trust is earned in drops and lost in buckets.

Earning trust is a lifelong effort that never stops, even if the bucket eventually overflows drop by drop.

Every item bought has an initial purchase price, which is the money that leaves your bank account.

They also have maintenance and headspace costs. This is time spent keeping the thing working, and time spent thinking about maintaining, storing, or transporting the thing. Even if these costs are low, they exist.

We often focus on initial purchase price and give little thought to the other costs. But it’s worth tallying up the total cost of ownership, and figuring out if we’re willing to pay it or not.

There’s a lesson I’m thinking about all the time: how almost all good things in life are the result of prolonged, consistent effort.

Good relationships, careers, friendships, healthy bodies, and new skills learned. None of them happen overnight. None of them happen quickly.

They all require thought, care, patience, and commitment over a sustained period of time.

Choosing the few things that matter, and consistently putting in the effort, is what makes the difference.

The secret ingredient is an easy-to-believe concept because it’d be convenient if a single, mysterious thing could make all the difference.

But in reality, we need much more than a secret ingredient. How we prepare, how we sequence, how we manage heat and temperature as we cook, and how we present, all impact the final product.

It’s true for food, but also for most complex projects. There’s much more to it than simply having a secret ingredient.

Maru and I got married two years ago, and life with her continues to be full of joy, love, fun, laughter, and adventure. I’m thrilled that on this anniversary, we’re finally on our (belated) honeymoon.

One concept Maru shared with me a while ago was the idea of a family birthday. In addition to celebrating our anniversary, it’s also “Happy 2nd Birthday” to our family. I thought it was a great concept, in particular one that will appeal to our future kids, making them a part of this special day too.

One thing my tennis coach keeps telling me is to watch how the pros prepare for every shot.

It how they read the game, their footwork, their placement of the racket—all of it ladders up to a clean, simple, and efficient preparation process.

I came as no surprise then that the more time I give myself to prepare for a shot, the better they get.

In tennis it’s easy to see the impact of ample preparation time—you get the benefit almost immediately.

However, I’m convinced that its benefits extend far beyond the tennis court.

Whiteboards make it easy to be wrong, and that’s a good thing.

When we’re solving a hard problem, it’s unlikely the first solution we come up with will be good enough. We need to churn out a number of ideas, sort the good from the bad, and then refine the few until we end up with a solid answer.

A whiteboard is an open canvas. It invites us to try, to experiment, to be bold, and most importantly, to be wrong. With a quick wipe, any bad idea is erased, and any new idea has space to emerge.

When I’m stuck, I quickly find myself seeking out a big blank whiteboard.