GarthBox

The alarm went off at 4:40 and I despised it with my whole chest. Dark kitchen. One laptop throwing light across the table runner like a small unwanted campfire. That was the novel, most of it. Not the writing. The editing, which is the writing again with worse lighting and no excitement left in it.

I would not give a minute of it back.

There were good parts, real ones, mornings where the thing cracked open and ideas that had no other address in my life finally found a door to stand in. I can confirm those happened. I cannot tell you what a single one of them felt like. They evaporated clean, like they were never insured.

The frustrations kept better records.

I paid three thousand dollars for a professional edit, and somewhere in the notes that came back was a calm observation that one of my characters makes a Lady and the Tramp reference at a point in the story when the movie had not come out yet. Three grand. And one of the things it purchased was a stranger informing me that my people were quoting a film from the future.

That put me in my place. I have never been sorry about it, not for a second (I did, however, sit in that dark kitchen for a while doing the math on what each word of that note had cost me…). It is the story I tell. Nobody has ever asked me to describe the chapter that came easy.

The easy stretch of anything leaves nothing behind, because nothing actually happened to you. You passed through it the way you pass through a hallway you have walked a thousand times, and your memory, which is a cheapskate, declines to file it. Difficulty is the only part with texture on it. It is the only part your hands can find later in the dark.

Which is why I have stopped taking the smooth version of a route by default. Not all friction, I want to be careful here. There is decorative suffering out there, the extra hours and the worse tool and the argument you could have walked around, and none of it builds anything except a personality. (A shitty one, at that…) I mean the difficulty that is attached to the actual work.

When there is a harder way that is harder because it is closer to the real thing, take that one. Then go one notch past comfortable and see what the notch teaches you.

And write it down while you hate it. I keep a list of fears for the bar, and the frustrations deserve the same two beats of attention, logged the day they happen, before you know how any of it turns out. You will resent the practice at the time. Later it is the only part of the year with a pulse as you look back and wonder what actually made you feel fulfilled in the last 365 days.

Nobody has ever gotten misty about the quarter where everything worked. Three jobs later, people still reference the launch that nearly came apart, the night the system went down, the week everybody was in the same room saying the same swear word at the same screen. That is not trauma bonding. That is the only material a team ever gets issued.

So when we hand our people a frictionless year, sanded and de-risked and comfortable, we are not protecting them. We are giving them nothing to be loyal to, and then acting surprised when the loyalty does not show up on its own. The hard thing you went through together is the investment. It compounds outward, into the customer, into the company, in that order, and it will not run backward no matter how hard anyone squeezes from the other end.

The book is on a shelf. It is that damn alarm clock I would actually keep given the option between the two.

Stay Positive & Write Down What Bugged You Today

Every project plan I have ever built marks the leaving. Launch date, go-live, GA, general availability, a phrase that sounds like a weather condition. Little flags jammed into a calendar at every spot where something finally exits the building. Not one of those plans has ever had a flag for the making.

The making is where the entire thing actually happens, and we schedule it like commute time.

This year I gave myself a list of new experiences/hobbies and a long with each theme: Make something, sell something, read something, write something, give something. Five verbs, twelve months, one man badly overestimating his hands. The making turned into a woodworking class, and I want to be honest about the woodworking experience: I did not enjoy it. A lathe is loud and indifferent and it holds strong opinions about your technique that it communicates entirely through vibration.

I brought a friend. He was not helping. He was sharing advice from his experience though.

My bowl broke. Cracked clean through the wall of it, late, at the exact moment it had started to look like a bowl instead of a threat. (And hours of hand-carving later…)

I texted my buddy after it happened.

That is the whole thing. He did not fix it. He had no technique to hand me. We looked at the two pieces together and the failure stopped being a verdict on me and turned into something that happened in a room with two looking at the remnants. Alone, I throw the pieces out. Alone, I tell a shorter version of that story later, the version where I simply failed.

The rest of the list ran the same way, quieter. My girls built a storyboard on the kitchen table and I shot the film on my phone, which made me the crew. We wrote poems as a family, which sounds unbearable on paper and was not. Every activity that stuck to me had somebody else’s fingerprints on it. The ones I did alone got completed.

There is a real difference between completed and kept.

Notice what none of our milestones cover. We mark the handoff, the release, the QBR, the moment work becomes somebody else’s problem. We have no marker anywhere for two people inside the same unfinished thing with nothing expected to come out the other side, and that is the part that makes anyone want to show up again tomorrow.

So put one on the plan. That’s the lesson.

Not an offsite, not a team-building exercise with a facilitator and a whiteboard the color of a hospital hallway. A date on the real plan, in the same font as the launch date, where a few of you make something together and no deliverable is owed to anybody. The font is how people learn what counts.

This is a positioning problem before it is a culture problem. What a company chooses to measure is a public statement about where it believes value comes from, and a plan carrying eleven shipping milestones and zero making milestones is announcing in writing that value arrives at the door and never at the bench. Your team reads that. Actually, they read it considerably faster than they read the mission statement…

We have gotten very good at marking the moment a thing is finally out of our hands. The thing worth marking is earlier, messier, and has two people leaning over it. Nobody remembers the launch date. Somebody remembers the crack, the emotional weight of it, and the appreciation for the craft we put ourselves into refining…

Stay Positive & Send An Invite

A game always tells you what killed you.

It puts the whole invoice on the screen while you are still annoyed. The name of the thing that got you, the damage it did, the number of seconds back to the checkpoint. The information arrives before the feeling does. Nobody calls that kindness. It is just how the machine is built.

Then there is the other kind. You ship something at work. Something goes sideways. What comes back is not a cause and a number. It is a rescheduled meeting. A tone. A fog with an invitation inside it to name your own monster.

So you replay it. In the car. In the shower. At two in the morning with the ceiling fan turning its slow circle over the bed. You are not paying for the mistake. You are paying rent on the not-knowing, and that one bills monthly.

The deaths I look back on fondly are the ones I chose. Jumping off the castle wall to find out whether the fall would take me. It took me. I still smirk at that guy when my character walks past that castle (Runescape Dragonwilds, btw)

A death you can name becomes a story. A death nobody names stays a wound.

Someone once told me plainly what had hit me. The messaging was right, but I had not shown the thinking underneath it, so it read like taste instead of work. That stung for an afternoon and then it was only information. (I did not say thank you at the time. Consider this the late note.)

The difference between those two rooms is not resilience. It is documentation.

If you lead anybody, you are the death screen. Name the thing. Name what it cost. Name where we are picking it back up, out loud, with a date attached. Most of us hand out fog instead and call it protecting people. Fog is not mercy. Fog is just cheaper than a sentence with vulnerability around it.

And say how far back we are starting. That is the second half of the screen and the half everyone skips. Ninety seconds. Two weeks. The whole quarter. A person can carry almost any number. What they cannot carry is a distance nobody will measure for them.

Campaigns die the same way, don’t they? The one that fails in daylight and gets an honest autopsy is tuition. The one that quietly does not get renewed teaches your team a single lesson, which is to stand nowhere near the next one. A year later nobody is pitching anything with an edge on it and everybody blames the market.

Nobody is haunted by a fall they chose. They are haunted by the room that went quiet on them.

Stay Positive & What Killed You Last Time?

“If there’s no so what, cross it out.”

Not delete. Cross out. Leave the line sitting on top of the number so you can still read what it said underneath.

A so what has a name attached to it and something that person will do differently by Friday. Without the name, the number is decoration, and decoration is free on a wall and expensive in an inbox.

Strike enough rows and the ones left standing start elbowing each other. Five numbers with a real so what attached, and every one of them wants a person, a week, and a decision by Thursday. You cannot run all five. That is not the report failing. That is the first honest inventory of attention anybody has taken all quarter, and it was impossible to take while the page was still full, because a full page flatters everyone in the room. Forty rows look like rigor. Five look like a Tuesday somebody has to actually schedule.

A month later somebody goes to build the same pull again and opens the old page. There it is. Twelve rows with ink through them, in your handwriting, from a room where you had the context and used it. A deleted row gets to walk back in next quarter, clean and hopeful, wearing a new chart. A struck row does not. That line is the only note anybody left from a meeting that actually decided something.

The report with no so what never cost you the eight minutes you spent reading it. It cost the pull, the formatting, the standing calendar hold, the automation that fires it into a channel every Monday at nine like a sprinkler still watering the lawn of a man who moved away two years ago. Fourteen people glance. Fourteen people feel vaguely behind. Fourteen people go back to what they were doing. Nobody cancels it, because nothing that arrives on its own has anyone to cancel it.

That is a weekly tax charged to your own team, in the one currency they have least of. Crossing it out is not tidying up. It is a refund. And people who get their Monday morning back do not spend it on nothing. They spend it on the five rows that survived, which is the only place the work was ever going to come from.

The hard part is not the crossing out. It is leaving the marks where everyone can see them, in ink, including the one you will eventually turn out to have been wrong about. A clean page and a page where somebody actually decided something look nothing alike, and only one of them is worth anything next quarter.

Stay Positive & 80 Percent Of People Read This Entire Blog Post

A snowflake’s arms are a record of the air it fell through. Temperature and humidity at every altitude, logged into the crystal on the way down, one new branch for every change in the weather. The shape is not a design. It’s a transcript.

A playbook is the same kind of object. It looks like a set of instructions, and it is actually a record of the weather on one particular day, written down afterward by somebody who survived it.

There’s a whole category of work where that distinction doesn’t matter, and I run one of those every week. A keg blows at the bar and a new beer goes on. Brewery, beer, style, ABV, the city it came from. Five facts, four destinations: the draft board, the TV over the taps, the point of sale, the app where guests check in. Same five facts every time, no judgment required. That one deserves to be a playbook. The only skill it asks for is not typing the city wrong twice.

Raise the stakes and the document starts lying.

We tried putting coffee in a beer bar once. I trained a new hire on it the way you’d want to be trained: equipment, workflow, sequence, what to do when the grinder clogs. Every page of that was correct. Every page was also beside the point, and I didn’t learn that from a report. I learned it later from the person I trained, who told me I’d handed over a process and skipped the entire reason a beer bar would bother with coffee at all.

No step was missing. A step wasn’t the thing.

A playbook hands off procedure. It cannot hand off conditions, and the conditions are the half that made it work the first time. The room. The timing. The one person who happened to care. The thing everybody in the building already believed that year. None of that fits in a numbered list, which is how the list survives the move while the good part stays behind.

Keep writing them anyway. Keep all of them. Not because the next effort will run on them, but because writing one is how the weather gets inside you. The binder is exhaust. The person who assembled it is the asset…

What you actually run next time gets built at speed, mid-air, out of pages torn from six playbooks. One launch gives you a positioning frame that held. Another gives you the objection that killed it in week three. A third gives you what to do the week everything went sideways, which is the only week you were ever going to need it.

The reusable unit was never the playbook. It’s the page.

Which makes the handoff matter more than the writing. Give a team one playbook and a rule about following it, and you get people executing a document while the ground moves under it. Give them twelve and permission to tear them apart, and you get somebody who can assemble the thirteenth at nine o’clock on a Friday when the plan has already left the building. (I have been both of those people, and I was much prouder of the first one at the time.)

So date them. Write down what the weather was. Leave the failures in, especially the ones where you did everything right.

Nobody has ever kept a snowflake. What you keep is having been out in it, how cold it was, how it came down, whether it stuck. No two are alike, and that isn’t the charming part. That’s the bill.

Stay Positive & Don’t Bet On The Playbook, Bet On Yourself

We were rushing at the track, so we put in just enough gas to get through a session. That was the math, anyway… Three laps went fine. On the fourth, halfway through a turn, the engine went quiet.

A motorcycle leaned into a corner needs throttle to stand back up. Without it, the bike keeps the lean it was given and finishes the thought on its own. Mine lay down slowly, almost politely, and slid off the track like a guest leaving a party without saying goodbye. (I’m fine. The only thing seriously bruised was the fuel math.)

Now the fairing is cracked, and a long scuff runs across the paint like a signature I never agreed to.

The obvious fix is new plastic and fresh paint, so the bike looks like it just rolled off the showroom floor and never met the grass. I’m not doing that.

The repair is going to show.

Kintsugi is a centuries-old Japanese way of fixing broken pottery. When a bowl breaks, the artisan joins the pieces with lacquer and dusts the seam with gold, so the crack becomes the brightest thing on the table. The order matters, though. The lacquer does the structural work first, and it takes weeks to cure. The gold goes on last.

At work, that order is where we cheat.

I helped launch an AI chatbot that had two jobs. It was supposed to answer the basic FAQ questions and also pull real data when customers asked for it. The FAQ half went live working. The data half went live cracked.

When something ships like that, the launch recap practically writes itself around the half that worked. Resolution rates. Tickets that never reached a human. A screenshot of a friendly answer. None of it is false, and all of it is fresh paint over plastic that’s still split underneath.

Gold before lacquer is spin. Lacquer without gold is a quiet fix nobody learns from. A seam gains value only when it’s both repaired and visible: this broke, here’s what we changed, here’s what it does now.

Faked cracks don’t worry me much, because people spot them. Ripped jeans are ripped jeans. Run intricate lacing around those same rips, though, and you’re wearing proof that somebody sat with the damage long enough to care about it. Care is the part you can’t counterfeit, because care takes time, and time shows (gold dust or not!)

Buyers work the same way. A crash the next owner discovers on their own makes the bike a lemon. The same crash told upfront, with the fourth lap and the repair, makes it a bike with history. The scratches are identical. The only difference is who told the story first.

And the story is part of what they’re buying. Nobody at a bar brags about the flawless used bike they got from a stranger. They talk about the one that ran dry mid-corner and got fixed so you could still see where.

If you’re sitting on a crack right now and polishing the half that worked, the gold isn’t the expensive part. The expensive part is the sentence that has to come first, said out loud to someone who’d rather not hear it.

This broke.

Stay Positive & Grab The Lacquer Before The Gold

There’s a year hanging on the wall behind me on every video call.

It’s one of those enormous calendars, the kind that needs a clear stretch of wall and a little nerve to put up. Before January, we talked it through with family and friends and filled it with things to look forward to. Big ones and little ones, spread out so there was always something coming around the corner.

Then, most mornings, I write one line about yesterday. Something I noticed. Something I enjoyed. Not something I made happen. It’s just something that happened and deserved a witness.

That turns out to be a strange and lovely way to start a day. Appreciation gets the first word before the inbox gets a view.

Some squares stay blank. Nothing significant happened, and nothing gets forced onto the page. I look at those now and think… okay, that’s actually nice. I had some breathing room.

(It’s in my camera background, so anyone on a call can read along or ask me what the big stretch of green blocks represent [ Portugal! ]. It’s still mostly for me, and a little for my family when we sit down to look back on the year and sketch the next one.)

So I’m doing one for work now, too.

That sounds redundant, because work already has calendars. It has launch plans, quarterly touchpoints and a marketing plan with every month spoken for. Those plans are directionally accurate, and very little of them is in your hands. A plan like that survives the way a map of a river survives. It’s right about the general direction and useless about where the water is this morning.

A company calendar records what the business intends to happen to you. The wall asks something else. But what is it for?

Notice what’s left when the only things allowed on the wall are things you control. The launch date comes off. The positioning work that decides what the launch means stays. Customer visits go up. So do the long, muddy routes to an insight that most people skip because the dashboard is closer and has air conditioning. What you bring to the table goes on the wall. What the table does with it stays on the plan.

That’s positioning, pointed at yourself. A product described by its roadmap is describing hopes. A product described by what it does for the person in front of it is describing a fact. A marketer at review time works the same way.

Review time is where the two calendars finally sit in the same room. The goals column will say what landed and what didn’t, and a lot of that was decided in rooms you weren’t in. The wall gets its own three questions. Did I learn a lot. Did I get out from behind the computer enough. Did I show up for other people’s projects, the ones with someone else’s name on the slide.

Admittedly, blank squares will be harder to love at work. A quiet day at a desk feels like falling behind, and nobody hands out credit for breathing room… but a work year with no empty squares in it isn’t a full year. It’s a year nobody had time to notice.

The plan will remember what the year was supposed to be. The wall remembers what it was for. The wall will be what helps set us up for success more next year…the way we want to define success for ourselves.

Stay Positive & Today Is “Vroom Vroom” On My Calendar… See You At The Motorcycle Track