“When we get down to the water’s edge, the sun is disappearing behind pink-and-blue cotton candy clouds. The sand is damp and cool, freckled with dark stones and white bits of shell.” (Catherine Newman, Sandwich)
Author George Saunders has a gift for articulating things you already knew but couldn’t say.
I was reminded of this recently when I returned to A Swim in a Pond in the Rain, his generous, luminous masterclass on Russian short fiction — the book that uses Chekhov, Turgenev, Tolstoy, and Gogol as a lens for understanding what fiction actually does to a reader, and why.
Early on, Saunders wonders whether there might be certain laws governing how we respond to stories — not rules handed down by writing programs, but something closer to instinct, something wired into the reading mind.
One of his candidates is physical description. “We like hearing our world described,” he writes. “And we like hearing it described specifically.”
That line stopped me. It has the quality of a truth that, once named, you begin seeing everywhere — in the books you love, in the passages you’ve underlined without quite knowing why, in the sentences that have stayed with you for years long after the plot has faded.
Plot pulls us forward. Character keeps us invested. Ideas give us something to argue with on the drive home. But it’s the specific physicality of a story that makes it land in the body.
“It was raining” barely registers. Tell me instead about raindrops beading on a leaf, or the way mud sucks at a boot heel with a wet shlup, and suddenly I’m not reading about a place — I’m standing in it.
Why should this be?
Saunders doesn’t fully explain it, and maybe the honest answer is that no one fully can.
Our brains are pattern-matching machines, wired by evolution to map territory and imagine consequence — and concrete detail feeds that machinery directly. Or maybe the explanation is simpler and more generous: we love the world, and hearing it rendered with precision is a form of praise.
Whatever the reason, the great writers have always known this law and obeyed it joyfully. With the help of AI I’ve collected a few good examples.
Consider the opening of Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms:
In the bed of the river there were pebbles and boulders, dry and white in the sun, and the water was clear and swiftly moving and blue in the channels. Troops went by the house and down the road and the dust they raised powdered the leaves of the trees.
No grand metaphors. Just pebbles, dust, leaves, color, motion. Yet the scene is so tangible you can almost taste the grit. And the specificity does double duty — it grounds us in a real place while quietly foreshadowing the war that will eventually powder everything.
Dickens, who worked at a different scale entirely, goes symphonic with it. The opening of Bleak House is one of the great set pieces in the language:
Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city… Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships… fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little ’prentice boy on deck.
The repetition is hypnotic, but it’s the specificity — cabooses, rigging, toes, pipes — that transforms weather into a living, malevolent presence. You don’t just read the fog. You feel it in your lungs.
Fitzgerald does something different again in The Great Gatsby, using the same technique to make moral decay feel physical and inescapable:
This is a valley of ashes — a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air.
Ashes don’t just lie there — they grow, they form, they crumble. The grotesque precision turns an industrial wasteland into an image of everything the Jazz Age is trying not to look at.
And then there is Chekhov, who Saunders loves most of all. In “Gooseberries” — the story that gives Saunders his title — Ivan Ivanych plunges into a river in the rain:
He plunged into the water with a splash and swam in the rain, thrusting his arms out wide; he raised waves on which white lilies swayed.
Those white lilies swaying on the disturbed water — two words, one image — capture pure animal joy more vividly than any abstract declaration of happiness ever could. It’s the kind of detail that makes you want to jump in yourself.
Saunders is right.
Our reading minds light up at this stuff. Specific physical description isn’t decoration or craft-workshop virtue signaling — it’s the secret handshake between writer and reader. It says: I noticed this small, real thing. Did you?
In a world increasingly mediated by screens and summaries and the frictionless delivery of abstracted information, fiction’s quiet insistence on the pebbles and the fog and the lilies feels almost like an act of resistance. It insists that the world is worth looking at. That the particular matters. That rendering one thing exactly right is worth more than gesturing vaguely at everything.
So next time you’re reading — or writing — linger on the details. Describe the world specifically. Our hungry minds will thank you for it.
We’ve all seen the “How to write a book in 24 hours with AI” tutorials. Usually, they involve a single prompt and result in a 200-page book of absolute “slop”—generic, robotic, and devoid of any human soul.
I recently came across a workflow on X that flips the script. Instead of asking AI to write for you, it uses AI as an editor, librarian, and investigative journalist to extract the book that’s already in your head.
I’ve adjusted this process a bit (with Gemini’s help) and built a revised “Toolkit” that makes it even more rigorous. This is a system you can use to write a book that actually sounds like you.
The biggest mistake people make with AI is using it to generate ideas. The best books come from extracted knowledge. You already have the expertise in your head; the hard part is the “manual labor” of organizing, structuring, and filling gaps. We often overlook stuff that we should have included or we can’t quite resolve how stuff should be sequenced for the most reader impact.
This workflow uses voice dictation as the first step to capture your raw energy and then adds in AI to help handle the structural heavy lifting.
Go for a walk and record a voice memo of everything you want to say about your topic. Don’t worry about structure, grammar, or “the right way” to say it. Just talk. Don’t worry about it. Movement usually activates parts of the brain that sitting at a desk shuts down. You’re just using the outdoors to open up your mind and bring fresh perspective.
Use a tool to convert your voice memo into text (something like the built-in tools in the iOS Voice Memos app on your iPhone or, if you prefer, a third-party app like MacWhisper or Wispr Flow. I find the built-in tools work quite well these days so give them a try before spending the money for a third-party app.
Once you have the transcript, don’t ask the AI to “write a chapter.” Instead, you want to ask it for help identifying the Core Thesis, the Target Audience, and the Unique Vocabulary you used. This creates a “North Star” for your project.
This step is the secret sauce. To prevent the AI from making you sound like a corporate brochure, provide it with 3-5 pages of your best previous writing. Ask it to analyze your rhythm, sentence length, and diction. Tell it: “Clean up my transcripts, but keep my fingerprint.”
Work on the outline with the AI. Iterate. Ask it what’s missing. How does it compare to the other best-selling books in your niche. Where are you being redundant? Where is your “original” angle?
Once you have an outline, you’ll find “thin” areas. Instead of typing, flip things around and ask the AI to play the role of an investigative journalist. Have it interview you about the missing pieces. Dictate your answers. As with the first step, this pulls deep insights out of you that you might never have thought to type. Think like you’re talking to a friend and reacting to their reactions.
Before you get too far, ask the AI to “Red Team” your outline. Ask: “What would a skeptic say is the biggest leap of faith in my argument?” This forces you to add evidence where you were previously relying on “trust me.”
Finally, sit down and type. As the original author of this workflow noted, typing activates a different, more “painful” part of the brain that is essential for final quality. Use the AI-organized markdown files as your foundation, but always do the final “human” pass yourself.
If you’re going to try this, the key is consistency. Keep a file called Project_DNA.md. Every time you start a new session with AI, paste this file in first. It tells the AI exactly who you are, who you’re writing for, and what your voice sounds like.
Here’s the full toolkit with prompts that I’ve just described:
To help you get started, here are the exact prompts I use for each phase of this workflow.
Use this on the transcript you’ve created after your first major walking braindump.
“I am providing a transcript of a raw ‘braindump’ for a book I am writing. Do not attempt to write the book yet. Instead, perform a deep thematic analysis to extract the ‘Essence’ of this project. Identify: The Core Thesis, The Target Audience, Unique Vocabulary (metaphors/phrases I use), and the Tone Map.”
Use this before organizing transcripts to ensure you don’t sound like a robot.
“Act as my Editor and Voice Stylist. I am providing 3–5 pages of what I consider to be my best writing. Analyze this writing for sentence rhythm, diction, and structure. Whenever you help me organize my voice transcripts, you must apply these stylistic ‘fingerprints.’ Clean up the grammar, but keep my rhythm.”
Use this when a chapter feels thin or you hit a wall.
“Act as an investigative journalist interviewing me. Identify 3 areas where my current draft is fuzzy or surface-level. Ask me ONE question at a time. After I answer, challenge me: ‘That makes sense, but what about [Counter-argument]?’ Summarize our findings afterward.”
Use this to stress-test your draft.
“I want you to ‘Red Team’ this rough copy of my book. Imagine you are a critical reviewer. Point out the ‘leaps of faith’ I am asking the reader to make. Identify where my arguments are ‘low-hanging fruit’ and tell me specifically where I am being too similar to existing books in this niche. Help me make it better.”
Your goal isn’t to use AI to work less; it’s to have it help you work deeper. By offloading the “clerk work” of organization and editing to AI, you free up your brain to do the actual “author work” of thinking, connecting, and writing.
Are you working on a book? I’d love to hear how you’re using (or avoiding) AI in your process. What prompts are you using? How have you adjusted them to fit your needs?
We often mistake simplicity for innocence. When we look at a technological innovation, we tend to judge its weight by its complexity—the microchip, the steam engine, the nuclear reactor. But sometimes, history turns on the axis of something far more rudimentary. Sometimes, the world changes not with a bang, but with a sharp, metallic scratch.
I was recently reading Cattle Kingdom by Christopher Knowlton, and I stopped cold at a passage regarding the invention of barbed wire. It’s an object we pass by on highways or stumble over in overgrown fields without a second thought. Yet, Knowlton writes:
“None was more significant than the creation of barbed wire, which literally reshaped the landscape and set the stage for the era’s eventual destruction—at great personal cost to so many of its key players.”
It is a profound observation. We tend to romanticize the American West as a geography of endless horizons—a place defined by what it didn’t have: fences, borders, limits. It was the Open Range. But that openness was fragile. It existed only as long as the technology to close it was absent.
When Joseph Glidden and others patented their variations of “The Devil’s Rope” in the 1870s, they weren’t just selling steel fencing; they were selling a new concept of ownership. Before wire, a man owned what he could patrol. After wire, a man owned what he could enclose.
The quote strikes a melancholic chord because it highlights a paradox of human progress: the tool created to maximize the land ended up destroying the culture that relied on it. The cowboys, the cattle barons, and the drifters who defined the era were undone by the very efficiency they sought. The wire made the cattle industry profitable on a massive scale, but it also ended the cowboy’s way of life. It stopped the long drives. It turned the cowboy from a navigator of the plains into a gatekeeper.
And, as Knowlton notes, the “personal cost” was staggering. This reshaping of the landscape wasn’t just aesthetic; it was violent. The wire cut off migration routes for bison and the Indigenous tribes who followed them. It sparked the fence-cutting wars, neighbor turning against neighbor in the dark of night, snapping tension wires that represented their livelihood or their imprisonment, depending on which side of the post they stood.
There is a lesson here for us today, far removed from the dusty plains. We are constantly inventing our own versions of barbed wire—digital boundaries, algorithmic silos, tools designed to corral information or efficiency. We build these structures to create order, to claim our stake, and to protect what is ours. But every time we draw a line, we must ask: what era are we destroying? What open range are we closing off forever?
The landscape is always being reshaped. The question is whether we are building fences that protect us, or cages that trap us in.
I first encountered Susan Orlean not in person, but in the ashes. Specifically, the ashes of the Los Angeles Central Library. Reading The Library Book was a masterclass in how to weave a forensic investigation with a love letter to a public institution. It was reportage, but it possessed a beating heart. She has spent decades at The New Yorker perfecting the art of the “curious observer”—the person standing just to the side of the frame, noticing the detail everyone else missed.
That is why picking up Joyride felt different.
In a memoir, the observer must finally step in front of the lens. The transition from The Library Book—which is about the preservation of collective memory—to Joyride—which is about the fluidity of personal memory—is a fascinating shift. When a journalist writes a memoir, there is often a tension. They are used to looking outward, hunting for the story in orchids or arsonists. Turning that gaze inward requires a different kind of bravery.
“A commute has a destination; a joyride has only a duration.”
The title itself suggests a specific philosophy of living. It implies that the movement itself is the point. As I read, I found myself thinking about the difference between navigating a life and simply driving through it. Orlean captures that distinct feeling of the wind in your hair, the blur of the scenery, and the realization that the “plot” of our lives is often just the things that happen while we are busy steering.
We read writers like Orlean not just for what they saw, but for how they saw it. In Joyride, she reminds us that the most interesting routes are rarely the most direct ones. A great read!
Over the weekend after Christmas, I started reading Stephen Witt‘s book The Thinking Machine: Jensen Huang, Nvidia, and the World’s Most Coveted Microchip which was published last April.
For some reason, I ignored this book until the end of the year – but wow – was I hooked once I started reading it a few days ago. The book grew out of a New Yorker piece Witt wrote in 2023 titled “How Jensen Huang’s Nvidia Is Powering the A.I. Revolution“.
Witt’s book is obviously about Nvidia and CEO Jensen Huang but it’s also about so much more of what’s happening in the world of AI.
In addition, the last chapter is quite a capstone to the whole book – a delight.
Highly recommended!
Way back in 2016 when I was contemplating my retirement, I found myself pondering what projects might keep me engaged once my long-standing career in payments consulting came to an end. One compelling idea that emerged during this reflective period was the prospect of writing another book. This time, I envisioned the topic focusing on the intriguing story behind Interstate 280, often referred to as “the world’s most beautiful freeway.”
Our family’s migration from the Midwest to California took place in the early 1960s, a time when the interstate highway system in the San Francisco Bay Area was still a work in progress. At that point, I-280 had not yet been completed. As I approached the age of obtaining my driver’s license and gained the freedom that came with access to a car, I remember setting off on explorative drives down the peninsula. During those excursions, I gradually became aware of the ongoing construction and development involved in building this iconic road.
Eventually, after years of planning and labor, I-280 was completed in the early 1970s. At that time, I was working for IBM and was engaged in a project that took me down to an IBM lab facility located on Sand Hill Road—a place that has since vanished. Driving along I-280 during those initial years was an absolute delight, with the smooth asphalt feeling fresh and new under my tires. The experience of traversing a well-constructed highway surrounded by natural beauty was euphoric.
Sidenote: that IBM lab on Sand Hill Road was where Gene Amdahl was working on what turned out to be his last project working for IBM. That project was abruptly terminated one day and Amdahl left to found what became Amdahl Computer, developer of the first of the serious IBM mainframe “clone” threats.
In stark contrast to other freeways that meander through urban landscapes or feature monotonous views, 280’s route is distinguished by its breathtaking scenery. The rolling hills, lush vegetation, and stunning vistas create a picturesque drive that sparkles in comparison to its sibling highway, US 101, which navigates through the more densely populated areas closer to San Francisco Bay.
As I brainstormed the possibility of transforming my interest in I-280 into a full-fledged book project, I realized there must be an abundance of fascinating stories to uncover regarding the history of this highway—particularly pertaining to how the route was established and agreed upon. To delve deeper into this narrative, I invested considerable time gathering a wealth of documents. A few hours of dedicated Google searches yielded a treasure trove of information, which I organized into a folder for easy access. However, I soon found myself lacking a clear methodology for effectively utilizing these documents to craft an engaging narrative.
Recently, I have begun experimenting with Google’s NotebookLM, which appears to be tailored precisely to meet my needs. This innovative tool allows me to input numerous documents and then facilitates various inquiries about the collected material. I can explore whether there are any captivating and compelling stories waiting to be told. As I embark on this new journey of exploration, I am filled with a sense of excitement and renewed vigor for my little project. While it remains uncertain whether a full-fledged book will emerge from this endeavor, I am intrigued by the possibilities and look forward to seeing how this story unfolds. Perhaps this exploration will not only breathe life into my ideas but also provide a narrative worth sharing with others. We shall see!
I love this reminder from Russ Roberts in his book Wild Problems:
Instead of savoring your conversational brilliance, savor the experience of interacting with another human being. See what happens without expectation during that encounter and without a plan to steer it in particular directions. Give your conversational partner your fullest attention without thinking of what you’re going to say next.
Now if only I could remember it’s not about my conversational brilliance!
During my college years and after, I worked in the downtown San Francisco financial district. It was a busy place with lots of folks commuting into town.
One of my favorite places during those years (1970-1974) was Stacey’s Bookstore on Market Street. It was such a wonderful bookstore – deep in technical books, an upstairs and a downstairs area, and a great staff who was welcoming and helpful.
Unfortunately, Stacey’s eventually closed – wrapping things up in 2009. Stacey’s was independent, not part of any of the larger bookstore chains. It became one of many independent bookstores that closed during that era – a combination of the effects of Amazon and the larger chains with their bookstores located in suburban shopping malls. It seems like we may be through that “bookstore winter” as we’ve got a couple of thriving local independent bookstores and there seem to me many more now around the country.
I’m not sure what brought Stacey’s into my mind this morning – one of those fleeting thoughts that managed to stick. But those are good memories – a place where I enjoyed endless browsing and made many purchases of business and technical/computer-related books over the years.
Here’s a good article on the final chapter for Stacey’s.
In his latest book, The Infernal Machine: A True Story of Dynamite, Terror, and the Rise of the Modern Detective, Steven Johnson explores a fascinating paradox: Alfred Nobel, the inventor of dynamite and founder of the Nobel Peace Prize, unwittingly provided a weapon for radical anarchists. Nobel, seeking a safe way to harness the power of nitroglycerin for infrastructure projects, unleashed a destructive force that could be wielded by a single individual.
The chaos caused by anarchist bombings sparked a national outcry for a more sophisticated federal response to crime.Enter a young J. Edgar Hoover, who at the time was a rising star in the Bureau of Investigation (BOI), a precursor to the FBI. Hoover, with his keen eye for organization and ambition, saw the anarchist threat as an opportunity to transform the BOI into a powerful national agency. Johnson explores how the BOI’s pursuit of anarchists under Hoover’s leadership laid the groundwork for the FBI’s methods and tactics. While effective in capturing some dangerous criminals, these tactics also foreshadowed the FBI’s later controversies surrounding surveillance and civil liberties.
The chilling irony is that the fight against anarchists fueled by dynamite led to the very surveillance methods we grapple with today, a legacy with both significant benefits and sometimes serious drawbacks.
Johnson, a master storyteller, weaves these narratives together in a way that reminds me of another historical connector,James Burke, and his classic series “Connections.” Both shine a light on the unexpected ways seemingly unrelated events can be deeply intertwined.
You must be logged in to post a comment.