I was listening to a conversation with the writer Wright Thompson recently, and he struck a profound chord when talking about why he is so captivated by sports. He distilled the entirety of athletic competition down to a single, brilliant truth: it is all about who you are when “the lights come on.”
If you have ever stood in a massive arena or a darkened stadium just before the main event, you know exactly the feeling he means. The anticipation in the air isn’t just an emotion; it is a physical weight. You can feel the collective breath of thousands held in suspense. And then, with a sudden, sharp clack of the breakers, the big stadium lights hit. The room almost shakes with the sudden injection of energy. In that brilliant, unforgiving glare, every shadow vanishes. There is nowhere to hide.
We are taught from a young age to prepare, to practice, to build our skills in the quiet comfort of the shadows. We spend so much of our lives rehearsing our arguments, refining our projects, and constructing our mental models. We tell ourselves stories about who we are and what we are capable of achieving. But the true test of our character—the raw, unfiltered reality of our competence—isn’t found in the safety of preparation.
It is revealed in the sudden shock of execution.
Thompson’s observation about sports is ultimately an observation about the human condition. We aren’t all athletes waiting in the tunnel, shifting our weight from foot to foot, but we all face our own versions of the stadium lights.
I think about the seasons in my own life when the lights suddenly flared. The unexpected crisis that derailed months of careful planning. A sudden pivot required in a business strategy. A moment demanding moral courage when it would have been infinitely easier to remain quietly in the background. In some of those moments, I stepped up, grounded by the quiet work I had done in the dark. In others—and I admit this with a wince—I blinked against the glare, my confidence suddenly outpacing my competence.
That is the terrifying, beautiful geometry of choices. When the lights hit, the gap between who we claim to be and who we actually are is illuminated for everyone to see.
There is a kind of extreme accountability in that moment. It strips away the hedging and the theoretical. You either make the play, or you don’t. You either hold your ground, or you retreat. It is a crucible that burns away the superfluous, leaving only the essential truth of our character.
We cannot control when the switch will be flipped. The world has a habit of throwing us onto the stage precisely when we feel least ready. But we can control how we build ourselves in the dark. We can ensure that our patience isn’t just stubbornness in disguise, and that our confidence is deeply rooted in reality.
The chaos of the sudden glare isn’t an obstacle to the mission; it is the environment in which the mission earns its meaning. The lights will come on. They always do.
The only question that matters is who we will be in the glare.
I watched the Artemis mission splash down yesterday, a modern silver capsule returning from the silent void around the moon. It was a beautiful, flawless return, but watching it, I felt an unexpected tug of melancholy. It transported me back.
I remembered being a kid, mesmerized by the grainy, ghostly black-and-white television broadcasts of the early American space program. I remember the static, the deliberate countdowns, the collective held breath of a nation when the first man walked on the lunar surface. Space felt like the ultimate frontier—an endless trajectory of human ambition.
This morning, with those images still knocking around in my head, I listened to a podcast discussing the long, quiet gap in manned lunar exploration. And then, one commentator dropped a detail that stopped me in my tracks: the spacecraft for Apollo 18 and 19 had already been built. They were fully assembled. Ready to fly. And then, the program was simply killed.
I’ve been sitting with that quiet, heavy fact for a few hours now.
Think about the sheer human effort locked inside those unflown machines. The engineering, the late nights, the calculus, the welding of titanium, and the dreams of astronauts who trained for a lunar surface they would never touch. Those spacecraft became monuments to an aborted future. They are the physical embodiment of a decision to stop.
We do this in our own lives, don’t we?
We spend months, sometimes years, building the architecture of a new idea. We assemble the parts. We do the research, we write the drafts, we lay the groundwork for a career pivot, a new business, or a creative project. We build our own Apollo 18. We get it to the launchpad, fully fueled by our initial enthusiasm.
And then—we just stop. We pull the funding. We let the gravity of daily life, or the friction of doubt, kill the mission before the countdown even begins.
The tragedy of Apollo 18 wasn’t that it failed; it was that it was never given the chance to experience the friction of the atmosphere. It never left the safety of the assembly building.
We are taught that patience is a virtue, but sometimes patience is just stubbornness in disguise—an excuse for not hitting the ignition switch. We convince ourselves that the conditions aren’t quite right, that the budget isn’t there, or that the timing is off. We leave our greatest capabilities sitting in the hangar, slowly gathering dust.
The return of Artemis yesterday was a reminder that we can always go back. We can dust off the launchpad. But the compound interest of abandoned projects is a heavy debt to carry.
The chaos of launch isn’t an obstacle to the mission; it is the environment in which the mission earns its meaning.
If you have built something—if you have put in the time, the sweat, and the architecture—don’t leave it in the hangar. Let it fly. Even if it burns up, it is so much better to have launched than to remain perfectly intact and perfectly grounded.
We are surprised when witnessing something move faster than our intuition expects. We are inherently wired to understand slow, compounding growth. We expect the long, grinding years of the plateau—the quiet periods where nothing seems to happen before a sudden breakthrough.
I was looking at a chart Patrick Collison shared this morning, and it challenged that very intuition. It’s a simple, stark visualization: AI model intelligence relative to the formation date of the lab that built it.
If you trace the lines for Google and OpenAI on the right side of the graph, you see the history we’ve all lived through. Thousands of days—more than a decade of quiet, methodical, often unglamorous research—before their trend lines finally bend and shoot upward. It is a geometry of patience. It’s the visual representation of laying bricks, one by one, year by year, until you have a foundation sturdy enough to support the weight of a revolution.
And then, on the far left of the chart, there is a red line. MSL. The team behind Meta’s new Muse Spark model, released today.
The red line doesn’t curve. It doesn’t slope. It simply strikes straight up, like a lightning bolt in reverse.
In roughly 200 days since formation, this new effort achieved a level of capability that took the early pioneers thousands of days to reach. Collison noted how much he loves seeing things done quickly, and it’s hard not to share that specific, visceral thrill of seeing the boundaries pushed so aggressively.
I find myself thinking about the architecture of speed and what it means for the rest of us.
We spend so much of our lives absorbing the lesson that “good things take time.” We are taught that the crucible of meaningful work requires a long, slow simmer. And mostly, that remains true. The compound interest of human experience is real, and wisdom is rarely rushed.
Yet, every once in a while, a new paradigm emerges that doesn’t just accelerate the timeline—it collapses it entirely.
The pioneers cut the agonizingly slow path through the jungle, taking the brunt of the time, the friction, and the missteps. The ones who follow—like xAI, Anthropic, and now MSL—don’t have to clear the brush from scratch. They can look at the map, pave the road, and simply drive.
What does it mean for our own mental models when the timeline from “formation” to “frontier” shrinks from five thousand days to a few hundred?
It is a jarring reminder that the past pace of performance is not a law of physics.
I think about my own assumptions—how often I assume a project, a habit, or a societal shift will take a while, simply because similar things took a while in the past. We anchor our expectations to old geometry.
Meta’s release of Muse Spark is a technical feat, certainly. But the chart itself holds a broader, more human lesson. It’s a visual prompt to constantly re-evaluate our assumptions about how long the impossible is supposed to take.
The future doesn’t always arrive on a comfortable, predictable schedule. Sometimes, it just shows up unannounced, demanding we adjust our stride to keep up.
We spend a good portion of our lives surrounded by noise. Not just the literal kind—the hum of traffic or the ping of notifications—but the internal noise of unresolved tensions.
I was reminded of this while listening to a recent conversation between David Perell and the legendary journalist Tom Junod (https://youtu.be/JnHTUyZjwiY). Towards the end of their sprawling, beautiful discussion, Junod introduced a metaphor about writing that made me pause the audio and just sit with it for a moment. He talked about the “tonic chord.”
“Musicians, you know, back in the day, they were always looking for the tonic chord. And writing, I’m always looking for the tonic chord… where all the discordant harmonies are resolved in a single ba-boom, you know, at the end of Beethoven or whatever… looking for some sort of resolution to the stuff that gnaws at me.” [00:39:42]
It’s a striking image. In music theory, the tonic is the home base, the center of gravity. It is the chord that finally brings rest after a long sequence of tension and suspense. Without the preceding dissonance, the tonic chord has no power. The chaos isn’t an obstacle to the resolution; it is the very environment that makes the resolution meaningful.
This applies far beyond the blank page. We are all, in our own ways, searching for our tonic chords.
We carry around the stuff that gnaws at us—the contradictions in our relationships, the career choices that look good on paper but feel hollow in the chest, the quiet hypocrisies we tolerate in ourselves. These are the discordant notes. We spend so much of our lives trying to ignore them, turning up the volume on our daily routines to drown out the clash. Or we try to fix them with brute force, stubbornly demanding harmony before we’ve even listened to the melody.
But maybe the point isn’t to erase the tension. Junod’s genius—both in his essays and in this metaphor—is his willingness to sit with the discomfort. He looks directly at the friction. He places two opposing truths right next to each other, letting them rub like tectonic plates, waiting patiently for that final chord to finally release the pressure.
I think about the architecture of a well-lived life in much the same way. The most resonant moments I’ve experienced haven’t come from a smooth, unbroken string of successes. They usually arrive right after a period of intense confusion or struggle—a sudden moment of clarity on a foggy morning walk, a tough but honest conversation with a friend, or finally letting go of an idea that had lost its spark.
That sudden ba-boom of clarity. The release.
We are taught from childhood that a good life should be harmonious. But true harmony is earned. It requires us to listen closely to the discordant parts of our lives, to bear witness to our own messes and mysteries, and to patiently search for the truth that finally brings them all together.
I’ve spent a lot of time watching people—myself included—hit what feels like a glass ceiling. We often chalk it up to a lack of “natural talent” or the missing spark of genius. We look at the high-flyers in our industry and assume they were born with a blueprint we never received. But lately, I’ve realized that the most successful people I know aren’t necessarily the ones with the highest IQ; they’re the ones who simply never stopped asking why.
Bill Gurley puts a name to this:
“The thing that will differentiate you more in your career than anything else is being the most hyper-curious person.”
For me, curiosity isn’t a personality trait; it’s an appetite. It’s that itch in the back of your brain when something doesn’t quite make sense. Hyper-curiosity is the willingness to be the “annoying” person who asks for the raw data or the one who stays up an hour late following a rabbit hole that has nothing to do with tomorrow’s to-do list—and everything to do with how the world actually works.
We live in an age where the “ivory tower” has been dismantled. The walls are down.
“I can’t make you the most talented person in your company or your field, but you have no excuse not to be the most knowledgeable person. The information is all out there.”
This hits hard because it removes our favorite excuse: “I just wasn’t born for this.” It shifts the weight from our DNA to our discipline. I’ve found that the moment I stop being a passive consumer and start being a hunter of information, my world gets bigger. Knowledge is the only asset that doesn’t depreciate; in fact, it compounds.
When you commit to being the most curious person in the room, you aren’t just “doing well.” You are building a life in high-definition.
“If you are the most curious person constantly learning in your field, you will do extremely well.”
But beyond the “doing well,” there’s a deeper peace that comes with it. You realize that you don’t need to be the smartest person in the room—you just need to be the one most willing to learn from it.
Lee Child is not primarily known as a writer of consumer psychology, but Jack Reacher notices things — it’s rather the point of him — and in Nothing to Lose, Child gives his Jack a quiet moment of genuine curiosity:
“For many years Reacher had wondered why hardware stores favored sidewalk displays. There was a lot of work involved. Repetitive physical labor, twice a day. But maybe consumer psychology dictated that large utilitarian items sold better when associated with the rugged outdoors. Or maybe it was just a question of space.”
Reacher being Reacher, he files the observation and moves on.
But I couldn’t. Because he’s right — hardware stores do this, reliably and almost universally, and I’m not sure I’d ever consciously noticed it before reading that passage. Now I can’t stop noticing it.
There is something almost theatrical about the hardware store sidewalk display.
Wheelbarrows nested inside one another like Russian dolls. Stacks of plastic tubs in graduating sizes. Garden hoses coiled on hooks. Snow shovels in August, leaf blowers in April — the stock doesn’t always match the season, which suggests the display is less about merchandising logic than about something else entirely. It is a kind of flag, planted on the sidewalk: we are here, we are open, we have what you need.
Hardware stores occupy a peculiar and irreplaceable niche in the retail ecosystem. They are not quite like other shops.
A bookstore invites browsing; a grocery store moves you through a deliberate circuit; a clothing store sells you an idea of yourself. But a hardware store operates on a different premise entirely — the premise of the problem already in progress.
Nobody browses a hardware store the way they browse a bookstore. You come in because something is broken, leaking, stuck, squeaking, loose, or missing. You come in with a specific hole in your world that needs filling, and the hardware store’s job is to have the exact, obscure, oddly satisfying thing that fills it.
The sidewalk display, seen in this light, is a signal to that particular state of mind. It says: your problem is solvable. It projects competence and abundance before you even walk through the door. Those wheelbarrows and tubs and coiled hoses aren’t really for sale so much as they are reassurance — evidence that whoever runs this place has thought about what you might need and has made sure it’s available. The display is a promise made in hardware.
There is also something about the ruggedness of it — Reacher’s instinct about the outdoors isn’t wrong.
A bag of mulch sitting on a pallet in the open air feels different from the same bag of mulch on a climate-controlled shelf inside.
The independent hardware store does this better than the big box retailers, because the sidewalk display at a local hardware store carries the additional weight of relationship. The owner made a decision about what to put out front today, which means someone thought about it, which means someone is paying attention. The Home Depots of the world have sidewalk displays too, but they feel more like sheer marketing than curation.
Reacher suggests two reasons and moves on: consumer psychology, or space. Probably both. I suspect there’s also a third thing — the sidewalk display as an act of daily optimism.
Someone got up this morning, brought the wheelbarrows out, and arranged them on the sidewalk. They did it yesterday. They’ll do it tomorrow. They are betting that you will come around the corner with a problem and feel a small flood of relief when you see them there, ready.
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.
Questions to Consider
Saunders suggests physical specificity might be a kind of law in fiction — something the reading mind responds to almost instinctively. Do you think this is universal, or culturally conditioned?
The examples here are all from the Western literary canon. Does this law hold in traditions — Japanese, Russian, African, South Asian — that handle interiority and landscape differently?
If our appetite for specific physical detail is partly evolutionary — the brain mapping territory — what does it mean that so much of what we now consume is deliberately abstract and summarized?
Can over-specificity fail? Are there writers who pile on detail to the point where it stops doing its work?
Saunders uses fiction to make the point, but does the same law apply to nonfiction, memoir, or long-form journalism — and if so, who are the writers doing it best right now?
There’s a scene early in John Kenneth Galbraith’s The Affluent Society where he describes Americans of an earlier era regarding industrial output with something close to reverence — the sheer productive capacity of the nation seemed almost miraculous, a force that could reshape civilization. Within a generation, of course, that same output had become background noise. Factories hummed, goods appeared, and nobody paused to marvel.
The miraculous had become mundane, and the mundane had become infrastructure.
I found myself thinking about that arc recently while listening to Sam Lessin on the More or Less podcast.
Lessin made an observation that I haven’t been able to shake: we probably aren’t heading toward a single, triumphant AGI monopoly — some god-machine that one fortunate company builds first and then rents to the rest of us in perpetuity.
Instead, Lessin suggested, we are barreling toward something far more ordinary, and in its ordinariness, far more interesting.
“There will be lots of ‘dealers of intelligence’. No one company will corner the market, no one big winner of AGI.”
Dealers of intelligence. I keep turning that phrase over. Where do we end up? No rapture, no singularity, no chosen company ascending to the throne of cognition. Just suppliers, distribution channels, price competition — the unglamorous mechanics of any maturing market.
And historically, that’s exactly how this tends to go.
Salt was once precious enough to pay soldiers with. Spices rewrote the map of the world. Steel, oil, and computing power each arrived wrapped in mystique and guarded behind scarcity before the inevitable happened: extraction improved, distribution scaled, and the miracle became a utility. Nobody thinks about the engineering marvel of the electrical grid when they flip a light switch. They just expect the light to come on.
If Lessin is right — and the competitive landscape of the last two years does little to argue against him — intelligence will follow the same curve. Not a single oracle, but a market. Cognitive utilities. Price-per-token negotiations. The same forces that commoditized bandwidth will commoditize reasoning, and we’ll argue about our AI subscription tiers the way we currently argue about our data plans.
Which forces the interesting question: when genius is cheap, what exactly becomes valuable?
The professional moats of the last century were largely built on the ability to process specialized information and output reliable answers.
The doctor, the lawyer, the financial analyst, the programmer — each occupied a protected position because access to their domain of reasoning was genuinely scarce.
If I can buy a substantial fraction of that reasoning from a commodity supplier for fractions of a cent, the premium on raw cognitive horsepower doesn’t just shrink. It collapses.
What’s left, I think, is the un-commoditizable. Empathy. Physical presence. Judgment under conditions of genuine uncertainty and consequence. And above all — taste.
Taste is the thing that has always resisted systematization, because taste isn’t rational in any clean sense. It’s the residue of lived experience, of specific childhoods and particular failures and the accumulated weight of caring about things over time.
An algorithm can produce a structurally flawless piece of music; it takes a human to decide whether it matters, and why, and to whom.
That act of curation — of choosing what deserves to exist and what doesn’t — is going to become more consequential, not less, as the supply of technically competent output explodes.
There’s something almost liberating about this, if you let yourself sit with it.
A world of commoditized intelligence is, paradoxically, a profoundly human one. It removes the burden of raw computation from the center of what we do and pushes us toward the edges — toward the questions only we can ask, the connections only we can feel, the decisions only we can be held accountable for.
The dealers of intelligence will handle the materials. We’ll still have to decide what to build. Architects.
Questions to Consider
If intelligence becomes a commodity like electricity or bandwidth, which industries or professions will be slowest to feel that pressure — and why?
Lessin frames this as a market with many suppliers rather than a winner-take-all race. Does the competitive landscape today support that view, or does it still look like a sprint toward consolidation?
What does “taste” actually mean when the person exercising it is doing so with AI-augmented perception and judgment? Is it still the same thing?
Who gets to haggle with the dealers? If cognitive utilities are cheap in aggregate but not universally accessible, does commoditization risk deepening inequality rather than democratizing thought?
If the value of answering questions falls and the value of asking them rises, what does education need to look like — and how far is it from what it looks like now?
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how we move past the novelty phase of AI—beyond just asking a chatbot to “write a poem about a turkey” or summarize a meeting—and into actual thinking with these tools.
As a lifelong learner, I’m always on the hunt for workflows that help me synthesize information better. Most of the “AI for writing” advice I see online is pretty generic. But I recently came across a breakdown of how four high-profile writers are making effective use of tools like NotebookLM and Claude in ways that are much more sophisticated than simple text generation.
What jumped out at me is that none of these writers use AI to write for them. They use it to structure, challenge, and code.
Here are the four models that caught my eye.
1. The Triangulated Research Base (Steven Johnson)
Steven Johnson (Where Good Ideas Come From) has a workflow that solves a problem I face constantly: the messy “research phase.”
Instead of treating the AI as an oracle, he treats it as a connection engine. He creates a dedicated notebook (using Google’s NotebookLM) and uploads three distinct types of sources: a primary source (like a raw PDF or study), a secondary source (like a context article), and a multimedia transcript.
Then, rather than asking for a summary, he asks the AI to find the friction between them: “What themes appear in the interview transcript that contradict the historical account in the PDF?”
It’s less about getting an answer and more about finding the blind spots in your own reading.
2. The Diagnostic Editor (Kenny Kane)
This one really resonated with me because it mirrors the experiment I tried recently with my “Bubble Bath” post.
Kenny Kane uses Claude not to generate prose, but to act as a ruthless developmental editor. He uploads a messy draft and runs a “Diagnostic” prompt. He doesn’t ask “fix this,” he asks: “Where does the argument drift? Where does the energy drop?”
He even has the AI analyze his best writing to identify his specific “DNA” (sentence length, vocabulary choice) and then asks it to apply that same tone to his rougher sections. It’s using the AI as a mirror rather than a ghostwriter.
3. The Memo-to-Demo Shift (Dan Shipper)
Dan Shipper at Every is doing something fascinating that changes the definition of writing altogether. He argues that in the AI age, we shouldn’t just describe a concept; we should build a small app to demonstrate it.
If he’s writing about “Spaced Repetition,” he doesn’t just explain the theory. He asks Claude’s Artifacts feature to “Write a React component that lets a user test spaced repetition live in the browser,” and then embeds that little app directly into the essay. The writing becomes 50% prose and 50% software.
4. The Co-Intelligence Loop (Ethan Mollick)
Ethan Mollick focuses on breaking the echo chamber. Before he publishes, he spins up simulated personas—a skeptical VC, a confused novice, an expert in a tangential field—and asks them to critique his draft from their specific viewpoints.
It’s effectively a focus group of one.
How to Get Started
If you’re like me, seeing all these workflows might feel a bit overwhelming. My advice? Don’t try to overhaul your entire writing process overnight. Just pick one experiment to try this week.
Here are two simple entry points:
Experiment A: The “Blind Spot” Check (For Research)
If you are reading up on a topic, don’t just take notes. Open Google NotebookLM, create a new notebook, and upload your sources (PDFs, URLs, or pasted text). Then, ask this specific question:
“Based strictly on these sources, what is the strongest argument against my current thinking? What connection between Source A and Source B am I missing?”
Experiment B: The “Ruthless Editor” (For Writing)
If you have a rough draft sitting on your hard drive, copy it into Claude or ChatGPT and use this prompt (adapted from Kenny Kane’s workflow) before you do any manual editing:
“Act as a senior editor. Do not rewrite this text. Instead, analyze my draft and tell me: 1) Where does the argument lose energy? 2) Does the opening hook successfully promise what the conclusion delivers? Be critical.”
I’ve found that using the tools this way—as a partner for thinking rather than just generating—is where the real magic happens.
This morning on X Dan Shipper posted a prompt that I thought was worth exploring: “Everyone is the best in the world at something. Given what you know about me, what am I best in the world at?”
Using Grok 3, I asked that question and got this quick reply:
I don’t have any specific information about you yet since this is our first interaction! Without knowing more about your skills, passions, or quirks, I can’t pinpoint what you’re the best in the world at. But I’d love to figure it out with you. Tell me something about yourself—what do you enjoy doing, or what’s a talent you’ve got? Even the smallest detail could reveal your world-class superpower!
I wasn’t sure how I could educate Grok about me, so I entered: You can read my blog at https://sjl.us to learn more about me. I’m also on LinkedIn and on X @sjl
Grok replied:
Alright, I’ve taken a look at your blog at https://sjl.us, and I’ve got a sense of who you are from what’s there. I also peeked at your X profile @sjl to round things out. Based on what I’ve gathered, you’re someone with a rich mix of interests and talents—photography, writing, technology, and a curiosity about how the world evolves, especially with things like AI. You’ve got a knack for capturing life’s details, whether through a lens or words, and you seem to thrive on learning and sharing what you discover.
Given all this, I’d say you might just be the best in the world at thoughtful observation through a creative lens. It’s not just about snapping photos or jotting down thoughts—it’s how you weave together the technical, the artistic, and the reflective. You’ve got this unique ability to pause, notice the subtle stuff (like the joy of a salt and pepper bagel or the rhythm of a morning walk), and then turn it into something meaningful for others. Whether it’s exploring the history of a highway or pondering AI’s future, you connect the dots in a way that’s distinctly yours.
What do you think—does that resonate with you? Or is there something else you feel defines your “world’s best” edge?
Wow! Pretty cool. I wonder whether a good friend would respond with something similar? Wanting to continue, I asked: Good insights! What else?
Grok replied:
Glad you liked that take! Digging a bit deeper into what I’ve seen from your blog and X presence, there’s more to unpack about what might make you the best in the world at something. Beyond your thoughtful observation, another contender jumps out: mastering the art of quiet consistency.
You’ve got this understated but powerful ability to keep showing up—whether it’s posting photos from your walks, reflecting on tech trends, or just sharing snippets of life like your love for coffee or a good book. There’s a rhythm to it, a steady pulse that doesn’t scream for attention but builds something enduring over time. Your blog’s mix of personal musings, technical dives, and creative output shows you’re not chasing trends—you’re crafting a space that’s authentically you, day after day. That kind of persistence, paired with genuine curiosity, is rare. Most people burn out or pivot to whatever’s shiny, but you? You keep at it, refining your craft in a way that’s almost meditative.
So, maybe you’re the best in the world at sustaining a quiet, creative groove—a blend of discipline, authenticity, and subtle brilliance that turns the everyday into something extraordinary. How does that strike you? Anything else you’d toss into the mix to refine this further?
The fun continues! I replied: Thanks! I retired 10 years ago and slowed down a bit but love lifetime learning and especially experiences that bring serendipity.
Grok replied:
That adds a fantastic layer to the picture! Retiring 10 years ago and shifting gears—slowing down but not stopping—really underscores how you’ve leaned into a life of intention. Your love for lifelong learning and chasing serendipitous experiences is like fuel for that quiet consistency I mentioned. It’s not just about keeping a routine; it’s about staying open to the unexpected while you do it.
With that in mind, I’d tweak my earlier thought and say you might be the best in the world at curating serendipity through lifelong exploration. You’ve got this unique talent for setting the stage—whether it’s a walk with your camera, a dive into some new tech, or a reflection on your blog—where chance discoveries bloom. Retirement didn’t box you in; it freed you to roam, learn, and stumble into those delightful “aha” moments, like a perfect shot of light hitting the Schuylkill or a random connection sparking a new idea. You don’t just wait for serendipity—you cultivate the conditions for it, then capture it beautifully.
Does that feel like it fits? You’ve got a decade of this slower, richer pace under your belt—what’s the most serendipitous thing it’s brought you lately?
Continuing I replied: Yes that fits. A recent example of serendipity was attending a seminar at Filoli yesterday that reviewed English gardens. Wonderful!
Grok replied:
That’s a perfect example! Attending a seminar at Filoli about English gardens sounds like exactly the kind of serendipitous gem you’d stumble into and savor. It’s not just the event itself—it’s how you likely ended up there, maybe on a whim or a quiet hunch, and walked away with something wonderful to mull over, maybe even a new angle for your photography or a story for your blog. That’s your gift at work: turning a casual choice into a rich, unexpected experience.
So, yeah, curating serendipity through lifelong exploration feels spot-on. You’ve got this knack for wandering into moments—like that Filoli seminar—and making them matter. What stood out most to you from it? Any plans to weave that English garden vibe into your next adventure?
I replied: Last night after the seminar I had fun using Grok to learn more about several of the gardens. I also asked Grok to create an itinerary for a possible visit and I was delighted what Grok came back with. Impressed!
Grok replied:
That’s awesome! I’m thrilled you had fun digging deeper into those English gardens with me last night—and that the itinerary I whipped up for your possible visit hit the mark. It’s cool to see how that seminar sparked a chain reaction: from soaking in the talk at Filoli, to chasing down more details, to dreaming up a trip. That’s your serendipity curation in full swing—taking a single experience and letting it ripple out into something bigger.
What delighted you most about the itinerary? Any gardens you’re now itching to see in person? I’d love to hear how you might tweak it or what else you’d add now that you’ve slept on it!
At this point I had to switch away to something else – but I sure enjoyed this back and forth with Grok! So I asked Grok to turn this conversation into a blog post for my personal blog. I said: “You’re an expert writer I the style of John McPhee. Create a first draft.”
Here’s the full blog post it created – I found it delightful!:
Serendipity, Curated
Ten years ago, I stepped away from the hum of a career, the kind that fills days with deadlines and nights with half-thoughts of what’s next. Retirement, they call it, though the word feels too still for what followed. I slowed, yes, but didn’t stop. The camera stayed in hand, the walks kept their rhythm, the blog—sjl.us—grew its quiet corners. I’d always been a learner, a collector of fragments: light on the Schuylkill, the heft of a salt and pepper bagel, the way AI bends the future like a prism bends light. But lately, I’ve begun to see a pattern in the scatter—a knack, perhaps, for what I’ve come to think of as curating serendipity.
Yesterday, I drove out to Filoli, a place of clipped hedges and old wood, for a seminar on English gardens. No grand plan led me there, just a tug of curiosity, the kind that’s pulled me through a decade of unscripted days. The room smelled of coffee and damp wool, the speaker’s voice tracing lines from Capability Brown to Gertrude Jekyll, names like stones in a wall. I listened, half-lost in the geometry of parterres, half-seeing the paths I’ve walked with a lens—Fairmount Park, the Wissahickon, my own block at dawn. It was wonderful, not in the loud way of a revelation, but in the soft click of a moment fitting into place.
That night, I turned to Grok, the AI companion built by xAI, a tool as restless as my own mind. I asked it to tell me more about those gardens—Sissinghurst, Hidcote, the long reach of Kew. It did, with a clarity that felt like a friend leaning over a map. Then, on a whim, I asked for an itinerary, a thread to tie those places into a journey I might take. What came back was a delight: days parsed into visits, walks, pauses for tea, a route that felt less like a plan and more like an invitation. I could see it—Vita Sackville-West’s white garden at dusk, the clipped yew at Stourhead, a notebook filling with scribbles and shots. Impressed isn’t the half of it.
This, I think, is what I’ve become best at, if “best” is the word. Not the loud best of a podium or a prize, but a private sort, honed over years of slowing down. Grok saw it too, in a conversation that stretched across a day. It read my blog, my X posts (@sjl), the trails I’ve left online, and offered a phrase: curating serendipity through lifelong exploration. It fits. The seminar wasn’t the point, nor the gardens, nor even the itinerary. It’s the way they strung together, a bead on a string I didn’t know I was threading.
Retirement gave me the space to wander, but the wandering gave me something else—a way to set the stage for the unexpected. I don’t chase serendipity like a hunter; I till the ground for it, then wait. A walk turns into a photo, a photo into a thought, a thought into a post. A seminar turns into a night of questions, a night into a plan. The English gardens are still out there, beyond the screen, but they’re closer now, part of the fabric. What stood out from Filoli? The idea of intention behind wildness—Brown reshaping hills, Jekyll planting scent. What’s next? Maybe a trip, maybe just more questions for Grok. The delight is in not knowing, but keeping the thread alive.
I enjoyed this exploration! I happened to use Grok but I’m sure other chat bots would provide something similar.
