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Writing, giving, and soliciting feedback via your inbox. For over 25 years, I’ve been using email to collaborate and work with people. Before there were any messaging platforms, project management tools, and hybrid tools like Slack and Discord, phone calls, Skype and email were most of what you had. Along the way, and to this day, I’ve developed some simple rules for getting your point across, and receiving the right feedback in return. Write an email like you’re a lawyer. Stick to the facts and keep it brief. Clarity and conciseness are your friends. Keep your sentences trim and strive for non-ambiguity. Use headers. Or bold them. And even use italics. I like to break up longer emails or denote themes by using section headers. Rich text email can be your friend here. Lists are your best friend though. I love to use lists. There is nothing better than utilizing the format to allow people to scan specific pieces of feedback that they need to pay attention to. Even better, use a numbered list. Give the recipient a number to hook onto. It’s much easier to reference “In 3, let’s go with…” than to say, “In the fourth list item…” when visually, the numbers are already there and cognition is formed on both ends. Order your asks or feedback in lists by order of importance. Go from biggest to smallest, most important to least important. Unless the item you’re addressing is sequential by time or order and is easier to follow as experienced. Consider length and device context. An email that looks good on your deskop computer or viewport is much longer on a mobile device. Respect the end recipients. See 1 and 2 (see what I did there?!). Mind your manners. There’s a fine line between brusqueness and being an ass. Kindness and politeness still go a long way. Read your email before you send it. Does it make sense to you? Are the important parts addressed with clarity and feel actionable? Rewrite or edit if you need. Here’s an example email I’d write: Hi, Jamie, Thanks for your time on the call yesterday. The video draft you cut is shaping up great. Below is some feedback: Typography 1. Let's use our brand fonts for all titles. The Dropbox folder is here. 2. For each speaker's name, let's reduce the size by about 20%. Music and vibe 1. The music could use some energy. Are there some other tracks we could try? 2. The footage is a bit dark. Can we brighten it up? 3. The color feels a bit cold. The event was sunny, and we'd love to see some of that warmth come through. Thank you, and look forward to the next cut, Naz. In summary: stick to the facts, write clearly, keep it brief, use headers, sections and lists, and be kind. Visit this post on the web or Reply via email
We are shokunin. Last week I was in Ojai, California, for True’s Founder Camp.[1] James Freeman, founder of Blue Bottle Coffee was in conversation with Jeff Veen, and one of the attendees asked him: “How do you maintain such high quality?” Freeman answers, “‘Maintaining’ is a trigger word for me. You’re either getting better or you’re getting worse. There is no maintaining.” That struck me as he said it. It immediately reminded me of shokunin. Master woodworker and shokunin himself, Tashio Odate describes: Shokunin means not only having technical skill, but also implies an attitude and social consciousness... a social obligation to work his best for the general welfare of the people, [an] obligation both material and spiritual. The Art of Fine Tools If you’ve seen “Jiro Dreams of Sushi,” Jiro Ono himself is a shokunin, and I think of his lifelong pursuit of making sushi better every day. Compare that to the rise of supermarket sushi, which can be passable and satiate an immediate need, but never reaches the levels and highs of what master sushi chefs can achieve during their tenure. Sachiko Matsuyama in a piece titled, “Shokunin and Devotion,” writes: When I take guests to visit shokunin at their studios, they often ask how long it takes to make one item. The shokunin, sometimes annoyed by the question, answers: ‘A lifetime’. Among shokunin that I often work with, there are some who are carrying on their family business, and others who have courageously jumped into the field of craftsmanship to become one simply through their own strong will. The independent web, where people are making homes on the internet, on their own domains — creating, building, and sharing with the world — stands in contrast to the walled-off prisons of social media networks. The curation and craftsmanship that individuals develop over time — iterating, tending, evolving, and continuously improving — results in a collection of work that embodies their creators’ intentions and aspirations for care. I’m okay with worse too. We learn from regression or dilution, and that can provide perspective to return to better. You need to know the lows to appreciate the highs. In this current moment with AI reaching a fever pitch in the industry, there’s a palpable tension between those of us who have been working on the Internet for decades, and the young upstarts embracing vibe coding and building with almost completely generative codebases. Many of us possess deep knowledge and experience, having journeyed through different outcomes and encountered those moments when things worsen or improve. We design and code for better, and we design and code because we’re practicing a craft for our lifetimes: Internet shokunin. Full disclosure: I work for True Ventures as a fractional creative director and product designer. ↩︎ Visit this post on the web or Reply via email
Thanks for the memories, but good riddance. I deleted Instagram. Two days ago. The reasons are as you would expect: doomscrolling, fatigue, vapidness, and of course, all of the horrifying[1] things Meta enables. Concerning Instagram itself, the list is long. The app started innocently enough: a place to visually share what you were up to right now. A successor to Flickr for the smartphone age, and combining the on-the-go status-style of Twitter, it launched in October 2010, and quickly became successful. I signed up for the service on November 5, 2010, at 7:02pm[2], shortly after. It was a fun place of course — the early days of social networks before we (as an industry) started calling them social graphs, and other terms that made these networks business-aligned. Sharing square 1:1 ratio photos immediately from your iPhone with Hipstamatic-like filters was simple and caught on amongst most I knew. You had Twitter, you had Instagram. Over the decades, and a big acquisition, the app started to head down the enshittification path. Competitors like Snapchat, and VSCO[3] brought a bit of heat in various ways: Snapchat with its close-friends temporal content, VSCO with it’s more privacy-focused and artful social network, and then came TikTok. Instagram responded to any new comers by simply ripping-off their features wholesale. Inertia in a platform is borne out of convenience and the FOMO of connections already made. My own habits had naturally declined in recent years, and much like my abandonment of Twitter in 2015, Instagram existed on my device purely for direct messaging, and keeping tabs and supporting friends and family. My posting had gone down to almost nil, and I rarely interacted or cared about engagement anymore, even with a dedicated group of people who followed me (~3.4K, small by influencer standards, but sizable for someone who’s just doing my best to be myself). As Mastodon, and the indieweb has taken over my internet participation (this very website!), Nick Sherman summarized my own feelings on this, especially as someone who identifies with the DIY-skate-punk-musician-outsider ethos: It’s been a tough year so far but I really find joy in the community here on Mastodon and the larger Fediverse. There’s a satisfying DIY punk rock feeling to it all, as if I’m sticking it to dystopian billionaires every time I boost someone’s Mastodon post or fave someone’s Pixelfed image or try out some new Fedi app or follow some interesting stranger on some weird platform I’ve never heard of but can still interact with because it’s federated. It’s what the internet is supposed to feel like. — Nick Sherman I’m chasing a through line here with my last two posts and this one, and it’s been weighing on my mind amongst all of the modern horrors of our current world. It’s just one that I can control, and opt-out of[4]. It’s okay to like, or love something for a while in a mutually beneficial relationship, but when one side is only taking, it’s also freeing to let it go. Hey Instagram, see ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya. Content warning: This is just one example (please do your own research if you aren’t aware somehow) but Erin Kissane’s reporting here is astounding, heavy, damning, and dutiful work. ↩︎ I downloaded my archive and it’s surprisingly robust. And also mildly creepy. ↩︎ Full disclosure, I worked at VSCO first as a contractor, then full-time from 2016-2018. ↩︎ If you stay, please consider not making them further money and using your data. ↩︎ Visit this post on the web or Reply via email
Social networking is about reach. It started small: your friends first, then grew outwards towards acquaintances and your professional life. It grew out to people who might follow you because of some shared interest, and then to complete strangers. Social media likes to tell you it's about the content. People are "content creators" and not artists, filmmakers, comedians, or photographers. They may call themselves that, but if social media is their primary platform and the source of their audience, they too call it "creating content." All in service of the algorithmic machine that needs to be constantly fed by humans until the machine itself feeds itself in an ouroboros of bullshit. Bots and AI all the way down. Some people believe that social media offers some semblance of permanence. They become attached to their body of work, their content. Their profile — their persona — becomes their identity, and the place where they can make or remake themselves. When the machine changes the rules, or the policy favors the platform provider's business goals rather than your own, there is outrage. On the very platform itself, even. But you are a cog in the machine, under the guise of creating content, only to sell ads and reach in the Venn diagram of like-minded or interest-overlapping people. It's not about your friends, your followers, or who you follow. It's about who can see what, and what the people who make the platform deem to be the thing that makes them the most money. They reward and provide special access to those creators and influencers who are exemplary stars that everyone else should aspire to. The trap and the fallacy that people have fallen into is the idea that these platforms are the ONLY way to get further: to sell, to advertise, to be seen. You trade convenience and a "free" app for the ensnarement and caging of your creativity. Social networking and media should have always been temporal. These should be thoughts and creations you're okay with letting go of into the wind. Social platforms are a distribution channel at best, and a mechanism to garner some notice. Some apps have leaned into this: messages that disappear or vanish, time-boxed content, and auto-deletion. Not everything is worthy of archival. In many instances, you'd even cringe at something you wrote ten, or even a year ago. If you care about your creativity, and what you make and bring into the world, I'd suggest having your own website. A place you can shape and change as often, or as little as you like. That is something worth being and feeling precious about. Visit this post on the web or Reply via email
More in literature
Eugenio Montale speaking with an interviewer, American poet W.S. Di Piero, in 1973: “Political ideas are best expressed in prose. Why should we express political ideas in such an abstruse language as poetry? If I were to write against the war in Viet Nam, I would write in prose, or I would do something else to oppose the war directly instead of just dressing up my poems with references to Viet Nam as if pouring a sauce over the poems to prepare them for public consumption. One cannot inject or force the Viet Nam War into poetry simply for effect. It serves no real purpose, and whoever does so finally fails in every way.” The literary legacy left by the Vietnam War, both civilian and military, is modest. Compared to World War I, it is almost nonexistent. “Anti-war” poems that filled magazines, chapbooks, posters and broadsheets were simplistic, shrill and soon forgotten. Literary values were abandoned for the sake of self-righteousness. A rare exception was R.L. Barth, a Marine Corps veteran of the Vietnam War, who sent me a recent poem, “Skating,” subtitled “Camp Reasoner”: “It’s ninety-five degrees. I’m just not running. Damn, What’s Gunny gonna do, Send me to Vietnam?” Bob adds: “A good half the time, that line would have been capped by someone else saying, ‘There it is.’” The poem is written in the voice of a grunt, an enlisted man, not a purported deep thinker about war and geopolitics. Montale was not politically naïve. His early work was written while Mussolini was in power. The poet had no use for fascism. In the interview, Di Piero asks, “What about the poet's treatment of contemporary public events?” Montale replies: “As to public events, I'm aware of the many poems which have been published about the war in Viet Nam. These poems have a very high moral value, but they are very bad poems.” Montale explains an unpleasant and paradoxical fact, best represented by the fate of poetry in Poland during the Soviet occupation: “Poetry has everything to gain from persecution. If the state were to patronize or protect the arts, there would be such an abundance of pseudo-artists, pretenders to art, that you wouldn't know quite how to fend them off!” [The Montale interview was published in the January/February 1974 issue of the American Poetry Review. Di Piero is “assisted” by Rose Maria Bosinelli.]
His small, democratic communities would revive and defend our republic.
Last summer I read John Cowper Powys’s novel Wolf Solent (1929) and recently I read A Glastonbury Romance (1932), not his first novels but the first that anyone noticed. Wolf Solent is a plump 600 pages, and Glastonbury a monstrous 1,100. Powys was 56 when the first was published, and 59 for the second, a mature writer, a seasoned weirdo. These novels are genuine eccentrics, in ideas and style, as odd as D. H. Lawrence or Ronald Firbank. Powys, like Lawrence, is a direct descendant of Thomas Hardy, at least that is clear, not just writing about the same part of England but employing a Hardy-like narrator (although Powys’s narrator works with his characters rather than against them) and using explicitly fantastic devices. In Glastonbury he pushes the fantasy quite far. I’ll save that idea for tomorrow. Writing about these books has been a puzzle. I am tempted to just type out weird sentences. Maybe I will do that after a tint plot summary. Wolf Solent – that, surprisingly, is the name of the main character – “returns to his birthplace, where he discovers the inadequacy of his dualistic philosophy.” I am quoting the anonymous author of the novel’s Wikipedia entry. That is, in fact, the plot of the novel, although it does not seem like it so much while actually reading, thank goodness. A Glastonbury Romance earns its 1,100 pages by expanding to a large cast and many stories. A mystic uses an inheritance to jumpstart the tourist industry of historic Glastonbury. Many things happen to many people, murders and visions of Excalibur and the Holy Grail, all kinds of things. Lots of sex, in Wolf Solent, too. Powys is as earthy as Lawrence, if not as explicit, or not as explicit as Lady Chatterley’s Lover (1928), but also abstract: Both the two great forces pouring forth from the double-natured First Cause possess the energy of sex. (AGR, “Tin,” 665) This is nominally the thought of an industrialist leaving a cave where he plans to establish a tin mine. Or it is the philosophical narrator floating along with him. Hard to tell. And the ecstatic quiver of that great cosmic ripple we call Sex runs through the whole universe and functions in every organism independent of external objects of desire! (666) That exclamation point is a Powys signature. ‘Walking if my cure,’ he thought, ‘As long as I can walk I can get my soul into shape! It must have been an instinct of self-preservation that has always driven me to walk!’ (WS, “Ripeness Is All,” 601) The characters use the exclamation point; the narrators love them. Sometimes I can sense the need for emphasis, and other times I am puzzled. Powys’s characters are great walkers, that is true. These two novels are fine examples of the domestic picaresque. Powys can organize close to the entire plot just by having characters walk around, dropping in on each other’s homes, varying the pattern with “party” chapters like “The Horse-Fair” (WS) and “The Pageant” (AGR) where Wolf Solent can just wander around the fair, bumping into and advancing the story of every single character in the novel in whatever arbitrary order Powys likes. A brilliant device; use it for your novel. Powys has the true novelist’s sense, or let’s say one of the kinds of true senses, in that he always knows where his characters are in relation to each other, in town, in a room. If a character walks this way he will pass these houses in this order, and is likely to meet these characters. He can over do it, as at the pageant – “At the opposite end of the sixth row from where Mrs. Legge and Blackie were seated were Old Jones and Abel Twig” (AGR, “The Pageant,” 560) – but he actually uses this kind of detail when the show begins. He has it all in his head. Or he made a diagram, I don’t know. Those are some aspects of these particular Powys novels. They are original enough that I can see how readers can develop a taste for, or be repelled by, their strong flavor. Tomorrow I will write about Powys’s trees.
NEW YORK TIMES: Robert Caro created a lasting portrait of corruption by turning the craft of journalism into a pursuit of high art.
At the bottom of the abyss between us is the hard fact that to be a person, a particular person, is so profoundly different from what any other person can suppose. This is why one of the hardest learnings in life is that you cannot love — or scold, or coax, or palter — anyone out of their personal suffering or into their personal potential, cannot shepherd anyone else’s becoming. We may live our lives in parallel, but at the most fundamental level we experience aliveness alone, in the solitary chamber of the self, our experience a Möbius strip of… read article
