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I saw these going around, but didn’t think I’d ever see myself get tagged — then Eric assuaged my FOMO. As I’ve done elsewhere talking about how I blog, I’m gonna try and impose a character limit to my answers (~240). I’m not sure if that makes my job as the writer easier or harder, but it should make your job as the reader easier. Why did you start blogging in the first place? I think I started because everything I learned about building on the web came from reading other people’s blogs online, so I wanted to be a “web person” like them. What platform are you using to manage your blog and why did you choose it? At the time of this writing (April 2025): I write in iA Writer. Code for my blog and notes is on GitHub. Deployment/hosting is via Netlify. I’ve arrived at this setup less from a combination of choice and evolution. As me and my writing evolve, my process and tools evolve too. Have you blogged on other platforms before? Blogspot, way back in the day. It’s no longer up, which is probably for the best. I was posting stuff I made from following “make this in Photoshop” tutorials. Or I’d practice trying to visually express silly puns. Or I’d make visual mashups of culture at the time. How do you write your posts? For example, in a local editing tool, or in a panel/dashboard that’s part of your blog? For a detailed history of changes on how I blog, I blog about blogging under #myBlog and I blog about microblogging under #myNotes. Read any of those posts for insights into my ever-changing process. When do you feel most inspired to write? When I read other people’s thoughts. Do you publish immediately after writing, or do you let it simmer a bit as a draft? I’m a simmerer. Rarely does a post go from thought to published in one sitting. For example, here’s a screenshot of my current simmering drafts (note my sophisticated editorial process of assigning each draft a letter prefix for sorting based on my appetite for finishing it). What are you generally interested in writing about? Stuff I make. Or stuff others make. Or thoughts I think while reading thoughts others think. I have a tags page that tries to capture what I write categorically — for example, I blog notes from books I read, and podcasts I listen to — but TBH it’s not the greatest taxonomy of my writing. Reductively: I blog about web design and development. Who are you writing for? Whoa, that question got me more introspective than I expected. Gonna move on before this becomes an existential crisis. What’s your favorite post on your blog? I used to highlight some of my favs on my home page, but I stopped. Choosing favorites is hard. My blog posts are like my kids: I love them all equally, lol. I suppose my favorite blog post is the one I’ll publish next. Any future plans for your blog? Maybe a redesign, a move to another platform, or adding a new feature? Will I redesign? Lol, the question is: when will you redesign? Tag ‘em Sorry if I mention someone who’s already been tagged: Piper Haywood — Love Piper’s mix of the personal and professional. Still have bookmarked to try grandma’s recipe. Tyler Gaw — Have loved and respected this dude since I met him at my first “real” webdev job in NYC. David Bushnell — Been enjoying David’s short- and long-form writing a lot as of late. Plus we feel the same about Deno & HTTP modules. Katie Langerman - Ah gotcha, that’s not a blog link. It’s Bluesky. But I’ve followed Katie on the socials and always enjoy her perspective. Not sure she has a personal blog, so this is a vote of confidence in her starting one :) Jan Miksovsky — Jan is doing really cool stuff with Web Origami (also just a super nice guy). Sorry, I’m not gonna ping any of these folks. If they read my blog, they’ll see their names. Otherwise, dear reader, consider it a suggestion to go subscribe to their stuff. Email · Mastodon · Bluesky
Jack Johnson is on Rick Rubin’s podcast Tetragrammaton talking about music, film making, creativity, and surfing. At one point (~24:30) Johnson talks about his love for surfing and the beautiful flow state it puts him in: Sometimes I’ll see a friend riding a wave while I’m paddling out, and the thing I’ll see them do just seems like magic...I’ll think, “How in the world did they just do that?” And then on your next ride you’re doing the exact same thing without thinking but it’s all muscle memory and it’s all in this flow that you get into. That’s a really beautiful state to get into, to do something that feels like a magic trick, like something you shouldn’t be able to do, but all of the sudden you’re doing it. I’m not a surfer, and I can’t do effortlessly cool. But I know what a flow state feels like. Johnson’s description reminds me of that feeling when you get a little time on a personal project — riding the wave of working on your personal website. You open your laptop. You start paddling out. Maybe you see an internet friend who was doing something cool and you want to try it but you have no idea if you’ll be able to do it as well as they did. And before you know it, you’re in that flow state where muscle memory takes over and you’re doing stuff without even consciously thinking about it — stuff that others might look at and perceive as magic (cough anything on the command line cough) but it’s not magic to you. Intuition and experience just take over while you ride the wave. Ok, I’m a nerd. But I don’t care. It’s a great feeling, regardless of whether it’s playing an instrument, or surfing, or programming. That feeling of sinking into a craft you’ve worked at your whole life that you don’t have to think about anymore. Email · Mastodon · Bluesky
Ever used a website where you toggle from light mode to dark mode and the web site changes but the chrome around the browser doesn’t? To illustrate, take a look at this capture of my blog on an iPhone. When you toggle the theme from light to dark, note how the website turns white but status bar stays black. Only once I refresh the page or navigate does the status bar then turn white. When the user changes the theme on my site, I want it to propagate all the way to the surrounding context of the browser. In this case, to the status bar on the iPhone. Like this: There we go! That’s what I want. So what was wrong? A popular way to indicate the active theme is to put a class on the root of the document, e.g. <html class="dark"> <style> html { background: white } html.dark { background: black } </style> </html> Then we simply add/remove the dark class when the user toggles the theme. But that will only change the in-page styles. It won’t tell the browser to update the color of whatever ambient user interface elements its drawing. For that, you’ll need the meta theme-color tag: The theme-color value for the name attribute of the <meta> element indicates a suggested color that user agents should use to customize the display of the page or of the surrounding user interface. So when you respond to the user changing their theme, don’t forget to update the <meta name='theme-color'> tag in addition to whatever you do to modify the in-page styles. That’ll give you the effect you want in the surrounding browser UI (for browsers that support it). Oh, and it’s worth pointing out: don’t forget the color-scheme property either. That’s what will tell the browser to update other in-page UI elements it draws. So, when responding to a user preference to update a website’s theme: Toggle some global attribute that triggers style changes for all your custom, in-page elements. Set the color-scheme property so the browser draws the things its responsible for correctly (form controls, scroll bars, etc.). Set the <meta name='theme-color'> value appropriately so contextual browser UI can adapt to your site’s styles. I wrote this post as a friendly reminder, because friends don’t let friends forget the meta theme-color tag. Email · Mastodon · Bluesky
Adam Silver has an article titled “Do you trust design advice from ChatGPT?” wherein he prompted the LLM: How do you add hint text to radio buttons? It gave various suggestions, each of which Adam breaks down. Here’s an an example response from ChatGPT: If you want the hint to appear when the user hovers on the radio button, use a tooltip for a cleaner design Adam’s response: ‘If you want’ Design is not about what you want. It’s about what users need. ‘use a tooltip’ If a hint is useful, why hide it behind a difficult-to-use and inaccessible interaction? ‘for a cleaner design’ Design is about clarity, not cleanliness. Adam’s point-by-point breakdowns are excellent. The entire article is a great example of how plausible-sounding ideas can quickly fall apart under scrutiny from an expert who reframes the issue. It’s funny how prevalent this feels in our age of fast-paced information overload. You read an argument and it seems rational — that is, if you don’t think about it too long, which who has the time? But an expert with deep experience can quickly refute these mediocre rationales and offer a more informed perspective that leaves you wondering how you ever nodded along to the original argument in the first place. Humorously, it reminds me of the culture of conspiracy theories where the burden of proof is on you to disprove the bare assertions being made (a time-consuming job). Hence the value of experience (and what’s experience but an investment of time?) to pierce through these kinds of middle-of-the-road rationales. Experience helps clarify and articulate what lesser experience cannot see, let alone articulate. That all leads me back to Adam: ChatGPT pulls unreliable, uninformed and untrustworthy design advice from the internet and delivers it with confidence. I mean you can certainly listen to its advice. But I think it’s better to develop the instinct to ask the right questions and be able to recognise bad advice when you see it. There’s no shortcut to gaining experience. You can’t consume enough content to get it. You have to do. Email · Mastodon · Bluesky
I recently finished Carlo Rovelli’s book “The Order of Time” and, of course, had a few web-adjacent thoughts come to mind. Who says lessons from physics can’t be applied to making software? (I know, nobody is actually dying on that hill.) A Weakness of Being Data-Driven Being data-driven is the most scientific way of building products? Hold that thought: The ability to understand something before it’s observed is at the heart of scientific thinking. If you can only imagine that which you can observe, understand, and measure, you’re limiting yourself. If you can only believe that which you can observe, then you’ll only ever understand that which you can see. Abstract thought can anticipate by centuries hypotheses that find use — or confirmation — in scientific inquiry. Beware the Prejudice of the Self-Evident The things that seemed self-evident to us were really no more than prejudices. The earth is flat. The sun revolves around the earth. These were mistakes determined by our perspective. There are undoubtedly more things that seem self-evident now, but as we progress in experience and knowledge we will realize that what seems self-evident is merely a prejudice of our perspective given our time and place in the world. There’s always room to be wrong. Children grow up and discover that the world is not as it seemed from within the four walls of their homes. Humankind as a whole does the same thing. Asking the Wrong Questions When we cannot formulate a problem with precision, it is often not because the problem is profound; it’s because the problem is false. Incredibly relevant to building software. If you can’t explain a problem (and your intended solution), it’s probably not a problem. Objectivity Is Overrated When we do science, we want to describe the world in the most objective way possible. We try to eliminate distortions and optical illusions deriving from our point of view. Science aspires to objectivity, to a shared point of view about which it is possible to be in agreement. This is admirable, but we need to be wary about what we lose by ignoring the point of view from which we do the observing. In its anxious pursuit of objectivity, science must not forget that our experience of the world comes from within. Every glance that we cast toward the world is made from a particular perspective. I love this idea. Constantly striving for complete and total objectivity is like trying to erase yourself from existence. As Einstein showed, point of view is everything in a measurement. Your frame of reference is important because it’s yours, however subjective, and you cannot escape it. What we call “objectivity” may merely be the interplay between different subjective perspectives. As Matisse said, “I don’t paint things. I paint the relationship between things.” Email · Mastodon · Bluesky
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There’s a psychological burden of digital life even heavier than distraction. When the iPhone was first introduced in 2007, the notion of an “everything device” was universally celebrated. A single object that could serve as phone, camera, music player, web browser, and so much more promised unprecedented convenience and connectivity. It was, quite literally, the dream of the nineties. But the better part of twenty years later, we’ve gained enough perspective to recognize that this revolutionary vision came with costs we did not anticipate. Distraction, of course, is the one we can all relate to first. An everything device has the problem of being useful nearly all the time, and when in use, all consuming. When you use it to do one thing, it pushes you toward others. In order to avoid this, you must disable functions. That’s an interesting turn of events, isn’t it? We have made a thing that does more than we need, more often than we desire. Because system-wide, duplicative notifications are enabled by default, the best thing you could say about the device’s design is that it lacks a point of view toward a prioritization of what it does. The worst thing you could say is that it is distracting by design. (I find it fascinating how many people – myself included — attempt to reduce the features of their smartphone to the point of replicating a “dumbphone” experience in order to save ourselves from distraction, but don’t actually go so far as to use a lesser-featured phone because a few key features are just too good to give up. A dumbphone is less distracting, but a nightmare for text messaging and a lousy camera. It turns out I don’t want a phone at all, but a camera that texts — and ideally one smaller than anything on the market now. I know I’m not alone, and yet this product will not be made. ) This kind of distraction is direct distraction. It’s the kind we are increasingly aware of, and as its accumulating stress puts pressure on our inner and outer lives, we can combat it with various choices and optimizations. But there is another kind of distraction that is less direct, though just as cumulative and, I believe, just as toxic. I’ve come to think of it as the “digital echo.” On a smartphone, every single thing it is used to do generates information that goes elsewhere. The vast majority of this is unseen — though not unfelt — by us. Everyone knows that there is no privacy within a digital device, nor within its “listening” range. We are all aware that as much information as smartphone provides to us, exponentially more is generated for someone else — someone watching, listening, measuring, and monetizing. The “digital echo” is more than just the awareness of this; it is the cognitive burden of knowing that our actions generate data elsewhere. The echo exists whenever we use connected technology, creating a subtle but persistent awareness that what we do isn’t just our own. A device like a smartphone has always generated a “digital echo”, but many others are as well. Comparing two different motor vehicles illustrates this well. In a car like a Tesla, which we might think of as a “smartcar” since it’s a computer you can drive, every function produces a digital signal. Adjusting the air conditioning, making a turn, opening a door — the car knows and records it all, transmitting this information to distant servers. By contrast, my 15-year-old Honda performs all of its functions without creating these digital echoes. The operations remain private, existing only in the moment they occur. In our increasingly digital world, I have begun to feel the SCIF-like isolation of the cabin of my car, and I like it. (The “smartcar”, of course, won’t remain simply a computer you can drive. The penultimate “smartcar” drives itself. The self-driving car represents perhaps the most acute expression of how digital culture values attention and convenience above all else, especially control and ownership. As a passenger of a self-driving car, you surrender control over the vehicle’s operation in exchange for the “freedom” to direct your attention elsewhere, most likely to some digital signal either on your own device or on screens within the vehicle. I can see the value in this; driving can be boring and most times I am behind the wheel I’d rather be doing something else. But currently, truly autonomous vehicles are service-enabling products like Waymo, meaning we also relinquish ownership. The benefits of that also seem obvious: no insurance premiums, no maintenance costs. But not every advantage is worth its cost. The economics of self-driving cars are not clear-cut. There’s a real debate to be had about attention, convenience, and ownership that I hope will play out before we have no choice but to be a passenger in someone else’s machine.) When I find myself looking for new ways to throttle my smartphone’s functions, or when I sit in the untapped isolation of my car, I often wonder about the costs of the “digital echo.” What is the psychological cost of knowing that your actions aren’t just your own, but create information that can be observed and analyzed by others? As more aspects of our lives generate digital echoes, they force an ambient awareness of being perpetually witnessed rather than simply existing. This transforms even solitary activities into implicit social interactions. It forces us to maintain awareness of our “observed self” alongside our “experiencing self,” creating a kind of persistent self-consciousness. We become performers in our own lives rather than merely participants. I think this growing awareness contributes to a growing interest in returning to single-focus devices and analog technologies. Record players and film cameras aren’t experiencing resurgence merely from nostalgia, but because they offer fundamentally different relationships with media — relationships characterized by intention, presence, and focus. In my own life, this recognition has led to deliberate choices about which technologies to embrace and which to avoid. Here are three off the top of my head: Replacing streaming services with owned media formats (CDs, Blu-rays) that remain accessible on my terms, not subject to platform changes or content disappearance Preferring printed books while using dedicated e-readers for digital texts — in this case, accepting certain digital echoes when the benefits (in particular, access to otherwise unavailable material) outweigh the costs Rejecting smart home devices entirely, recognizing that their convenience rarely justifies the added complexity and surveillance they introduce You’ve probably made similarly-motivated decisions, perhaps in other areas of your life or in relation to other things entirely. What matters, I think, is that these choices aren’t about rejecting technology but about creating spaces for more intentional engagement. They represent a search for balance in a world that increasingly defaults to maximum connectivity. I had a conversation recently with a friend who mused, “What are these the early days of?” What a wonderful question that is; we are, I hope, always living in the early days of something. Perhaps now, we’re witnessing the beginning of a new phase in our relationship with technology. The initial wave of digital transformation prioritized connecting everything possible; the next wave may be more discriminating about what should be connected and what’s better left direct and immediate. I hope to see operating systems truly designed around focus rather than multitasking, interfaces that respect attention rather than constantly competing for it, and devices that serve discrete purposes exceptionally well instead of performing multiple functions adequately. The digital echoes of our actions will likely continue to multiply, but we can choose which echoes we’re willing to generate and which activities deserve to remain ephemeral — to exist only in the moment they occur and then in the memories of those present. What looks like revision or retreat may be the next wave of innovation, borne out of having learned the lessons of the last few decades and desiring better for the next.
