#work

Every few months I want to begin again from nothing: new notes, new system, new folder with a confident name. The urge always arrives dressed as clarity, and it is almost always avoidance.

The honest version of the impulse is that the old material has become hard to face. Not disorganised — faced. There are half-finished arguments in there, and opinions I have quietly outgrown, and evidence that I was wrong in writing. A clean slate makes all of that disappear without the work of disagreeing with myself.

What I do instead now is smaller and slower. I keep the old leaves and add a line beneath the ones I no longer believe. The record stops being a monument and becomes a conversation, which is harder to be proud of and much more useful to read.

A slate that is never wiped accumulates something a fresh one cannot: proof that I have changed. That is the only kind of progress I have learned to trust.

A good tool does two jobs. It finishes the work in front of you, and it changes what you believe the work is. The first job is the one we shop for. The second is the one that shapes us.

A hand plane teaches grain. A debugger teaches that a program is a sequence of states rather than a paragraph of intentions. Neither lesson appears in the manual, and both survive long after the particular task is forgotten.

So I have grown suspicious of tools that finish the work without teaching anything. They are not evil; they are simply expensive in a currency that does not show up on the invoice. When the tool leaves, the understanding leaves with it, and I am exactly as capable as I was before I began.

The test I apply now is small: after using this thing for a month, will I know something I could explain to another person? If the answer is no, I try to keep the tool at arm’s length, and do at least one pass by hand.