Mind the Gap

 

Every successful person is basically an iceberg in a designer suit. You get exposed to a sliver … just the surface: the title, the portfolio, the rehearsed introduction. You see the sum total of what they feel safe presenting.

What we see is the part they’ve learned to display. What we don’t see is the slog.

We don’t see the job they took because rent doesn’t barter with dreams. 

We don’t see the night everything fell apart and they kept going anyway, because the alternative felt like drowning in slow motion. 

We don’t see their losses … the ones that shrank them first, then, eventually, made room for something else to grow. 

We don’t see the  constellation of tiny, paper-thin, fleeting, easily missed wins that kept them from quitting.

Most people’s “overnight successes” are built from years of bleary predawn mornings, oddball mentors who showed up at the right hour, moments of luck that could’ve gone another way if the universe had sneezed, and the kind of stubbornness that borders on fictional.

When we encounter them out in the wild … shiny, confident, wearing accomplishment like a well-fitted sport coat … we forget all of that. We assume ease. We assume clarity. We assume they were born on third base and woke up already stretching for home.

This habit of seeing only the surface is potentially dangerous. It tricks us into comparing our internal draft pages with someone else’s final-print edition. You don’t see the similarities in your struggle, when you're only exposed to (or focus on) their highlight reel. And there’s no faster way to feel like you’re failing at a race you didn’t know you entered.

No one gets where they are by coasting. They get there by pushing through the molasses-thick patches of everyday life, by dragging yesterday’s version of themselves uphill until something finally gives. They get there through heartbreak, through dead ends, and by stubbornly pushing forward every time the universe said, “Nope, not now.”

So the next time you meet someone who seems impossibly put-together, remember this: There’s a whole basement beneath that living room. Being human is a long, winding apprenticeship. No one gets certified without bruises. No one grows wings without first lugging around some astonishingly heavy bones.

Don’t compare the tip of their iceberg to your total existence. It’s psychological self-torture … a recipe for misery that keeps you focused on what you don’t like about yourself and your life.

Default Setting

AI is stealing something important from us. It’s ruining wonder.

In the past, if I watched a video of someone doing something extraordinary, I’d think, How did they do that? Or I'd see a video of a brave dog rescue another animal and be happy that life occasionally produces stories better than fiction.

Now my brain interrupts with a different reaction: "Is this AI?"

Instead of enjoying the moment, my brain starts fact-checking it. Every incredible photo, every unbelievable performance, every heartwarming moment now arrives with an invisible disclaimer: Proceed with skepticism.

That's a loss.

Of course, AI didn't invent fake things. Photoshop has been lying to us for decades. But AI has made doubt so cheap that we spend it on everything.

Sometimes a breathtaking photo is the product of a photographer who waited six freezing hours for the right light.

Sometimes a dancer is actually that good.

Sometimes a dog really does something that reminds you why people don't deserve dogs.

We used to assume something remarkable probably had a remarkable explanation … years of practice, ridiculous talent, dumb luck, or the weirdness of being human. Now, thanks to AI, suspicion is our default setting … and our lives are diminished because of it.

Not Gonna Change

 

I like short sentences. I like lists of three. And, yes, I love me an em-dash.

Apparently, those are all “AI tells” that’ll make an Artificial Intelligence detector flaps its little wings and sound an alarm: Beep beep - suspicious human AI use detected.

Cute. But I didn’t build my voice in a prompt window. I built it in drafts. In meetings. On deadlines.

I earned my word scars. And now I’m supposed to stop writing how I write because some detector wags its algorithmic finger?

Nah.

I’ve been writing professionally for a long time. Long enough to know what works. Long enough to know what’s mine. Long enough to know I’m here to connect with readers, not impress a robot.

If a machine thinks I'm a machine, that’s not my problem, that’s a design flaw. File a bug report. Tell tech support the human has too much rhythm. 'Cause I'm not changing. Not gonna write like a middle-school book report to make a silicon hall monitor feel safe.

I was here before the detectors. Before the red flags. Before the breathless warnings that creativity might be “generated.” I write like this because it’s how I think. I’m not gonna scrub the fingerprints off my voice.

I write with teeth. And breath. And the occasional verbal middle finger.

If that trips your digital tripwire? Good. Means I’m still weird enough to be human.

And I’m not gonna change.

Not for detectors. Not for flags. Not for whatever robot snoop evolves next.

And if that’s a problem for the robots, fuck ‘em. I’ll be over here … typing with intent, smirk fully engaged.

PS Here's proof that Shakespeare used AI to write his plays:

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Check out my song: Spot the Bot (The I Miss My Em-Dash Blues)

Schedule your hardest work when your brain is strongest.

 

My most productive writing times are 7am to 11am and 4pm to 6pm.

Those times have changed over the years, but I’ve consistently enjoyed about 6 highly productive hours a day. Sure, I’ve had to grind out work outside those hours. I’m a pro and can get the job done well any time, anywhere … just maybe not in peak efficiency.

So I try to schedule my most important, highest priority work into that time frame I know I’m at my best. And recharge during “off” hours.

How ‘bout you? Have you figured out where your productivity “sweet spot” is?

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The story behind "Crank It Up To 11"