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kottke_org_feedTest footage from a slime simulator game made by former Epic Games employee Asher Zhu. You try to stay hydrated in the hot Tokyo summer by showering and drinking beverages from vending machines.
askamanager_feedIt’s the Friday open thread!
The comment section on this post is open for discussion with other readers on any work-related questions that you want to talk about (that includes school). If you want an answer from me, emailing me is still your best bet*, but this is a chance to take your questions to other readers.
* If you submitted a question to me recently, please do not repost it here, as it may be in my queue to answer.
The post open thread – March 27, 2026 appeared first on Ask a Manager.
512pixels_feedD. Griffin Jones, writing about yesterday’s news:
Apple decided to start caring about the Mac Pro again at the worst possible time. The Intel Mac Pro, while excellent, arrived just six months before the announcement that the Mac would transition to Apple silicon. After which, the Mac Pro didn’t offer any better performance than the Mac Studio. Just the card slots — which you couldn’t put a GPU in.
Due to Apple silicon’s all-in-one architecture, the Ultra-tier chip pushes the limits of what Apple can fabricate at a reasonable price. The bigger the chip is on the die, the lower the yield of good chips will be made, raising the cost further.
Apple reportedly experimented with making a higher-tier chip than the Ultra — often referred to as the “Extreme” chip, though the name is just speculation. It was canceled for being too expensive.
I’ve thought a lot about the bad timing Jones mentions. Had Apple stuck to the original timeline, and killed off the 2013 Mac Pro in favor of an iMac “specifically targeted at large segments of the pro market,” back in 2017, Apple could have avoided putting out the best Intel Mac ever, less than a year before the transition to Apple silicon.
Did Apple know in 2017 that 2020 was the year the M1 would make it out of the lab? Probably not, but it doesn’t make the timing any less painful.
Jones goes on to explore how an “Extreme” chip could be built, and offers some advice for the Mac Studio team:
Apple should design a custom enclosure for PCI card slots that can plug into the Mac Studio. It would have a custom connector so that it could work (nearly) as fast as internal slots in a Mac Pro.
Maybe this custom connector is on the bottom of the Mac Studio, so installation is as simple as plugging it into a Mac Studio-sized port in the top of the box.
I do not see any future in which Apple goes down this road.
Apple sees the Mac Studio and its industry-standard Thunderbolt ports as the way forward for adding hardware. Doing anything custom at this point just adds uncertainty to a market that has been repeatedly damaged by Apple’s flip-flopping.
The company yanked the pro market around for over a decade. The Mac Pro was old, then it was new! It did not support internal expansion, then it did! With every change of its mind, Apple lost more and more trust of would-be Mac Pro buyers.
512pixels_feedJoe Rossignol has put together a lovely history of the Mac Pro.
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jazzfishunsung_feedNot long ago, a blog I otherwise like a lot included this passage:
Designers have been saying this for years. Cameras don’t take pictures, photographers do. Tools don’t make you a better designer. Now the PM world is arriving at the same conclusion.
I am not linking to the post because I hear this argument from time to time, and I want to comment on the general notion.
I think I understand the sentiment behind it: You’re not a designer because you know all the Figma shortcuts. You’re not a perfect typewriter away from The Next Great American Novel. Mastery of a tool is not mastery of the subject matter. And there is definitely a certain amount of performative pretense of an insta photo of a meticulously arranged desk with a bougie keyboard, going at length about the only correct set of presets and plugins, or an idea that “if only you do this one creative habit, a firehose of creativity will follow.”
But I also disagree. Good tools do make you a better designer.
A good tool can make you go faster and, as a result, let you spend more time doing revs and trying new things. A good tool can make you go slower when needed, practicing a connection with the material underneath.
A good tool will prevent you from shooting yourself in a foot, will teach you new things about what you’re doing – and perhaps even about yourself.
A good tool will value your growth, make you reflect on your growing body of work, and push you to try harder.
A good tool can inspire you. A great tool can make you fall in love. A bad tool can make you walk away, and a horrible tool will make you never want to come back.
A good tool will make you seek out more good tools.
Sure, people wrote books on a BlackBerry. Would you want to? Sure, the best camera is the one you have on you. But wouldn’t you prefer that camera to also be the best camera for whatever it is that makes you tick – a great sensor or glass, an amazing build quality, a friendly user interface, a logo that makes you want to step up, or some particular quirk or sentiment that you can’t even explain, but matters a whole lot to you?
I’m told I should be annoyed if someone’s first reaction to seeing a nice photo I made is “what kind of camera do you use?”, as it diminishes my accomplishments as a photographer. But: I chose the camera, and bolted on the appropriate lens, and realized over the years the aperture priority mode and very precise focus area is what makes my brain happy. I went through other cameras before, and learned I didn’t like them and I liked this one. At some point in my life I even ventured out into the frightening underworld of the settings menu, opened a new browser window, and decided “I will now try to understand all of these terms.” It took years, but I did.
The reason I enjoy scanning and processing old documents is because I invested in my tools. I have a little keypad, a bunch of hard-earned Photoshop actions, and some bespoke Keyboard Maestro combos that boss Photoshop around. This little tool universe doesn’t just make me more efficient, but it also makes me have fun.
I’d go even further. The mastery of the subject matter and the mastery of the tool are both important – but they also have to be joined by fluency with tool choices, and deep understanding of the relationships you have with your tools.
No single writing advice book will give you a perfect recipe, but read ten of them and scan twenty more, and you might compile the right mixtape of practical tidbits for your brain, and inspiration for your soul. Likewise, you have to try out a bunch of tools – some bad ones, a few great ones – to understand what you need. Not just for efficiency, but also for enjoyment, and ambition, and flexibility or maybe rigidity, and this sort of unmeasurable feeling of a tool getting you, or a tool made by someone like you.
Maybe it’s the 1960s typewriter you need, or a newfangled e-ink-based writing implement, or maybe you just have to open TextEdit and close everything else. I’m not going to tell you the novel comes out then. But the novel might never come out if you don’t figure out what tool can help get it out of you.
You also have to recognize the telltale signs when you outgrow the tool, or when the tool starts disappointing you. Over the years, I learned that I hate InDesign, but that I hate LaTeX even more. I switched from Apple Notes to SimpleNote in 2012, went back to Notes in 2017, and just this year moved over to Bear. I once cargo-culted Scrivener for writing and ran away screaming, but I also once cargo-culted DevonThink and still use it today, in awe of its clunkiness and old-fashionedness that match my own.
AI tools are still tools. And generative AI will allow you to build more tools for the solitary audience of just you – but, like elsewhere, it will require some understanding what makes for a good tool and what makes for a good tool for you.
Craig Mod wrote recently about using AI to build his own custom tools:
My situation is pretty unique. I’m dealing with multiple bank accounts in multiple countries. Constantly juggling currencies. Money moves between accounts locally and internationally. I freelance as a writer for clients around the world. I do media work — TV and radio. I make money from book sales paid by Random House via my New York agent, and I make money from book sales sold directly from my Shopify store. […] Simply put: It’s a big mess, and no off-the-shelf accounting software does what I need. So after years of pain, I finally sat down last week and started to build my own.
But I bet Mod knew what tool he needed to build based on his experience with tools that didn’t work for him – and software and design in general.
Elsewhere, Sam Henri Gold in a widely-shared essay that is worth a read, about MacBook Neo and the beginning of the tool journey:
He is going to go through System Settings, panel by panel, and adjust everything he can adjust just to see how he likes it. He is going to make a folder called “Projects” with nothing in it. He is going to download Blender because someone on Reddit said it was free, and then stare at the interface for forty-five minutes. He is going to open GarageBand and make something that is not a song. He is going to take screenshots of fonts he likes and put them in a folder called “cool fonts” and not know why. Then he is going to have Blender and GarageBand and Safari and Xcode all open at once, not because he’s working in all of them but because he doesn’t know you’re not supposed to do that, and the machine is going to get hot and slow and he is going to learn what the spinning beachball cursor means. None of this will look, from the outside, like the beginning of anything. But one of those things is going to stick longer than the others. He won’t know which one until later. He’ll just know he keeps opening it.
I am bothered by black-and-white, LinkedIn-ready statements. “Tools don’t make you a better designer” feels like another version of the abused and misunderstood “less is more.”
My camera taught me to be a better photographer. DevonThink told me how to better organize my thoughts. Norton Utilities showed me how to have fun when doing serious things, and Autodesk Animator how to be serious about having fun.
I’m a toolmaker, so perhaps I arrive at this biased. I endured some crappy tools, wrote some okay ones, benefitted from some great ones. I don’t think I would have become a designer without them.
terribleminds_feed
Let’s get this out of the way at the fore of the post: I am not, to my knowledge, actively dying. I do not — again, to my knowledge! — suffer under any particular malady besides the passage of time and the steady nibbles of entropy that will eventually lead to my demise.
But! I am about to turn 50 in *checks watch* just under a month, and that means that I’ve been thinking a lot about death and dying recently, which is to say, the same as usual, probably. It’s not that 50 is old — though when I was a kid, I certainly would’ve believed that a 50 year old was basically a walking mummy, some antediluvian creature who had just slithered up out of the mucky swamps. Now turning 50 just feels normal!
Ha ha just kidding it totally fucking feels old. It shouldn’t! It’s not — not really. But it sometimes literally feels old as I wake up with more creaks and crackles and weird bumps and barnacles and now comes the steady drumbeat of, welp, time to get on statins and/or a blood pressure medication and/or hey have you heard of these GLP-1 drugs and you should be eating less and exercising more and don’t forget to get this cancer screening and that cancer screening and do you have your retirement figured out and where is your grave plot don’t you have a grave plot yet well jesus christ have you at least picked out an urn wait what do you mean you just wanna be swaddled in organic cotton and buried in the yard with an apple tree planted over your carcass so that people can one day eat apples powered by the decay of your inert corpse goddamnit what is wrong with you.
Anyway. It’s fine! It’s fun. New stage of life and all that. I’m wiser and beardier and sexier than ever even if my knees make weird noises.
That’s not precisely the point of this post — which I’ll get to, admittedly after a very long and ambling walk, which I hear old people enjoy! — but rather, in this hastening parade of deathly thinking, I came to a series of small but impactful revelations.
(Small but impactful to me, not necessarily to you. Your mileage may vary.)
So the other day I made waffles for the family, and instead of just using maple syrup, I like to richen the syrup with melted butter, which lets me use less syrup because fat carries flavor quite nicely. (Don’t worry, I’m not eating the waffles, I make eggs for myself like a good little nearly-50-year-old boy. I say this in case my doctor is reading. It’s fine, doc! Really.) Which means part of the process involves melting butter in the microwave, and because I’m weird, I sometimes stand in front of the microwave and watch the butter go from “cube” to “goo” as the, I dunno, nuclear-powered kitchen-box pelts it with lasers or whatever the fuck goes on inside a microwave. Today, while watching the dissolution of the butter chunk, I thought–
That’s death.
I mean, death for the pad of butter, obviously.
But, metaphorically — it’s death for me, to me, as well. For you. For all of us!
If you ever watch the Colbert Questionnaire on his show, that’s one of the questions — what do you think happens to us when we die.
And I think that’s what happens to us.
I think we’re like butter melting.
I suppose it sounds horrible, this bubbly and seemingly final dissolution — but I don’t see it that way at all. Watching the butter go from solid Minecraft block to soft puck to active ooze, I thought, well, the butter hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s simply changed forms. It’s still butter. It lost its shape, but it remains what it was, but now in an interesting new container — an un-container, in a way. And then you’re going to eat the butter and maybe that seems horrible, too, also final, but it’s not. The butter gets spread on toast or poured into the gridwork of waffle sockets and eaten. And still, it remains butter, until it doesn’t — then it gets broken down, absorbed by the eater, used not just to fuel them in terms of energy and nutrition but also to make them happy in some way, because butter tastes delicious. Its constituent parts have come apart, yet remain to serve the body. And eventually that body will take what it can from the butter bits and then get rid of it, or, if they’re over the age of 50, that butter will lodge in their heart in an oleaginous lipo lump fatberg and probably kill them at some point, and then that person — plus the butter they’ve consumed! — will melt, too, a corpse into the corpus, gone to the earth, still a body for a time until it too is consumed and broken apart, all the parts of it used. The one who is fed becomes the one who feeds.
It’s kind of beautiful.
We’re all just melting butter.
But, okay, okay, that doesn’t really account for what is probably the scariest part of death and dying — the existential part. Like, that’s fucking great if all my special boy butter molecules* go back into the universe, but those aren’t me, not ME-me, not the thought-avatar that is me, not the wants and needs and peccadillos and ideas and anxieties that add up to me, it isn’t the memories or the awareness or any of that shit. That all just goes to vapor. All the identity parts of Chuck Wendig are in the bonds of the molecules and aren’t the molecules themselves, and when the molecules separate and the bonds break, so does the Chuck Wendig part of the equation.
Which is why of course we we like to envision an afterlife, right? Sure, the crass body remains behind, stuck in the ground or turned to kitty litter, but the us part, the thought part, all that soul business, it floats up into the sky or sinks down into the chthonic channels. It escapes the hungers of birds and earthworms and flits up to Heaven or oozes into Hell or escapes to some Third Space, like a cosmic Starbucks or an End Times Regal Cinemas.
The afterlife presents us with comfort. The You part, the Me part, the identity part, gets to live on. You know. On a farm. Upstate.
It’s just…
I don’t know if I believe in any of that — okay, I don’t disbelieve in it, sure. If there’s something After, then it’s going to happen regardless of whether I believe in it — if my lack of faith in a particular entity displeases that entity enough that he/she/it doesn’t wanna hang out with me for all eternity, well, so be it, that’s unlife in the big city, baby. If I don’t get get into the post-death VIP section due to some moral quibble, well, I guess that’s on me. I fucked around and once I’m cooked, I find out. Presuming the cosmic order is not subject to such fickle pissery, whatever’s coming is coming whether I know it or not.
What I do believe though is that yes, the process of death and dying breaks down the physical body and leaves a physical legacy — and there is an equivalent breakdown and legacy that happens when the WHO WE ARE slash identity slash soul portion of our existence.
That, too, is left behind as a legacy. Once we’re gone we are left still as a strong impression on those who knew us and loved us, and just as the butter eventually is absorbed into the eater, so too are we absorbed into those we knew, those we affected. And they go away, too, but that doesn’t really mean we’re gone when they’re gone — we leave behind little idea threads, little pieces of ourselves, little jokes and japes and notions, little quirks and questions, and those I think carry on in some form, evolving and devolving as needed. All these pieces of ourselves, living pieces, put out there in the universe, and then cascading out there, fractally, forever. Stones thrown into cosmic ponds.
Ripples going out, hitting the shore at the end of the universe, rippling back.
I love that a lot.
And it makes me think about writing and storytelling.
For a very long time I’ve advocated for just leaving it all out there on the narrative field, so to speak — put it all on the page. Bleed there. Cry there. Crack open your chest and take out your heart and smoosh it into the story like you’re leaving behind a primal signature. I’ve advocated for this in part because it’s practical, good advice — stories are not particularly original, but the thing that’s original about any story is the teller. You’re a confluence of unique elements that has never been repeated, and so part of the value you bring to the page — or really to any creation you make — is the YOU part.
I’ve also advocated for this because, honestly, it’s good for you. It’s good for your heart and soul to be in conversation with it. It’s good for you to find a place for your anxieties and your dreams. It’s good to use all the parts of the pig; the pig being, well, you and your big weird meaty brain. And again: it’s practical! It’s so much easier to use YOU and YOURSELF and ALL YOUR WEIRDNESS instead of, like, trying to get away from all that. You have all these ingredients close at hand — grab them. Use them.
(And this is to me the true value of write what you know, by the way.)
But I see now how that advice, that advocacy, goes beyond just the practical and the narratively-useful and becomes… well, a kind of spiritual advice, really. You’re putting yourself in the work knowing that one day that work is what will be left of you. It will outlive you. It is a legacy. It’s part of the narrative molecules that remain in the universe — not just in physical form, like a book, and not just as 1s and 0s, like in an ebook, but in that anyone who reads that work has taken part of you into them. You’ve affected them. Often subtly, sometimes profoundly. You’re part of their intellectual and emotional flora, same as how someone’s gut has a choir of bacteria that informs them — you’re now singing in their choir, whether as a loud voice or a little one, you’re in there. Your song, your story, is in them. Which meant it’s in the universe. These discordant notes, these beautiful echoes.
And then that’s when I think, this is why you don’t use AI.
First, I know, I know, I’m a broken fucking record with this AI thing, I really am, and I get that it’s probably annoying. (Sorry not sorry too bad.)
Second, I know, there are an unholy host of reasons to not use AI.
But one that hadn’t really hit me was this — your work is part of you and your legacy, but if you let AI touch that, it really isn’t yours. It isn’t you. It’s like stolen existential valor. You just put a You Mask on a mannequin and threw it out of a plane. You’ve done nothing, you’ve contributed nothing, you’ve offered no legacy, your life has cast no shadow. You’ve done no one any favors. Not readers, for sure. Certainly not yourself. That Things You Didn’t Make doesn’t carry you forward. The best it does is carry forward a lie — it carries forward someone else, not you.
Dead echoes. Flat ripples.
A stone that doesn’t skip across the surface of the pond–
It just fucking sinks.
AI is soulless — so don’t let it sub in as your soul.
And when you write, or make art, or do anything, put yourself into it. As wholly as you can. Without reservation. Be unabashedly yourself. Because that’s what goes out into the world. That’s the song you sing. Those are the echoes in this great cave. You’ll live on in others if you allow yourself to.
We’re all just melting butter. Glorious, tasty, melty butter.
Anyway. This is all very silly and probably up its own ass. I just mean, separate from whatever we consider the soul, when we end, the parts of us go out into the universe once more — we get to borrow this mortal shell and ride it around like a robot, and that shell returns to the cosmos in its constituent parts. But also while in this fleshbot encasement we do a lot of things and meet people and make stuff, and that stuff is stuff we also leave behind, and I think all the more reason then when we make art and tell stories to make it as human — and as personal — as we can.
OKAY BYE
p.s. if you want to get me a birthday present, get yourself a present by buying a book — ideally a book by me, because hey, I need to pay this pesky mortgage thing the bank keeps telling me about, but honestly, any book, because books are awesome and do your soul good**
* I promise to never again type the words “boy butter molecules” ever again
**if they’re written by a human
terribleminds_feed
Vakov Fukasawa is trapped.
Captured by his ruthless and cruel enemies, the House of Suns, he has been broken in body and mind, tormented until he is something less than human. And yet, Vakov and his brother Artyom are the Common’s last hope.
The war against the Suns has grown to swallow the galaxy. Entire systems rattle with violence. Planets are burning. Species are hunted to extinction. And now that the genocidal alien Shenoi have been successfully summoned, billions of lives are staring into the abyss.
To save his friends and his home, Vakov will need to work with his brother to build a great intergalactic army. He will need to become the hero, the legend, his people believe him to be. He will need to draw on his every last ounce of courage to gain the loyalty and fury required to survive. He will need to become The Black Wolf.
But is Vakov willing to pay the price that victory demands?
Allow the scenes to guide you
Blindspace, the sequel to Stormblood, was the first book I ever wrote under contract. I developed an outline and kept to it pretty strictly, not wanting to let myself get side-tracked with ideas that did not fit my self-imposed narrative.
But that caused me problems. A lot of them. So I learned to loosen things up for Wolfskin. Sure, the overall shape of the story fits my vision, but I allowed myself to be a little faster and looser with how things swerved to reach that point. Certain side characters introduced themselves to me, demanding to be written, and write them I did. There’s a scene in this book that I genuinely did not think I’d get away with (you’ll know it when you see it). And there’s also a chapter just before the middle-point that I completely pantsed. I threw in several new characters and alien races and funky world-building details, set them interacting with each other, all against the backdrop of a very cool set-piece.
Neither of those things were in the outline, or the first draft. And yet, they turned out exceptionally well, because I allowed the characters and the scene and the story’s momentum to guide me. And I had enormous fun in doing so.
Trusting your own voice.
For a variety of reasons, I had a bad experience when working on Blindspace, Book 2, where I was exposed to a slew of very negative feedback about my work. And it left me doubting everything about my story. My voice. My style. My storytelling. The direction I wanted to go and the method in which I wanted to go there. I struggled to even get a single paragraph down, already imagining the inevitable criticisms and dissecting that it would be exposed to, and how I might be forced to change things.
I’ve always known that I was neurodivergent. But all this made me realise how deeply it was impacting me.
So I had to learn, all over again, how to give myself permission to do what I wanted to do. To remind myself that, yes, as the creator and CEO of this savage little world of mine, there was no objective right or wrong way for me to tell this story: only the way I wanted it to go.
But this did not happen overnight. It took at least a whole extra year of sitting down everyday and pushing, forcing myself to stick with my goals, my voice, my vision. And I’m hella glad I did, because there are a lot of risks and bold decisions that I had to take in order to finish Wolfskin, and I don’t think I could have done it if I hadn’t built up that muscle.
Good writing is not necessarily fun or easy writing (and that’s okay!)
Most of us aren’t writing to get rich (ha!) or for untold fame. We do it because we enjoy telling stories and putting our thoughts on paper. And ultimately, yes, the act should be enjoyable.
But does it mean it will be easy? Or always fun? Absolutely not.
It’s easy to write one word after another, to do what one feels like in the moment, with little thought given to craft or layering or larger story arcs. I used to write fanfiction when I was younger, and the experience was both immensely enjoyable and immensely easy.
But writing professionally, for publication, is much harder. It’s harder to show up day after day, writing hundreds and hundreds of pages with a close attention to craft and detail, making sure every scene is working as hard as it can, scraping entire chapters and characters if they do not fit, and sculpting a story arrows towards a conclusion that is logical and surprising and satisfying and half a hundred other things.
It’s much harder. And there will be days when you won’t love it, where it won’t always be fun, and where writing will feel frustrating and difficult and overwhelming (if someone says otherwise, they’re lying!). The more ambitious the project, the more intense these feelings can be.
And that’s okay.
As someone with ADHD, all this is especially true. And I’ve had to learn the hard way not to beat myself up when a given day’s writing does not rock the world, or when I’m not jumping out of bed to get to work everyday. You are allowed to have those days. You should not feel terrible if some projects are tougher to get done than others.
You’re allowed to be human.
Crank up those bad-ass moments
Sure, I write for myself. But I also write to be read, to leave an impact on the reader. And so I invested heavily in writing some epic “stand up and cheer moments”, where there is a feeling of catharsis and liberation and satisfaction.
Where we see the characters shrugging off the limits imposed on them by their tormentors and go after them with their fangs bared and wild fury in their eyes. When all the pieces fall into place and the curtain is whisked away and a grin starts slowly spreading across the face of the reader as it all dawns on them all that has been in play behind the scenes.
It’s not easy, writing these scenes. But pulling them off successfully and making everything sync up together like clockwork? Immensely satisfying. And it showed me that, when done right, how they can raise a novel to new and riveting heights!
The darkness comes from within.
For plot-related reasons that I do not wish to spoil, there’s a lot of dark emotional ground that is explored in Wolfskin, through the main character Vakov, especially at the start of the novel. Anxiety, depression, rage, hatred, self-loathing, hopelessness.
I did have the option to cut through these, and it would have been much better for the pacing. But I couldn’t. It would have been a betrayal, both to the main character, and me. These issues were things that I myself had either endured, or was currently working on, and seeing them there, as part of my story, was hugely cathartic for me.
Was it hard to channel up that darkness, to expose myself on the page like that? Yes. Unquestionably. But it also taught me a great deal about my own mind, and allowed me to have a higher level of empathy, both for my character and even for myself, as strange as that may sound. And I think it has added a depth to my writing that readers will appreciate.
Bonus thing: I couldn’t not do this.
As you may have guessed from the above, writing and publishing these books have come with some significant challenges, during a time that was already challenging (COVID, anyone?). I wrote Stormblood when I was 21 years old, and sold it at 23, and publishing can be baffling for anyone of any age.
But I could not not write them the way that they had to be. All my life, I’ve been seeking a way to be a writer. To get my vision and voice into the hands of other people. To rise above the limits imposed upon me, either by others or myself, and to let my fury shine.
In many ways, this is my story.
And now, that journey that I’ve been on, the ups and downs, has been worked into these books. Crystallized in flawed memory. Every description, every insight into human nature, is mine.
And I hope you’ll come on the adventure with me, because, like life, we cannot survive it on our own.
Jeremy Szal was born in 1995 and was raised by wild dingoes, which should explain a lot. He writes epic fantasy and dark space opera of a character-driven, morally grey nature. His main series is the Common trilogy from Gollancz/Hachette, which includes STORMBLOOD, BLINDSPACE, and WOLFSKIN, about a drug harvested from alien DNA that makes users permanently addicted to adrenaline and aggression. He’s the author of over fifty short stories, translated into sixteen languages, many of which appear in his collection BROKEN STARS. He was the editor for the Hugo-winning StarShipSofa until 2020 and has a BA in Film Studies and Creative Writing from UNSW. He carves out a living in Sydney, Australia with his family, where he loves watching weird movies, eating Japanese food, exploring cities, learning languages, cold weather and dark humour.
Jeremy Szal: Website
Wolfskin: Bookshop.org | Amazon
opinionatedgamers_feedthe_devils_panties_feed
The days are long and the years are short as fuck!
walterjonwilliams_feedIt’s well past time for this update, but quite frankly I’m tired enough of living it without having to recount it in narrative form. Plus I was deprived of Internet for over two weeks, as the local router resolutely refused to connect to the computer, until just couple days ago the Guy from IT turned up to fix the problem. (A reminder for all of us: it’s not just a guy from IT who’s needed, it’s the right Guy from IT.)
So a little over three weeks ago I turned up at the surgical center and was subjected to a total replacement of my right knee. I’ve been urged to replace that knee for forty years, but I managed to hold off the knee’s demands till now.
The surgical center’s bright idea for my recovery was to send me home to be cared for 24/7 by Kathy until I was good as new, but this seems just a little unfair to her, and so I checked into the recovery wing of a local health unit and have been here ever since.
I thought I’d be here just 5-7 days, but I was overoptimistic, and also I reckoned without an outbreak of norovirus that kept me in quarantine for over a week.
On the whole this place is quite pleasant. I have a room of my own with a television and basic cable, I get three meals per day, and the staff are uniformly friendly and helpful. There’s only one inmate who raves late into the night, and that’s what the music channels are for.
I’m doing physical therapy at least once per day and am making progress. Today I put the walker aside for a while and took a brief stroll with the aid of just a cane. The pain from my cursed knee has diminished, at least when I’m walking, though basically any part of my body feels free to radiate pain at any intensity as long as it wants.
I’m hoping to be going home early next week, though this involves enduring yet another hideously empty weekend alone the way.
And I only have to do this twice more, once for the other knee, and again for the right shoulder. After it’s all over, I’m hoping to fulfill a lifetime’s ambition, and place in the International Walk Like Quasimodo Day competition.
askamanager_feedIt’s four answers to four questions. Here we go…
1. How can I manage digs about remote working and return-to-office?
I’m a woman in my 60s, and before Covid I was doing a long, multi‑leg commute five days a week. Working primarily from home has dramatically improved my health, energy, productivity, and ability to manage everyday life. However, now my workplace is requiring us to be in the office more, and I’m not sure how to handle a few friends who make unsupportive comments about it. Most of my friends understand and are considerate, but a small group repeatedly dismisses my concerns.
They tell me to retire, “suck it up,” or insist that office work is better for collaboration and socializing, even though that doesn’t reflect the reality of my workplace. And the commute is the biggest factor, and they know it.
What makes this more frustrating is that these particular friends either don’t work at all or are self‑employed and mostly work from home themselves. Yet they expect me to accommodate plans that would require me to leave work early, travel late at night before early office days, or take time off. They’re unwilling to adjust plans or meet halfway, and their comments often include digs about people “slacking off” or mothers (not parents) doing school pickups. If I did resign, and took the financial hit while job‑hunting, I doubt they’d adjust their expectations or activity choices to accommodate my new budget.
I’ve tried explaining the real impact that increased commuting has on my health, time, and finances, and that I can’t reduce the burden without taking a significant financial hit. I’ve corrected misconceptions, avoided the topic, and changed the subject when they bring it up, but the comments continue. I now even dread being asked what days I’ll be in the office, because what used to be a simple scheduling question reliably turns into a rant about remote workers. I sometimes feel tempted to snap back with something unkind, but I don’t want to go there.
I can distance myself from these particular friends if I need to, but it’s made me wonder how people who deal with similar comments from relatives manage it, especially when they want to maintain those relationships and genuinely enjoy family gatherings. They just want to show up and have a pleasant time without bracing for Uncle or Aunt X to take a dig at them. I’m looking for better ways anyone in this situation can respond when these conversations keep happening despite clear discomfort.
First, why is this group of friends so focused on this topic in the first place? If you’re the one bringing it up, you should stop — for whatever reason, they’re not the right audience for it — and if it’s them, tell them you need a break from it.
But also, they don’t sound like great friends. It’s one thing to make a few out-of-touch comments because they just haven’t thought it through, but if they’re the ones initiating the topic, you’ve explained the situation, and the comments haven’t stopped and they’re unwilling to adjust any plans to allow for the reality that you have an on-site job and a commute? The issue is the friends.
But with people you can’t escape, like family members, the easiest strategy is to avoid talking about work altogether, or quickly change the topic if it comes up. “Ugh, I can’t do any more work talk right now — tell me all about how the hemorrhoid surgery was” and “Yeah, what are you gonna do — so how are the kids doing?” should become your staples (even if — and perhaps especially if — there wasn’t actually any hemorrhoid surgery).
2. My coworker doesn’t check references because “everyone just lists their friends”
I’m a manager at a smallish firm (i.e., no dedicated HR team for hiring). A colleague of mine at the same level has a couple openings on his team, and in a recent conversation told me he “never checks references, because people always just put their friends down anyways.” Yikes!
I was caught off guard by his comment in the moment, and looking back I’m curious how you’d respond to this. I think some of the issue might be how he conducts reference checks in the first place — I’ve heard it’s best to ask open-ended questions about working style, or whether a candidate is more X or more Y, versus asking whether their skills are any good or other questions where you might just get a “oh yeah, they’re great!” kind of response. I’ve also heard it can be good practice to reach out to former (not current!) companies on a candidate’s resume directly to see if there’s any info they can provide outside the provided reference list. I’m lucky enough that my team has had very little turnover since I’ve been here (so it’s been a minute since I’ve had to check references), whereas my colleague is often hiring.
First, it’s categorically not true that most people just put down their friends. Most people don’t. Occasionally someone does, and a good reference checker screens for that by getting specific information about how the reference knows the candidate, what their role was when they worked together and how their jobs intersected, and how closely they worked together.
Second, I suspect you’re right that this guy hasn’t conducted effective reference checks, if he’s conducted them all. (And yes, you are also right about asking more open-ended questions, including ones that don’t make the “right” answer obvious.) He also sounds like he sees references as pass/fail, when in fact they should be a lot more nuanced than that; someone could receive a glowing reference that makes you realize they’re not actually the strongest match for the job you’re hiring for (such as a reference who raves about how fast-paced and entrepreneurial the person is when you need someone who will thrive in a job that requires a slower, more deliberate pace and adherence to a precise structure).
As for how to respond, you could talk to him about your own experience checking references and how you’ve found it helpful … or you might just show him this!
3. Should I let my great boss know I’m thinking about leaving?
I have a weird gift: pretty quickly I become the “right hand (wo)man” of my boss in every place I’ve worked. Generally, this means that they trust me, confide in me (not inappropriately, but they may share some behind the scenes information), rely on me for feedback about decisions that they’re thinking of making, have conversations with me about kids, life, etc. I think this stems both from the fact that I’m a pretty good conversationalist and generally provide solid analytical advice, and because I’ve never abused any trust so they know I won’t gossip about things I’ve learned from these conversations. In all those cases, I’ve genuinely liked my bosses, and it has created relationships that are partially friendship-based, with them going to bat for me whenever I needed it.
However, when I’ve decided to leave because I found a better opportunity that aligns with my career goals, all my bosses have had a hard time not being personally offended that I “dropped a bomb” on them. None of them were unprofessional about it, but they were clearly hurt and confused (like starting a sentence with “I can’t believe you didn’t talk to me first, we could have worked something out…”, only to realize what they said and backtrack to “I guess you can’t really share with your boss that you’re thinking of leaving”). In all those instances, even if I had shared my intentions with them, there was really nothing they could have done — my next professional step clearly involved leaving.
Now I’ve been at the same place for four years, and I’m looking into finding a more senior role (with higher compensation), which isn’t currently available where I am. My boss and I are very close, she pushes for me to get big projects and recognition within the company, trusts me as her inner circle, and would be blindsided if I left. While the role I am looking for doesn’t currently exist here, I’m not 100% sure that it can’t be created, if absolutely necessary. Do you recommend that I broach the subject of leaving with my boss before I find another job and announce that I’m leaving? The advantage would be to give her a chance to try and create the role that I want (with commensurate compensation) and avoid blindsiding her after many instances where she went above and beyond for me. Ideally, I’d love to be able to stay under such terms. The drawback of course, is showing my cards before I have an outside offer on the table. My understanding has always been that it’s usually not a good idea to get what you want by threatening to leave. How do I navigate this?
Yes, in a situation where you’re highly valued by your boss and have a strong relationship, it can make sense to put your cards a bit on the table. It’s not about threatening to leave; it’s about sharing with her that you’re starting to think about your next step and would love to be able to stay.
So the framing isn’t “I’m starting to job search and will leave if you don’t create a role for me a role doing ABC.” It’s more: “I’m starting to think about where I want my career to take me long-term, and I’m wondering if the company would ever consider creating a role like ABC. I would love to stay here long-term, and I think that work would benefit us in XYZ ways.” You don’t need to spell out “and I will leave if the answer is no” — she’s going to be able to read between the lines and understand what you’re saying.
Related:
how to ask my company to pay me more if they want me to stay
4. Is my boss BS’ing me about why a contractor is earning so much more than me?
My boss has put me on an infernal hellscape of a group project, and I am the only person regularly working on the project who’s on staff — everyone else is a contractor. One of the contractors, “Fergus,” was brought on to essentially be a second me. Our jobs on the project are extremely similar, though I have a few added responsibilities — let’s say we are both designing the product, sourcing materials for the product, and building the product, but I am also testing the product.
Fergus is currently negotiating his contract, and I just found out that he’s asking for $30,000 more a year than I’m currently paid. While it’s extremely unlikely that he’ll get that, I talked to some of our past contractors, and I think it’s quite likely that my boss will pay Fergus over $10,000 more per year than I’m paid, even though we will be doing the same job on this group project and I will also be expected to keep performing my other duties outside of the group project.
I talked to my boss about this and said that because Fergus and I have the same duties, I would expect to be paid at least as much as him. My boss said that negotiating around this was premature, since the group project is still in its early stages. However, he then added that contractors are often paid more than staff employees because they don’t get benefits and don’t “benefit from the predictability” of being a salaried employee somewhere.
Is this even a little bit a thing? I can’t say I trust my boss to be honest about this, and my benefits package is so small that even if I factored it in, Fergus would still be getting paid more than me. Also it’s not like Fergus is some super sought after rockstar who we have to pay a lot to retain—it really just seems like the going rate for contractors went up, and my workplace is avoiding raising salaries to match them. How would you suggest I negotiate around this?
This is 100% a thing! Independent contractors are typically paid significantly more than employees (often around twice as much) because they’re responsible for their own payroll taxes (including the employer portion that your company pays for you if you’re an employee), as well as not getting health insurance or paid time off. If they were paid the same as employees, their take-home pay after all those things were deducted would be significantly less than yours, and that’s before getting into inherently having less stability than employees. $30,000 more than an employee isn’t outside the norm.
You can still negotiate if you believe your work warrants more pay than you’re getting now. You just shouldn’t base it on what contractors are getting.
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shadowkat
