After a couple of rejections, we finally stumbled upon a small restaurant called Hideyoshi. Working through our respective language barriers, we listened to the chef’s recommendations and made our orders. The meal was exactly what we needed. The standout was a vegetable soup, which my wife ordered. My own order was less clear and memorable, though I remember feeling much better after eating it. Neither of us got sick, and my wife believes it was because of the meal here. Aside from what sounded like a business dinner in another room, it was just us at Hideyoshi.

I rarely write Google Maps reviews, though I made the exception here in the hopes of swaying anyone on the fence to give the restaurant a try. I wrote, “​​This was one of the best dining experiences I’ve had all year. The food was literally mind bending; the simplest dishes taste incredibly soulful and well considered. The service is very accommodating and welcoming. I highly recommend this restaurant.”

Now, I know I tapped out that review on my phone myself, though if I were to read it now, I’d wonder if AI wrote it. If I were writing that today, I’d probably ask myself, as proof of experience, “Which dish was the outstanding one? What was your favorite and why?” Still, better a review than none, I suppose.

Hideyoshi has since closed down shop. There were many promotional changes I’d suggest to the restaurateurs (for example, what could we do to make it the first option other travellers considered? Are there no happy hour options it could offer for people working in the area, for a quick nip before the commute home? Could it do an event at the hotel we stayed at Etc.?), and it reminds me of the phrase, “Evolve or die.” Nothing is permanent. Even restaurants need to change with the times.

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As you gain experience and expertise, it’s easier to shoot down ideas quickly. When you’re in the intermediate hump, you experience being in the groove of shooting down ideas, and not giving them a chance to work out. 

Because you see the flaws in every idea, none of them seem worth your time. You’re also well aware of stronger, smarter, richer competitors who have made further progress in an idea you want to pursue.

The best way through this hump is to get back into the groove of developing ideas, expressing them, and releasing them to other people. In doing so, you’ll harness the wisdom that comes with being an intermediate with the energy of being a beginner once again.

It helps to create and own a creative surface where you can publish these ideas. (This blog is one of mine!)

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Ira suggested that the best way to close this gap was to focus on making a huge volume of work. Here’s the source video, and the quote in full:

“Everybody I know who does interesting creative work, they went through a phase of years where they had really good taste. They could tell what they were making wasn’t as good as they wanted it to be. They knew it fell short. It didn’t have the special thing that we wanted it to have. 

The thing I would tell you is everybody goes through that, and for you to go through it—if you’re going through it right now—if you’re just getting out of that phase gotta know it’s totally normal and the most important possible thing you can do is do a lot of work. Do a huge volume of work. Put yourself on deadline, so every week, or every month, you know you’re going to finish one story.

You create the deadline. It’s best to have somebody who’s going to be waiting for work from you; somebody who’s expecting it from you, even if it’s not somebody who pays you, but you’re in a situation where you have to churn out the work.

It’s only by actually going through a volume of work that you’re going to catch up and close that gap, and the work that you’re making will be as good as your ambitions.”

It’s been over a decade since I first came across this concept, and I still find the idea of the gap incredibly useful. The image, to me, appears as if each piece of work you publish is a brick to build a bridge between your taste and your skills. With each piece of work you publish, you lay another brick. 

Once you build your first bridge, and you can reliably make interesting new things, something interesting happens: your taste changes. Another gap emerges, and your skills once again need to improve. The process starts over again, and again.

When I posted my recent essay to Hacker News, the ensuing discussion led me back to Ira Glass and the gap. I also came across a new quote attributed to Samuel Butler, “Everyone has a mass of bad work in him which he will have to work off and get rid of before he can do better—and indeed, the more lasting a man’s ultimate good work is, the more sure he is to pass through a time, and perhaps a very long one, in which there seems very little hope for him at all. We must all sow our spiritual wild oats.”

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For example, during the two years between 2020 and 2022, the COVID-19 pandemic interrupted all of our lives. In my own efforts to avoid getting COVID-19, I paused many routines I’d taken for granted, including working out at the gym and hugging family and friends. 

Even though it’s been a few years since, and life has largely gone back to normal, I find it challenging to resume some—many—of the good habits I had built before. 

When a good practice or habit is interrupted, the wise thing to do is to keep the interruption brief, bias for continuity, and put effort into resuming.

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“No, it’s going. It’s not working,” he replied. That distinction resonated with me. 

Many times, projects and practices won’t produce the results you seek right away. You will need to get it going before you can expect it to start working.

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Our friend’s eyes were closed, and he didn’t respond to our comments. He seemed to be sleeping. He looked very peaceful.

As our time drew to an end, we each took turns to say our final goodbyes. One friend shared an inside joke with him, and invoked Lost, “See you in another life, brother.” Out of habit and wishful thinking, I said, “See you soon,” and a few minutes later I corrected myself. “Goodbye!” 

On our way out, I noticed his eyes moving, as if he was trying to open them but his eyelids were too heavy. I like to imagine it was his way of saying goodbye as well, that he was somewhere between the Earth and wherever we go after.

It was a difficult experience, and I feel grateful for a chance to live it.

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Instead of repairing it, the government decided to put the funding together for a new building at a new location. It was a controversial decision. The Ontario Science Center would need to survive through a very long interruption, instead of possibly still operating in its old building under repairs.

The other day, I walked past its programming taking place at the Harbourfront Centre. I saw an advertisement for its summer camp, similar to the one I’d attended at the old building when I was a teenager. 

While this interim building was smaller, and the programming was much more modest, it ensured the Ontario Science Centre could maintain a connection with its customers until the new building is finished. It’s not entirely interrupted. It continues to build trust. It enables the organization to show up.

Continuity isn’t the default. It needs people to maintain it. That person might be you. Compounding means biasing towards continuity. Ideally, interruptions are as short as possible.

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This happens to be a tradition in both of our families. When I grew up, the clock in my family’s living room was also five minutes ahead. It was the same for my partner.

Upon our latest visit to Hong Kong, we needed to visit the government office. It was scheduled to open at 8am. They opened the doors at 7:45am. 

Being early is the easiest way to signal reliability, capability, and competence. It’s necessary, not sufficient.

One of my high school teachers said it best, “If you’re early, you’re on time. If you’re on time, you’re late.”

Being a few minutes late, especially if you can give a heads up or judge that it’s excusable, is still much better than not showing up at all. Don’t let a minor imperfection stop you from participating.

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Saturday morning cartoons were part of this culture and lifestyle, but my parents had other ideas. Instead of letting me soak in animated brainrot, they shuffled me off to Chinese school every Saturday morning to learn traditional Chinese characters and how to speak Cantonese Chinese. If you attended, you’d quickly realize it was futile: you learned a language that you had no actual real-world need to learn—that is, until this class again next Saturday. 

I was already learning piano, so I didn’t mind so much that I learned more stuff I didn’t need, but I resented that I needed to give up cartoons to do that. I woke up at 6:45am every Saturday morning in order to get whatever cartoons I could in, but I had to leave home before the good ones started. I aced my elementary school classes, but I didn’t retain much of Chinese school at all.

Fast forward nearly three decades later. After I’d lived in Hong Kong for over a year, I picked up the Chinese Character Writing Practice Pad by Xin Liang and Martha Lam. I tried it one night while I lived in New York City, then I fell out of the habit. 

A couple of weeks ago, now in Toronto, I picked it up again, and I have been learning a new Chinese character and mandarin Chinese pronunciation first thing every morning. My childhood Chinese school foundation gave me something of a foundation, but I really feel like my heart’s in it this time.

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Shrink it. Small projects and tasks look more approachable than big ones.

Simplify it. The more straightforward it is, with fewer steps to follow through the easier it’ll be to get yourself to do it.

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