The Part of Creative Work Nobody Talks About

Nobody posts about revision seven.

You know the one. It's 11pm. You've read this paragraph forty times. You hate every sentence. The words have stopped looking like words. You can't tell if it's good or garbage anymore.

That's not the version that makes it to Instagram. That's not the romantic image of the writer at work.

But that is the work.

The 5% We Celebrate vs. The 95% We Hide

Here's what I keep noticing:

We share the highlights. The breakthrough moment. The finished product. The inspired first draft that poured out like magic.

We hide the rest. The grinding. The boring parts. The labor that looks nothing like creativity and everything like a factory job.

The romantic image is maybe 5% of the work. The unglamorous labor is the other 95%.

And if you don't know that going in, you'll quit the moment the magic fades.

What the 95% Actually Looks Like

In writing: It's not the inspired first draft. It's revision number seven at 11pm when you hate every sentence. It's cutting the scene you loved because it doesn't serve the story. It's reformatting the manuscript for the third time because you found another typo.

In business: It's not the big launch. It's the spreadsheet you update every Monday that nobody sees. It's answering the same customer question for the hundredth time. It's the backend work that keeps everything running while you dream about the next exciting thing.

In life: It's not the beautiful morning routine photographed in golden light. It's doing it on day 47 when you're tired and it feels pointless. It's showing up when the novelty is gone and all that's left is the habit.

Same pattern everywhere. The sexy part is tiny. The unsexy part is almost everything.

Why This Matters for Beginners

When you're new, you only see the 5%.

You see the published novel. Not the seven drafts. You see the successful business. Not the Monday spreadsheets. You see the person with the perfect morning routine. Not day 47.

So you start something. The first draft flows. The business idea sparkles. The morning routine feels life-changing.

Then you hit the 95%.

It feels like something went wrong. Like you lost the magic. Like maybe this isn't for you.

But nothing went wrong. You just arrived at the part nobody talks about.

Making Peace With the Grind

I don't think you can skip the 95%. Believe me, I've tried.

But I think you can change how you see it.

The 95% isn't the obstacle between you and the creative life. It is the creative life. The revision at 11pm isn't blocking you from being a writer. That revision is what being a writer actually means.

The question isn't: how do I get back to the magic?

The question is: can I learn to find something worthwhile in the grind?

Not love it. Not pretend it's fun. Just... make peace with it. Accept that this is the deal.

A Different Kind of Satisfaction

Here's what I'm starting to notice:

The 5% feels like fireworks. Exciting. Showy. Gone fast.

The 95% feels like something else. Quieter. Harder to name. A low hum of satisfaction that comes from showing up when you didn't feel like it.

It's not glamorous. But it's real. And it compounds.

Every revision you survive makes the next one easier. Every Monday spreadsheet builds something. Every day-47 routine shapes who you're becoming.

The 95% is where the work actually happens. It's also where you actually grow.

Try This Today

Name your 95%. What's the unglamorous labor in your creative work that nobody sees?

Instead of rushing through it to get back to the "good part," try treating it like the real work. Because it is.

The grind isn't blocking your creative life. It's the bulk of it.

What's your 11pm revision?

Starting and Finishing Are Different Skills (Train Both)

I know someone who has started eleven businesses.

Websites built. LLCs formed. Business cards printed. Logos designed. Eleven times.

None of them made it past the first year. Most didn't make it past the first month.

He's not lazy. He's not lacking ideas. He's incredibly good at starting things. He's just never learned to finish them.

Two Different Skills That Look Like One

Here's what I keep noticing: starting and finishing are completely different skills.

We talk about them like they're the same thing. Like someone who's good at beginning a novel should naturally be good at completing it. Like the energy that launches a business should carry it through year two.

But they're not the same. Not even close.

Starting requires vision. Excitement. The ability to see possibility in a blank page.

Finishing requires endurance. Discipline. The ability to keep going when the excitement fades and all that's left is the work.

Different muscles entirely.

The Collector's Graveyard

Look around your creative life. What do you see?

Half-written drafts sitting in folders. Half-built systems abandoned in apps. Half-launched ideas that never quite made it out the door.

If this sounds familiar, you might be a Collector.

Collectors are brilliant at beginnings. They see potential everywhere. A new idea sparks and they're off — outlining, planning, building the foundation.

Then another idea sparks. And another. The collection grows. The finished pile doesn't.

I'm a Collector. I've got notebooks full of story ideas. Folders full of business concepts. Hard drives full of projects that made it to 30% and stopped.

For years I thought this was a discipline problem. If I could just focus harder. Try more. Want it enough.

But it's not about wanting. It's about skill.

Why This Isn't a Character Flaw

Here's what changed my thinking: you can get better at finishing the same way you get better at anything else.

It's not a personality trait. It's not some fixed thing you're born with. Finishing is a learnable skill.

Which means if you're bad at it, that's not a character flaw. It's a skill gap. And skill gaps can be closed.

You probably never practiced finishing. You practiced starting over and over — every new project was practice at beginning. But the moment things got hard, you started something new instead of pushing through.

No reps at finishing. No wonder you're not good at it.

How This Shows Up Everywhere

In writing: The first chapter is thrilling. Possibility everywhere. By chapter seven, you're in the muddy middle. The shine is gone. A new idea whispers. You start a new book instead of finishing this one.

In business: The launch is exciting. Building the thing is fun. Then comes the long slog of actually running it. Marketing. Customer service. Iteration. A new business idea sounds better than fixing this one.

In systems: Setting up a new productivity system is energizing. Using it for six months is boring. So you redesign it. Again. The system-building becomes the procrastination.

Same pattern. Different domain.

How to Practice Finishing

Here's what I'm trying: finish small things on purpose.

Not the big projects. Those are too far away. Start with tiny completions. A blog post. A single scene. A weekend project with a clear end.

Each small finish is a rep. Each rep builds the muscle.

The goal isn't to stop starting. Starting is a gift. The goal is to balance it with finishing. To build both skills so they work together.

Because ideas without execution are just dreams. And execution without completion is just motion.

The magic happens when something actually gets done.

Try This Today

Pick the smallest unfinished thing in your creative life. Not the novel. Not the business. Something you could complete in an hour.

Finish it. Not perfectly. Just done.

That's one rep. Tomorrow, do another.

Are you a Collector or a Finisher? And which skill do you need to practice?

The Paradox of Creative Abundance

I have a folder on my computer called "Novel Ideas."

There are fourteen documents in it. Fourteen different stories I want to write. Some have outlines. Some have opening chapters. One has forty pages of world-building notes.

You know how many novels I've finished? Zero.

It took me an embarrassingly long time to see the connection.

The Paradox Nobody Warns You About

Here's what I kept telling myself: more ideas means more options. More options means more chances to succeed. Having fourteen novels in progress is better than having one, right?

Wrong.

More projects don't create more output. They create less.

This felt counterintuitive until I started seeing the same pattern everywhere.

Where This Pattern Shows Up

In writing: Too many novel ideas competing for attention. Every day you have to choose which one to work on. That choosing takes energy. So does the guilt about the ones you're not choosing. Before you know it, you've spent your creative hour deciding instead of writing.

In business: Too many side projects. The app idea. The newsletter. The course. The consulting offer. Each one gets a little attention. None gets enough to actually launch. You're busy all the time and finishing nothing.

In daily life: Too many hobbies. Guitar, woodworking, photography, running. You dabble in all of them. You go deep in none. Years pass and you're still a beginner at everything.

The pattern is the same. Abundance creates paralysis. Options create overhead. The more you could do, the less you actually do.

Why Constraints Increase Output

This is the part that sounds backwards: limiting what you work on increases how much you produce.

Why? Because constraints eliminate the choosing.

When you only have one novel, you don't spend energy deciding which novel to write. You just write. When you only have one business, you don't scatter your attention. You focus.

The decision tax is real. Every time you have to pick between projects, you pay a little bit of your creative energy. Do that enough times and you've got nothing left for the actual work.

Constraints aren't limitations. They're liberation.

Where This Breaks Down

I want to be honest: I'm not sure this is always true.

Some people thrive on variety. They need multiple projects to stay energized. When they get bored with one, they rotate to another, and the cross-pollination makes everything better.

Maybe the real pattern isn't "one project good, many projects bad." Maybe it's "know your number."

For me, that number seems to be two. One main thing, one side thing. More than that and everything stalls. Your number might be different.

But I'm pretty sure nobody's number is fourteen.

The Abundance Trap for Creators

Here's what I'm learning: having lots of ideas isn't the same as being productive. It can actually be a way of avoiding the hard work of finishing.

Starting is fun. The blank page, full of possibility. The new project, before it gets difficult.

Finishing is hard. The middle slog. The parts that don't work. The commitment to see one thing through even when you're bored or stuck.

Every time I start a new novel idea, I get that new-project buzz. But I'm also giving myself an escape route. An excuse to abandon ship when things get tough.

More projects can be a form of hiding.

What I'm Trying Now

I moved thirteen of those fourteen documents to a folder called "Someday." I kept one.

It's not the best idea. It's probably not even the most interesting one. But it's the one I'm going to finish.

The constraint feels uncomfortable. I miss the variety. I miss the freedom to jump between ideas.

But I'm finally making progress. Real progress. The kind that ends with a finished thing.

Try This Today

Count your active projects. Not the ideas in your head — the things you're actually spending time on.

Now ask: what would happen if you cut that number in half?

Pick the ones that matter most. Put the rest somewhere you can't see them. Just for a month. See what happens to your output.

What would you finish if you stopped starting?

Why I Still Sketch on Paper Before Opening My Laptop

I watched a carpenter mark a piece of trim the other day.

He pulled out a regular number two pencil. The yellow kind. The kind you'd find in a classroom.

I was confused. Carpenters have their own pencils. Flat ones. Wide lead. Designed specifically for marking wood. Why wasn't he using one of those?

So I asked him.

I've been using a number two forever. It's what I had when I started. Works for me.

That was it. No elaborate justification. No defensiveness. Just: this works, so I use it.

The Pressure to Upgrade Your Tools

As creators, we're constantly told we need better tools.

Better software. Better apps. Better systems. The professional version. The one the experts use.

There's always something newer. Something more specialized. Something designed specifically for people like you.

And sometimes upgrading makes sense. I'm not saying tools don't matter.

But sometimes? The number two pencil works just fine.

When "Good Enough" Is Actually Good Enough

Here's what I noticed about that carpenter:

His cuts were precise. His work was beautiful. His pencil didn't hold him back.

The tool wasn't the limiting factor. His skill was the multiplier. And a yellow pencil multiplied by decades of experience still equals excellent work.

I think about this with my own creative process.

I still sketch ideas on paper before opening my laptop. Not fancy paper. Just whatever's nearby. Sometimes the back of a receipt.

I used to feel embarrassed about this. Like I should have a sleek system. A dedicated notebook. An app that syncs across devices.

But the receipt works. The idea gets captured. That's the job.

Where This Breaks Down

I want to be honest: this isn't always true.

Sometimes your tools are holding you back. Sometimes the upgrade genuinely unlocks something new.

The carpenter's pencil exists for a reason. The flat shape keeps it from rolling off angled surfaces. The thick lead doesn't snap as easily on rough wood.

If the number two pencil was constantly breaking or rolling away, that'd be a real problem worth solving.

But it wasn't. For him, in his workflow, the standard pencil worked.

The question isn't "what do the pros use?" The question is "what's actually slowing me down?"

How This Shows Up in Writing, Business, and Creative Work

In writing: You don't need Scrivener to write a novel. Plenty of great books were written in Word. Or Google Docs. Or longhand. The tool that gets words on the page is the right tool.

In business: You don't need the expensive CRM when you're just starting. A spreadsheet works. An email folder works. Upgrade when the simple thing genuinely breaks.

In creative work: You don't need the professional-grade supplies to make something meaningful. Constraints breed creativity. Sometimes the limitation is the gift.

Permission to Keep Using What Works

Here's what I'm learning:

Don't upgrade out of guilt. Upgrade out of genuine need.

If your current tool is working — if it's capturing the ideas, making the marks, getting the job done — you're allowed to keep using it.

You don't have to justify your yellow pencil.

You don't have to apologize for sketching on paper before touching the keyboard.

You don't have to feel behind because someone else has a fancier system.

The work is what matters. The tool is just how you get there.

Try This Today

Notice the tools you feel guilty about. The "unprofessional" ones. The ones you've been using since the beginning.

Ask yourself: is this actually holding me back? Or is it working just fine?

If it's working, keep going. No upgrade required.

What's your number two pencil?

You Don't Need a New Idea. You Need Your Version.

A lamp seems like such an insignificant thing.

It's a simple device. Turns on. Makes dim light. Nothing a surgeon would ever use to operate with.

But surgeons have their own lamps. Bright. Adjustable. Mounted on articulating arms that swing into position.

Mechanics have their lamps too. Hooked onto hoods. Clipped to workbenches. Angled into engine cavities where no overhead light could reach.

Readers have theirs. Campers have theirs. Dentists, photographers, miners — all of them have lamps built specifically for what they do.

All these lights. All different shapes and sizes. All solving the same basic problem: I need to see.

Why "It's Already Been Done" Is a Lie

Here's the thing that stops most creators: the belief that if something exists, there's no point in making another version.

The lamp already exists. Why would anyone make another one?

But that's not how creation works.

The lamp exists. But the surgeon's lamp didn't — until someone made it.

The reading lamp existed. But the clip-on book light didn't — until someone made it for a different group of people with a different set of needs.

Different People Need Different Versions

This is the pattern I keep seeing:

Every creation has an audience it serves perfectly. And another audience it serves poorly. And a third audience it doesn't serve at all.

Your job isn't to invent something no one has ever thought of. Your job is to make the version that serves your people.

The mechanic doesn't need a prettier lamp. They need one that hooks onto a hood and survives getting dropped.

The reader doesn't need a brighter lamp. They need one that won't wake up their partner.

Same problem. Different context. Different solution.

How This Shows Up in Writing, Business, and Creative Work

In writing: There are thousands of books about productivity. But there wasn't one for your specific situation — your industry, your constraints, your way of thinking — until someone wrote it. Maybe that someone is you.

In business: Every market has gaps. Not because no one has solved the problem, but because no one has solved it for this particular group yet. The solution exists. The specific version doesn't.

In creative work: Every story has been told. But not by you. Not with your voice. Not for the people who need to hear it the way you'd tell it.

The World Doesn't Need New Ideas. It Needs Your Version.

I used to get stuck thinking I needed to create something completely original.

Now I think that's backwards.

The most useful things aren't new. They're specific. They take something that exists and reshape it for someone who's been underserved.

You don't need a new idea. You need your version of an existing idea, for your people.

That's not copying. That's serving.

Keep Creating Anyway

So if you've been holding back because your idea "already exists" — stop.

Of course it exists. That's proof there's demand.

The question isn't whether someone has made a lamp before. The question is: who still needs to see, and what kind of light would help them most?

There's always a different group of people who can benefit from your work.

Keep making.

Try This Today

Take that idea you've been dismissing because "it's been done." Ask yourself: who hasn't been served well by the existing versions?

What would a lamp look like if you built it specifically for them?

What's your version of the lamp?

What a Coaster Taught Me About Creativity

I set my coffee down the other day and my wife slid a coaster underneath.

"It protects the wood," she said.

I nodded. Then I got curious.

Thirty minutes later, I'd learned that some wood finishes don't actually need coasters. Certain countertops can handle hot pots directly. There's a whole world of heat-resistant materials I never knew existed.

I felt weirdly satisfied. Then I felt weirdly guilty.

Because what did I actually do with that information? Nothing. I wasn't going to correct my wife. I wasn't going to rip out our countertops. The research led nowhere.

Or did it?

Why We Feel Guilty About Curiosity

We live in a world obsessed with outcomes. Productivity. ROI on everything, including our attention.

So when we spend an hour learning about coaster materials or rabbit-holing through Wikipedia or wondering how something works — and it doesn't lead to a deliverable — we feel like we wasted time.

I do this constantly. I'll research something for an hour, learn a ton, and then think: What was the point of that?

How Old Problems Create New Materials

Here's what I realized while feeling guilty about my coaster research:

Someone, somewhere, was curious about the exact same thing. And they invented a countertop that doesn't need protection.

That's how everything gets made.

Curiosity that seems pointless is the raw material of innovation. The person who invented the coaster-proof surface didn't start with a business plan. They started with a question: Why do we even need coasters?

Old problems create new solutions. But only if someone gets curious enough to poke at the problem first.

How This Shows Up in Writing, Business, and Life

I see this pattern everywhere now.

In writing: The random research tangent that doesn't fit your current project? It might be the seed of your next one. Every novelist I know has a folder of "useless" research that eventually becomes essential.

In business: The side question you explored instead of staying on task? That's often where the real insight hides. The best product ideas come from noticing something odd and following the thread.

In life: The afternoon you "wasted" learning about something that has no practical application? You just added another connection to your brain. Creativity is connecting dots. You can't connect dots you don't have.

The World Runs on Curiosity and Problems

Think about it. Every invention started with someone asking a dumb question.

Why do we need candles? (Lightbulb.)

Why do we need horses? (Car.)

Why do we need coasters? (Heat-resistant surfaces.)

The world spins on curiosity. Problems are just invitations to get curious.

So that research rabbit hole you fell into last Tuesday? The one that led nowhere? It wasn't wasted. It was practice. It was collecting dots. It was keeping your curiosity muscle strong.

There's No Wasted Work

Here's what I'm learning to believe: there's no such thing as wasted curiosity.

Not every question leads to an answer. Not every thread leads to a breakthrough. But the habit of pulling threads — that's everything.

The person who stops asking questions stops creating.

So be easier on yourself. That hour you spent learning about something "useless"? You were doing exactly what creators do. You were staying curious.

Try This Today

Follow one curiosity thread without worrying about the outcome. Give yourself permission to research something just because you want to know.

No deliverable required. No guilt allowed.

See where it leads. Or doesn't. Either way, you're practicing the thing that makes new ideas possible.

What's the last rabbit hole you felt guilty about?

Why Rules Kill Creativity (And When They Actually Help)

My nephew threw mashed potatoes at the wall last Thanksgiving.

Not because he was angry. He wanted to see how far they'd go.

His mom was mortified. I was impressed.

That's the purest form of creativity I've seen in years. No plan. No outline. Just: what happens if I do this?

Messes are a requirement. Not a bug. A feature.

But somewhere along the way, we forgot that.

Why We Stop Making Messes

We grow up. We learn rules. We start believing we need everything figured out before we can begin.

The outline has to be perfect. The desk has to be clean. The idea has to be fully formed in our heads before a single word hits the page.

We get uptight. And uptight people don't create. They organize. They plan. They wait.

The Trap of Waiting Until You're Ready

I used to think I needed to know the ending before I could write the beginning.

So I'd spend weeks outlining. Researching. Preparing.

And then I'd never start.

Because the outline was never quite right. There was always one more thing to figure out first.

Rules Come After Creativity, Not Before

Here's what I'm learning: rules come after you've been creative. Not before.

You can't edit a blank page. You can't organize ideas you haven't had yet. You can't refine a mess that doesn't exist.

The mess has to come first.

What Kids Know That We Forgot

Kids understand this instinctively. They don't worry about whether the drawing is good. They just draw. They don't plan the block tower. They just stack until it falls.

Then they do it again.

That's not chaos. That's the creative process working exactly as designed.

Your Permission Slip to Be Messy

You're allowed to make a mess.

You're allowed to write the terrible first draft. To start the business plan on the back of a napkin. To build the thing before you know if it'll work.

You don't need to know where the mashed potatoes will land before you throw them.

This doesn't mean rules are useless. They're just for later.

Once you have something — anything — you can shape it. Edit it. Organize the chaos into something that makes sense.

But you can't skip to that part. The mess is the raw material.

No mess, no creation.

Try This Today

Start something without a plan. Give yourself 15 minutes to make the ugliest first attempt at whatever you've been putting off.

Don't outline. Don't research. Don't prepare.

Just throw the mashed potatoes and see where they land.

What would you make if you weren't afraid of the mess?

Stop Being Creative (With the Wrong Things)

I ordered my usual coffee the other day.

The barista handed it to me with a smile. Proud of herself.

I added extra pumps of mocha for you.

Like she'd done me a favor.

I didn't want to hurt her feelings. But I wanted to ask her to stick to what was already created.

I didn't order creativity. I ordered my coffee.

Why Consistency Beats Creativity at Your Favorite Restaurant

If you've ever ordered your favorite meal somewhere, you can appreciate the lack of creativity.

Think about that.

The person making your food refused to be creative. And you're grateful for it.

It took creativity to design that dish originally. Someone experimented. Tested flavors. Failed a few times. Adjusted. Tried again.

But once it was created and built, it moved to something else.

Consistency.

Now you don't want the chef improvising. You want them to make it the way it was designed. Every single time.

When to Stop Being Creative and Start Delivering

Creativity has a season. And so does discipline.

The problem is, most of us don't know when to switch.

We either stay in creative mode too long—endlessly tinkering, never shipping. Or we try to be creative with things that already work—and break them.

That barista? She was being creative in the wrong season.

The recipe was already created. Her job was consistency. But she couldn't resist adding her own twist.

How This Pattern Shows Up in Writing, Business, and Habits

• In writing: If you create a great blog about working in the dirt, you can't come in the next day talking about chess. People want what you created. They came back for that. The discipline to deliver it day in and day out isn't optional. It's the whole point.
• In business: A product that works doesn't need reinventing every quarter. It needs consistent delivery. Save the creativity for the next product.
• In habits: Once you design a morning routine that works, stop tweaking it. Run it. The creativity happened when you built it. Now execute.

The pattern is the same: create once, then protect it with consistency.

Knowing When Something Is Done Being Created

Here's what's hard. Knowing when something is done being created.

When does a blog find its voice? When is a product ready to stop evolving? When has a habit earned the right to run on autopilot?

I don't have clean answers. But I'm learning to ask the question.

Is this still in the creative phase? Or am I tinkering with something that just needs to be delivered?

Permission to Stop Tinkering

You're allowed to stop being creative.

Not forever. Not with everything.

But with the things that are already built? The recipe that works? The format that resonates?

Protect it. Deliver it. Consistently.

Save your creative energy for the thing that's still finding itself.

Try This Today

Pick one project that's already working. Something you keep tweaking.

Ask yourself: Is this still in the creative phase, or am I just afraid of consistency?

If it's built, stop adding extra pumps of mocha.

Just make the coffee.

How I Stay Creative While Hitting Every Deadline

 Everyone says creativity needs freedom.

No rules. No boundaries. No deadlines breathing down your neck.

And they're half right.

Here's what nobody tells you: nothing is truly productive until rules are established.

I used to think I had to choose. Either I'm in creative mode—wild, exploratory, following threads wherever they go. Or I'm in execution mode—disciplined, structured, grinding toward a finish line.

That choice is a trap.

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Where I First Noticed This

A writer who spends his days working as he pleases gets thrown into crisis when a publisher says, "We need this book in two months."

Suddenly the work needs to be systematic. It needs to be finished.

That's when creativity goes into a slump. The free-flowing artist inside you doesn't know how to operate with constraints. It shuts down.

I've been there. Staring at a manuscript that was almost done, paralyzed because now it had to be done.

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The Pattern That Changed Everything

Here's what I'm learning: you don't choose between creativity and structure. You run both—just not in the same project.

Right now, I have work in three different stages:

Stage 1: Creative mode. Some projects have no boundaries. No timelines. They're still finding themselves. I follow weird ideas, write scenes that might go nowhere, ask "what if" without needing answers.

Stage 2: Shaping mode. Other projects are being crunched down. The wild exploration is over. Now I'm cutting tangents. Finding structure. Making it work.

Stage 3: Disciplined mode. Then there's this blog. The creative part is done. Every morning at seven, the post goes out. There are rules. Constraints. A format I follow.

Three stages. Three different relationships with structure.

When the disciplined work feels like a grind, I have creative projects to play in. When the creative work feels aimless, I have structured work to anchor me.

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Where Else This Shows Up

In business: Companies need R&D projects with no pressure to produce—and operations that run like clockwork. The ones that struggle have everything as either chaos or bureaucracy. Never both.

In life: You need hobbies with no goals—things you do just to explore. And you need routines that don't require decisions. The morning that runs itself so you have energy for the things that don't.

The pattern is the same everywhere: freedom and structure aren't opposites. They're partners—just working on different things at the same time.

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Why This Works

Creative energy is renewable, but only if it has somewhere to go.

When all your projects are deadline-bound, you burn out. When all your projects are free-form, you finish nothing.

The portfolio approach gives you both. Structure where you need momentum. Freedom where you need exploration.

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Try This Today

List every project you're working on. Label each one:

• Creative – No rules yet. Still exploring.
• Shaping – Finding structure. Making it work.
• Disciplined – Rules are set. Just execute.

If you're missing a category, that's your problem.

All disciplined? Start something with no deadline. All creative? Pick one thing and give it constraints.

What would happen if you stopped choosing—and started balancing?