It was 3am when I realized I had a problem with my AI assistant.
Not the kind of problem they write about in think pieces. The tool worked. That was the problem.
I'd ask a question. The answer would appear before I'd finished forming a second thought. I'd read it, react, ask again. No pause. No friction. The conversation moved at the speed of anxiety.
I was writing. But I wasn't thinking.
The fix came by accident. I started using Telegram instead of the direct interface. A minute would pass between my message and the response. Sometimes longer.
That minute changed everything.
I'd send something and then nothing to do but sit with it. Think about what I'd actually asked. Wonder if it was even the right question. By the time the answer arrived, I'd already worked on the problem myself. The response became a check on my thinking, not a replacement for it.
Friction is where reflection lives.
The same principle applies to the Pomodoro timer I've been using for my books.
Twenty-five minutes of writing. Five minutes of rest. Repeat.
The rest isn't wasted time. It's the time when the chapter you just wrote settles into your body. When you notice what's wrong with it. When the next line you need finds you.
Take the break away and you get more words, worse writing.
I've been waking up at 3am some mornings to write. Not because I'm disciplined. Because my mind is clear then. Nobody needs me. The world hasn't started yet.
For a long time I'd immediately open the laptop. Start a session. Get going.
Now I write by hand first.
The AI doesn't see the 3am material until I've already decided it's worth something. That's the gate. Not word count. Not output. The question: is this worth developing?
My whole professional life is built around removing friction.
The Plainspoken Blueprint work I do with clients is about making their message land fast. Clear CTA. No hunting. No guessing. You arrive at the website and you know what to do.
That is the right goal for a client's website.
It is exactly the wrong goal for my own thinking.
I have a counselor named Jason. In one of our sessions he picked up a Martinelli's bottle from his desk and held it up. He said it was Noah. My son.
I have been thinking about that ever since.
There is a version of productivity where you clear the path, remove the obstacles, and move fast. And there is something you are holding, that needs you to go slowly. Not because you are weak. Because it is worth going slowly.
The 30-minute nudge I've set up does the same thing. Telegram sends a question: What are you working on?
I have to stop. I have to name it.
That naming is the thing. Saying out loud what you are actually doing, as opposed to what you planned to be doing or wish you were doing, is harder than it sounds. Most mornings the answer surprises me.
The pause before the name is where the work lives.
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