Third and Goal

[This is part 3 of 4 in a series about a questionnaire I recently answered.]

There is a sea of advice available about goals—how to set them, how to follow through with them, how to avoid them entirely. But I'm not going to wade into those waters today, even though that’s the subject of the third question from Shelley’s questionnaire about Norton Stoneworks:

What are your short, mid, and long-term goals?

To be honest, I'm not an expert on goals. Maybe it’s setting them. Maybe it’s more about the follow-through. Maybe they’re inseparable. Either way, I’ve been trying to lose the same ten pounds for the last twelve years, so...

More than goals, I seek clarity. I have directions I want to move in, work I want to do. I don't have a target dollar amount I need to hit each year, but I do know this: I want to do the best work I can, with the best people, and earn the most I can in the process.

I’m clear on the type of work I want to do. And that clarity guides me far better than any fixed milestone. Answering Shelley’s questionnaire gave me a chance to reconnect with and strengthen that vision.

So here's where I’m headed:

Short Term

• Continue taking on projects with clients who value creativity and natural beauty.

• Further refine my design skills, bringing more of my own vision into client work.

• Find a way to bring my creativity to every project

• Develop deeper clarity around the exact type of work I want to be doing.

Mid Term

• Design and build stone art installations in public spaces.

• Develop multiple revenue streams.

Long Term

• Be recognized as a sought-after stone artist.

• Take on a limited number of high-impact projects each year.

I’m more interested in directions rather than destinations. It gives me room to explore, to grow, and to redefine what success looks like. It’s about the journey, and my aim is to make that journey as creative, fulfilling, and impactful as possible—one stone at a time.

What’s your relationship with goals? Are you all about setting them, avoiding them, or maybe finding your own way forward?

Yes on 2

[This is part 2 of 4 in a series about a questionnaire I recently answered.]

Not that long ago, if you’d asked me what I wanted out of life, I probably would have answered, “I don’t know,” silently hoping you’d quit it with the questions. If you’d kept pressing, I might have offered, “I just go with the flow.” I may have included a “man” at the end of that sentence.

Just go with the flow.

It sounds peaceful, doesn’t it? Easy. Like you’re in harmony with the world—letting life guide you where it may. It almost feels like ancient wisdom, a nod to Lao Tzu’s sage advice to be like water, or Marcus Aurelius’ counsel to not focus on things out of our control.

I do strive for peace and harmony. Calmness. But often, this mellow-sounding mantra masks something else: the fear of making a choice. It’s a defense against having to say, This is what I want. It can be an excuse to avoid taking accountability for our lives, and, in this case, for our work.

That’s why the second question of Shelley’s questionnaire hit me harder than I expected:

What is your vision for your company?

There’s no sidestepping this one. It’s not about what you think you should do, or what other people think you should do, or even what you think other people think you should do. It’s direct: What’s your vision? What do you want?

I’ve got a big dream. It’s scary to say it out loud. It’s hard enough to admit what you want to yourself—harder still to put it out into the world.

Who am I to dream so big? What if I fall short?

One way to avoid these questions is to just go with the flow, man.

Don’t make a choice. Don’t take accountability. Don’t put yourself on the hook.

I think I’m done with that. I hope so. Here’s my answer to Question 2:

What is your vision for your company’s future?

My vision is to create awe-inspiring, timeless works of stone that blend art and nature, transforming landscapes into living, breathing works of art. While I still enjoy building dry-laid stone walls and other residential projects, my dream is to create site-specific installations that resonate with both the environment and the people who experience them. I want to be recognized as an artist, not just a tradesman.

So, what about you?

What's your vision? For your business, project, hobby—for your life?

More Weight

Winter is coming. Sure, this stretch of fall weather has been beautiful, but things are changing. My morning walks were bright and sunny for a while, but now they’re mostly dark. My wardrobe has evolved from shorts and a t-shirt to shorts and a long sleeve, to pants and a hoodie. Winter is coming, and I feel the weight of snow and frozen ground pressing down upon my schedule.

I’m not sure why, but I remember studying the Salem Witch Trials in middle school. One gruesome detail stands out to me.

To force a plea from Giles Corey, an elderly farmer, they subjected him to a brutal practice called pressing—pinning him to the ground and piling heavy stones on his chest for days. He never relented. His last words before the stones crushed him to death were, famously, ‘more weight.’

That's how I feel every fall as winter approaches.

It's not the cold that feels heavy. And it’s not just that doing stonework in winter is miserable. It’s the stress of unfinished projects, the ones I planned to start before the ground freezes. How will I get it all done?

I do this to myself every year. It’s an annual cycle of overcommitting. Full of spring optimism, I always say yes to one project too many. With the long, warm days of summer ahead, I convince myself I'll find a way to get it all done. Reality hits with the first autumn chill and I realize I've overbooked myself again.

Do you ever overbook yourself?

Why do we keep asking for more weight?"

Island Time

[This is part 1 of 4 in a series about a questionnaire I recently answered.]

On Monday, Eliza and I took my mom to Vinalhaven, an island about fifteen miles off the Maine coast.

Sitting in the car that morning, drinking coffee and waiting for our turn to drive onto the ferry, I found myself caught between conflicting stories. Both of them equally true.

I could say to myself: With the amount of work on my plate, I never should have taken a Monday off to play tourist. That’s what rich people do.

I could also say: How lucky we are to have the freedom to spend a beautiful day with my mom as she approaches her 80th birthday. I’ll remember this long after the work is forgotten.

Both stories are accurate descriptions of the same event. But each creates a different reality. One makes me feel guilty. The other fills me with gratitude. As the ferry rocked gently on a calm sea and the granite shores of Vinalhaven came into view, I found myself rocking back and forth between these two conflicting narratives.

Questionnaire

The stories we tell ourselves shape our lives. They shape the evolution of our work as well.

This tension between conflicting stories was on my mind when I answered the first question in Shelley’s questionnaire: What’s the history of Norton Stoneworks, and where are you now?

Before Shelley could help me grow my business, she had to understand where I’ve been and how I’ve gotten here. And before I answered that question, I had to make a choice. What narrative do I choose? Norton Stoneworks isn’t just a business—it’s a story I’ve been telling myself.

Brief Company History of Norton Stoneworks

I started working for myself nearly twenty years ago, originally under the name Norton Stone and Tile. I told myself a simple story: I’ll do stonework when it’s warm, tile when it’s cold, and say yes to any job that comes my way.

For a while, this story made sense. It kept me busy and my bills mostly paid. But eventually, a quieter voice inside me started whispering another story. Every time I said yes to a tile job, I felt like I was missing out on what I truly loved—creative, artistic stonework. I don’t know why I kept telling myself I had to keep doing tile work. I came up with all kinds of ‘reasons’ why I couldn’t make the change to stonework full-time. Flimsy excuses like: I’ll go broke if I stop doing tile work. I’ll starve in the winter. I’ll upset my clients and no one will ever hire me again.

Looking back, I can see those were just fears—the kind that come up when you’re standing on the edge of something new. Eventually, I listened to that quieter voice and took the leap. I rebranded as Norton Stoneworks. Hearing myself say it now, it sounds like such a simple decision, but at the time, it felt monumental. It was like rewriting the story of who I was and what I wanted to be known for.

Since then, I’ve continued to refine that story. Instead of saying yes to every stone job that comes my way, I focus more and more on projects that inspire me: dry-laid stone walls, sculptural installations, and artistic projects that push my boundaries. It’s an ever-evolving story—one that challenges me to find more clarity, to be honest with myself about what I really want.

Back on the Mainland

After a day exploring Vinalhaven’s winding roads and abandoned granite quarries, I had to choose which story to tell myself: guilt over taking time off work, or gratitude for the chance to spend time with the people I love. As we made the ferry ride back to the mainland, it was an easy choice.

The stories we tell ourselves define our lives. And they define our work, too. So, what stories are you telling yourself? Are they working?

Frozen

What if I mess this up?

We’re in the initial stages of a new project that I’m genuinely excited about. It’s got everything I love: dry-laid stone walls, mossy boulders, standing stones, exposed ledge, a walkway made of oversized slabs of stone, antique granite steps, and—most exciting for me—a sculptural stone wall.

This sculptural stone wall has me hung up.

What’s the big deal, you may ask? From the outside, this must seem like any other dry stone project I’ve done over the years. But to me, this sculptural stone wall holds great importance. As I mentioned in a recent post, my vision for Norton Stoneworks is to create awe-inspiring artistic stone installations. I want to blur the line between tradesman and artist. This project feels like a significant step in that direction.

I’m right where I want to be. I want to be designing and working on challenging, artistic projects. I want to be working with thoughtful, engaged collaborators. I want to be working with clients that love stone and are truly excited about the work.

This project is exactly what I want. And I’m afraid.

I’m afraid the work won’t be as good as the idea in my head. I’m afraid I’ll find out my vision for the company is more of a delusion. What if I’m not as good as I hope I am? What if I’m just another bloke pounding on rocks? How will my ego survive that?

That fear is causing me to freeze up. Every little decision feels like it has massive consequences. I’m questioning my design. I’m overanalyzing the layout. I’m overthinking all the little details. There’s a fine line between thinking things through and overthinking them to death, and right now, I’m on the wrong side of that line.

It’s no way to work.

One of the blessings of stonework (and its curses) is its physicality. Stonework has a way of pulling you back into the present moment. It's hard to stay stuck in your head when you're lifting, shaping, and stacking heavy stones. The body takes over. Somehow, the stones will start falling into place. I’ll let go of the lofty expectations and just get back to doing the work.

I’ve learned that this fear isn’t a bad thing. It’s a sign I care. It’s a sign I’m doing meaningful work. It’s part of the process. I don’t enjoy the fear in the moment, but I know it won’t last long. It’s a passing feeling. I try to accept it and let it go as quickly as possible.

A good night’s sleep does wonders, too.

Pills

I have a problem with pills.

I’ve been dealing with the effects of Lyme Disease for a long time. Every day for the last six years I’ve had a regimen of pills to take: a handful with breakfast and a few bonus pills before bed.

The problem is, I keep forgetting to take them.

You’d think that after six years, taking them would be as automatic as brushing my teeth. But I still have to keep the pill bottles in plain sight on the kitchen counter or there’s a real risk I’ll forget to take them before I head out the door in the morning. 

I think it’s because I don’t identify as someone that has to take pills. I haven’t internalized that as part of my identity. Maybe I’m actively resisting it. If I don’t take the pills then I’m not someone who needs them. It’s an unconscious form of avoidance.

The kicker is, the pills make me feel great. Since I’ve been taking them my health has improved dramatically. The pills are working. And still, part of me is actively resisting them. 

It could just be me, but I think many of us experience this peculiar phenomenon in other aspects of our lives. 

We often avoid asking ourselves the big questions like the ones in Shelley’s questionnaire. To do that, I had to reconnect with my vision for Norton Stoneworks. I had to take a sober look at where I am, how I got here, and where I want to go. I had to put my dreams to paper and put them out into the world. That can be scary shit.

As creatives, we need to do this difficult work on a regular basis. Many of us don’t spend enough time with these questions to fully embody them. We know it’s good for us, but often we forget to take our pills.

Questionnaire

I don’t do a lot of marketing for Norton Stoneworks. I rely on a guilt-inducing inconsistent posting “schedule” on Instagram, word of mouth, and a website.

Eliza (my partner) and I built the website over the course of a few days while escaping the afternoon heat in Death Valley. We really know how to live it up on vacation.

The website is working. Potential clients are finding me. Some great projects have come to life because of it. But there’s room for improvement. So I decided to hire a digital marketing company to help.

Before Shelley got to work improving nortonstoneworks.com, she sent me a questionnaire that asked about the history of my company, my vision for the future, and my specific goals for the project she was about to undertake.

I don’t know why I was surprised to receive a questionnaire—it makes perfect sense. 

If Shelley was an Uber driver would she pick me up, start driving, and hope to stumble upon the place I want to go?

How often are you asking yourself these questions? Every day? Once a year? Have you ever asked yourself these questions?

Without asking and answering these questions thoroughly, deeply, and honestly, how can you have any clarity about where you want to go?

I crave clarity. The more clarity I’ve found, the more aligned I’ve felt with the projects I take on, the clients I work with, and the creative direction I’m pursuing.

Clarity hasn’t come easily for me. In any creative field it’s easy to get caught up in the day to day of doing your work and running your business. It’s imperative to step back from time to time and see the bigger picture. Does the work you’re doing align with your vision? I have to return to questions like these again and again. 

Are you asking yourself these questions?

I'm grateful Shelley gave me an excuse to really dive into these questions over the weekend. I probably went deeper than she expected, but I turned her assignment into an opportunity for self-reflection. It led to some powerful insights. For example, while exploring the history of Norton Stoneworks, I was reminded how much my original vision has shifted—and how important it is to keep evolving as I gain more clarity. 

Here are the four most impactful questions I answered:

What’s the story of your company? The true story—where you started and where you are now?

What’s your vision for your company’s future?

What are your short, mid, and long-term goals?

Who is your ideal client?

In upcoming posts, I’ll share my responses to these questions—each one a step toward greater clarity.

How would you answer these questions for your own endeavors?

Blind Spot

That magical moment I talked about in No Hunting, when you allow yourself to pour your hopes and dreams into a new potential project before knowing anything about it, is a double-edged sword. It’s fun to fantasize about what might be, but that can also blind you to what is.

A few weeks ago I received an inquiry for a project that seemed like a perfect fit: stone walls, exposed ledge, and terraced gardens. All overlooking a meadow rolling down to a tidal river. Without asking any questions I eagerly scheduled a site visit.

WAIT: Didn’t I just write a post explaining that as soon as a potential project comes my way I begin hunting for a way to say no?

Some lessons have to be learned over and over again.

Yesterday afternoon was site visit day. Earlier in the day I had been trying to convince a friend that the attractive woman he met online, who was generously “teaching” him how to invest in Bitcoin, was actually scamming him. He wouldn’t hear it. Struggling with the rawness of a recent heartbreak, he wanted so badly for this connection he felt with a stranger to be real, he couldn’t see what was really going on. 

Driving to the meeting I found my thoughts drifting between frustration with my friend’s situation and daydreams about this potential project. Why can’t he see that this woman is fake? What is the budget going to be on this project? (I bet it’s big). How can I snap him out of this delusion?  How will I make this project work with my schedule? (I’ll find a way). Why can’t he see this for what it is? Who am I going to hire to take the finished photographs?

The property was stunning. The client couldn’t have been more welcoming. But, as he explained what he wanted, I instantly realized the mistake I’d made. I’d concocted a dream project in my head that the actual project couldn’t live up to.

I have a blind spot. A big one. 

I have a vision for my business, for the kind of work I want to do, for the kind of projects I want to take on. I want it so badly sometimes I lose touch with reality. Sometimes I see things as I want them to be, not as they are

I’m no different then my friend. I’m scamming myself. 

Lesson Learned (maybe)

I don’t want to stop dreaming about projects that excite me. I want those projects. I’m going to find those projects. But I don’t want to be delusional about it. If I had done the least bit of follow up after the initial email from this client I would have quickly learned that I’m not the right person for this project. I could have saved us both a lot of time. 

This isn’t the first time I’ve done this. Just because I know better doesn’t mean I always do the right thing. It’s another reason I created a system for screening potential projects. Soon, I’ll talk about the system I’ve built to try to stop myself from making this same mistake—though even the best systems only work if you use them.

No Hunting

Most of the noises my phone makes annoy me, but there’s a particular one that gets my heart fluttering. When an email notification bar pops up on the screen and I can see it’s a submission form from my business website (nortonstoneworks.com), it usually means one thing: a potential new project. 

Is there anything more magical?

When I don’t know anything about what’s in that email, I can project all my hopes and dreams into it. Maybe someone wants me to build a giant array of stone ruins, create the bones of a Japanese-inspired garden, or design and build a stone amphitheater. Maybe someone has a huge pile of stones and an equally huge pile of cash and just wants me to build whatever I dream up. It’s a moment of pure potential. 

I allow myself this little fantasy and then get back to the task at hand: soberly assessing the email and searching for a way to say no to whatever is inside.

I hunt for a way to say no to every project that comes my way.

I hunt for no’s so I can find the right projects to say yes to. Those are the projects that light me up, that align with my vision, that challenge me in the best possible ways.

This is easier said than done. It’s hard to say no for many reasons including financial realities, an assortment of fears, old habits, and more. There’s a system I use to help keep me on track, but that’s a topic for future posts (or maybe a whole book).

Do you have a process for deciding when to say yes or no? I’d love to hear about it.

The Monolith

We spent all day working on one stone - a ten foot long granite monolith abandoned in an old quarry on the coast of Maine. 

We transported the excavator to the former quarry and walked it down an old dirt road into a small clearing in the woods. We moved the stones surrounding our sleeping giant as delicately as possible, taking the extra time to strap them and move them gently with the excavator. Stones like that have a tangible presence. They’ve been sitting there so quietly for so long, we found ourselves almost whispering.

We got our stone out of the pile unscathed. When rocks have this much patina, scratches from the excavator’s teeth or from banging against other rocks can break the spell of timelessness.

We walked the colossal stone back down the gravel road and loaded it into the truck. We put the excavator back on the trailer and towed it back to the job site where we unloaded it again. The site is so tight, too tight, really, for what we were trying to do, so we returned the trailer to the quarry for more space. We came back to the site, and, with nerves on edge, unloaded the stone from the truck.

Strapped to the excavator bucket, we maneuvered the stone around the side of the house through a narrow corridor between the staging the carpenters were using to side the house and a garden shed they’re building. 

We measured the stone and its new home countless times before cutting it for length, height and fit. We only have one shot at this. We’re using the only stone we were able to find in the quarry that met all of our dimensional and visual requirements. We cut the stone and strapped it up again. We made it around the far corner of the house and set it into place, nestled between a finished exterior wall and wooden steps. We shimmied the strap out and the granite block landed on top of the stonework we’d built the day before with a satisfying thud. Music to a stoneworker’s ear.

It went flawlessly. The stone fits perfectly. The house is fully intact. We didn’t fuck anything up. There were countless chances for something to go wrong, but they didn’t. It couldn’t have gone any better. Except….

I don’t know if I like it. 

I like it, but do I like it for the right reasons? Do I like it because it looks amazing and adds to the beauty we’re trying to create? Or, do I like it because it was hard and I’m proud that we accomplished a technically challenging install? There’s a big difference between the two. Just because it went well doesn’t mean it’s right. 

Does this stone serve the project or my ego? I can’t answer that honestly right now.

UPDATE: This journal entry was from a few weeks ago. After living with the stone for a few days, it turns out I like it. For the right reasons.

When you’re attached to your work, how do you step back and see it for what it really is?

When you love your work, how do you not get attached to it?

Do you ever struggle with this in your work?

I Hate Pavers

Let me be more precise: I hate installing them. I have nothing against pavers themselves—they’re fine. They have their place. I even have some at home. But installing them? That’s not my thing. From the prep work to the polymeric sand, I enjoy exactly none of it. I hate the entire process. Even getting paid at the end feels unsatisfying, like I did something I know is wrong for a few bucks.

So, I found a simple solution: I don’t do it. I don’t install pavers.

This may sound negative, but learning to say no to projects that don’t align with your goals, so you have space to say yes to the ones that do, is one of the most positive things you can do.

It seems like it should be easy, but figuring out when to say yes and when to say no can be one of the most difficult aspects of running a small business focused on creative projects. It’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. It’s something I’m trying to get better at. I plan to write about that process here in this blog.

Many potential clients understandably assume that because I work with stone, I must do pavers too. I know not everyone is obsessed with dry-laid stonework. If you’re not in this world, it’s easy to lump pavers and natural stone together. And for many people in the hardscape world, there is overlap. I have nothing but respect for people who lay pavers. Just because I don’t enjoy it doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with it—it’s just not for me. Everyone has their thing, and pavers aren’t mine.

I choose to focus on my thing.

Earlier this week, a potential client reached out about installing pavers. I could hear the excitement in his voice quickly turn to disappointment when I recommended someone else for his project. He didn’t realize the favor I had done him. Clients deserve the best person for the job. The best person is always the one who’s excited about the work, not the one who wishes they’d said no. Not the one who feels like a little piece of their soul is being crushed by every paver they lay.

When the project doesn’t align with your vision, the kindest thing you can do for both the client and yourself is to say no.

This Beautiful Day

This beautiful day. Sitting in the sun. Sitting in the shade. Back and forth like a dog. 

This sound of the wind and the melancholy waves. Of the occasional passing cars. Of the peepers. This sound of acorns falling on the old cottage roof with a surprisingly loud thud, then racing down to the deck and ricocheting into the bushes. 

This light. These shadows. This blue sky with white bubbly clouds on the horizon. 

How do I go back to work tomorrow and leave this?

I’ll drag my feet on the way out the door in the morning. Maybe I’ll take the long way. When I arrive on site, I might linger with my coffee in the truck a little longer than usual. 

I love what I do. I know when I take the hammers and chisels out of their bag I’ll eventually fall back into the rhythm of the work. I’ll set a stone. And then another. And then another. 

That’s tomorrow. Right now, it’s Labor Day. A spectacular late summer day. And I’m trying to hold on to all of this. 

There goes another acorn, rushing down the roof.