Ralph

Yesterday morning, before work, I read from a book of essays by Ralph Waldo Emerson. It’s writing I’ve returned to again and again over the years, finding something new each time. At twenty, Emerson’s ideas felt like a promise; now, in my forties, they feel like a reminder. Yesterday, those words lifted my spirits near the end of a long week. On the drive to work, I felt a little more alive, a little more “self-reliant.”

At least, for the first part of the drive. As my third coffee of the morning waned and I got closer to the job site, I could feel that energy shifting. Enthusiasm was morphing into anxiety, tightening into a tension in the back of my neck. Maybe it was the daunting task of translating Emerson’s lofty words into real-life actions. What was I thinking reading something so uplifting before work? Or maybe it was just too much coffee.

But when I got out of the truck and saw the wall we’ve been working on for weeks, that tension shifted into a familiar barrage of self-doubt. I saw each uneven stone, each imperfect line, and suddenly, the task ahead felt impossible.

I know by now this is just part of the deal when undertaking any creative project: feelings change not just day to day but often hour by hour, sometimes minute by minute. What starts as hope or inspiration can turn into frustration or doubt without warning.

I wish I could work only when I feel perfectly ready, when I’m fully energized, when everything’s flowing, when I feel like my best self. But that’s a fantasy. I couldn’t live off the handful of hours a year I feel that way.

Sometimes stonework is a slog.

I’m forty-six. There are days my body doesn’t want to pick up rocks for eight hours. There are days when, after a rough night’s sleep, my mind struggles to keep up with the thousands of micro-decisions that go into building a stone wall. There are days it feels like my body and mind unionize and go on strike.

I’m getting better at showing up and doing the work anyway. It’s the only way the work gets done. And maybe that’s the real lesson in self-reliance—not in waiting for the perfect moment, but in building one stone at a time, doubts and all.

What’s Your Numba?

How much are you charging for your work? Whatever it is, it’s probably not enough.

It may feel like there’s a limit to how much you can charge, some number fixed in six yards of concrete. But that limit isn’t real. It’s a construct of your mind.

Years ago, I worked as a mason’s tender, mixing mortar and lugging bricks, blocks, and stone. I made thirteen dollars an hour. I had no idea at the time, but that number would act as a pricing anchor for much of my career.

A few years later, when I took on my first solo project for a family friend, he asked me my rate. A fair question. But somehow, I hadn’t thought about it. I didn’t really think it was up to me. Nervously, I said $18 an hour. He shook his head, said it made for difficult math, and we settled on $20.

I thought I was rich. Compared to my previous rate, I was.

But this created a problem: I didn’t know what my time was worth, so I let someone else decide for me. Rather than stating what I wanted, it was easier to accept someone else’s idea of what I deserved. That single decision laid the groundwork for a mindset that would be hard to shake, leading me to underprice my work for years.

Of course, I didn’t realize any of this at the time. Don, that family friend, was just trying to help me out. And twenty dollars an hour felt immense, until it didn’t. Eventually, I found the courage to charge a new client five dollars more an hour. To my surprise, the world didn’t stop. They didn’t even blink. Why would they? They didn’t know I used to charge twenty. They didn’t know I used to make thirteen. I didn’t realize it then, but they were still getting a hell of a deal. And I felt like I was rich again.

This cycle has continued for years. The new, impossibly high rate I fretted about charging soon begins to feel like not enough. And slowly but surely, I find the gall to raise it again.

There are better, more strategic ways to approach pricing. You can research market rates, consider value-based pricing, or understand the full worth of your skillset. But this has been my path: a series of gradual adjustments, each one challenging the boundary of what I thought I could charge.

Sure, market forces play their role. Our rates need some grounding in reality. But the true limit has always been internal. The rate I charge today would have been unfathomable to my younger self. And yet, I’m already starting to feel that familiar sense that this rate too isn’t enough.

Maybe deep down no rate will ever feel like enough. We’re assigning a monetary value to something priceless: our time. Even though I love what I do, my rate represents an hour of my life I’m trading for money. I’d better make sure each hour is worthwhile.

So, what’s really holding you back from raising your rates today? Trust me, you’re probably not charging enough.

Nitro

As kids, when we needed a break from basketball and razzing each other, we’d walk from the Y down to the Meadow Market to load up on sugar and restart the razzing in a new location. They had an arcade game called Off Road, the kind of video game you put quarters into and had to stand up to play. It was in the corner next to the lone booth by the big window and adjacent to a rack of candy that had ten-cent options like Airheads and Lemonheads and that one, what was it called? that was basically a stick made of sugar that you dipped into a pouch filled with sugar and after you’d finished the pouch you ate the chalky stick. Across from that rack was the slush puppy machine. In the back they had pizza by the slice and a refrigerated wall of soda. Mellow Yellow and Mountain Dew were the favorites. 

I’m sure they sold stuff for adults too. They must have. There must have been loaves of bread and coffee filters and cans of dog food, but I can’t picture any of it. I don’t even remember ever seeing adults in there. Charley Brown got it right. We were at the age when the world felt like it was made for us kids. The important things were basketball, a sugar fix, and that arcade game.

It was a truck racing game. If you earned enough points during the race, you could activate the nitro button. You could hit it and get a big burst of speed, jetting you ahead of the competition if timed right. I was never good at video games, but wow, wasn’t it fun to feverishly tap that nitro button with your left hand, crank the steering wheel with your right, and watch that little truck on the screen tear around a corner while your friends both cheered you on and mocked your performance.

So, what does this trip down memory lane have to do with stonework? Bear with me, there is a point here.

A lot of the younger people I’ve had the pleasure of working with in stonework are hitting the nitro button and accelerating their careers.

Clarity is proving to be the boost.

There’s a myth that just because someone has been doing something for a long time, they should be better than someone who is new to a craft. But that’s not really how it works. You don’t need years and years of experience to be good. You need concentrated experience focused on the right things. That’s the nitro. It’s the quality of your focus. These young folks are getting really good, really fast because they’re so focused on dry-laid stonework.

Just because you have time in a field doesn’t mean you’ve used it well.

Have you been focused on your thing, or did your time and energy get diluted?

It’s okay if it did.

Find that clarity now. Hit the nitro button.

WHYoming

A forest fire thirty miles away choked the air with so much smoke it felt like a foggy morning back in Maine. On clear days, Wyoming’s blue sky reveals the towering Grand Tetons above Jenny Lake. On this day, you could only feel their presence, hidden behind a veil of smoke. Nine of us gathered by the lake, mulling around its rocky edges on an October afternoon. The lake temp was in the forties. I didn’t want to, but I knew I was going to get in that water.

A few weeks ago I left home to finish the final phase of a project in Jackson Hole, one we’d been working on for three years. I resisted that, too. I didn’t want to come back for one last push. I knew what lay in store.

Most of the ten-hour days were purely physical—breaking down rough slabs of limestone into usable chunks. We flipped them, rolled them, dragged them into position, and smashed them with sledgehammers. I ate like a hog every night and still lost five pounds in eight days.

But the hardest part wasn’t the work. It was leaving—leaving Eliza, leaving home, leaving the ongoing projects I’m excited about. Why leave all that when there’s nothing I’m running from?

The people.

I want to wrestle rocks and talk strategy with Bryce from Massachusetts. I want to catch up with Matt and Jabez from Connecticut and hear about their projects. Has James from Kentucky found any new arrowheads? Is Jessea from New Zealand still chasing an endless summer? How are things with Nels in Nevada City? And how did Ursa, half my age, already get so good?

I’ve been lucky to work with these folks and others from all over the country. There’s nothing like shared hard labor under the pressure of a deadline to form deep bonds. These are my people. This is how we connect. That’s why I go to Wyoming.

Near the end of the trip, we gathered at Jenny Lake. The smoke was thick, the water freezing. I’m not one for cold plunges, but I knew I had to go in. It hurt like hell. My breath caught in my chest from the shock, but I eventually composed myself. By the time I got out I was calm, grounded, and oddly euphoric.

No More Questions

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

I still haven’t implemented the changes Shelley recommended for my website. Despite my procrastination, I’m getting a lot of mileage out of our work together.

Shelley is a marketing professional I hired to improve my website. She didn’t just want to send a stronger signal into the depths of the web for anyone to find. She wanted to target my website to a very distinct group of people: my ideal clients.

My work isn’t for everyone. Neither is yours. Nor should it be. Trying to be everything to everyone is a road to nowhere—I’ve been down that road. When I first got into this business, I said yes to every project and every person that came my way. For some reason, I thought that’s what I had to do. But as I’ve grown, I’ve found more clarity in the work I want to be doing and the people I want to be doing it with.

That clarity has allowed me to focus on three distinct types of clients—each drawn to stonework in different ways, but all sharing a deep connection with stone. Even though I haven’t followed through with Shelley’s suggestions yet, question four of her questionnaire gave me a chance to reconnect with my thoughts on my ideal clients. Who are they? Where are they? How can I serve them?

WHO IS THE TARGET AUDIENCE/CLIENT FOR YOUR WEBSITE?

My website should be targeted to three distinct groups of people, bound by a love for stone: homeowners, landscape architects, and public or private institutions.

Homeowners

My ideal clients aren’t just looking for stonework—they’re seeking a deeper connection with their property through stone. They want more than a beautiful result; they want to be involved in the process and feel a bond with the person creating it. For them, it’s important to work with someone who shares their vision and brings creativity to the project.

For example, one of my current clients is building a new home with a general contractor, but they chose to collaborate directly with me for the stonework. This way, they could be more hands-on with design decisions and be part of the creative process. We’ve walked the site together, discussed the placement of key stones, and made sure the stonework reflects their vision for the property.

They see stone not just as a material, but as a medium for transforming their property. They value unique, creative stonework—dry-laid walls, mossy boulders, and stone art that feels alive in the landscape. For them, stonework isn’t just a functional or decorative element; it’s an art form that brings a sense of place and identity to their home. They view stonework as an investment, both financially and emotionally.

Landscape Architects

Design professionals who understand how natural stone can elevate a project. For them, stonework is not an afterthought but a central design element. They value working with someone who shares their obsession with craftsmanship and creativity. Together, we can inspire their clients to invest in stonework, knowing it will transform their landscape and become a worthy, lasting investment.

Institutions

I’ve loved working on projects at the Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens, where creativity and collaboration come together, and thousands of visitors get to experience the stonework every year. It’s deeply satisfying knowing the work we create becomes part of a place enjoyed by so many

I’d love to collaborate with more institutions like public gardens, parks, and wellness centers—places that value stone as a medium for creativity and art, providing the public with access to beautiful, meaningful spaces.

___________

As I’ve refined my vision for Norton Stoneworks, I’ve realized that not every project is the right fit. I can’t work with everyone who wants stonework. That’s too broad. My focus is on clients who share a connection to stone and see it as more than just a material; it’s art that shapes their space.

Have you identified your ideal clients? Who truly aligns with your work and vision? Who can you best serve?

Corey

When we were boys, my friend Corey knew exactly what he wanted to be when we grew up. While I was still daydreaming about being the next Michael Jordan, Corey wanted to be like Clyde, his lobsterman grandfather. On Saturday mornings I’d be in my parent’s driveway pretending to take the winning shot in the final seconds of the NBA Finals—narrated in my best broadcaster voice—and Corey would be hauling traps with Clyde. By the time I was looking at colleges and trying to decide what to do with my life, Corey was deciding what size lobster boat to buy and looking at houses.

I thought he was crazy at the time. But now I appreciate the clarity Corey had at such a young age. He knew what he wanted to do, and he did it. I don’t know if he ever had a dark night of the soul, wondering what the hell to do with his life. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t think of Corey as a lobsterman. He still is, all these years later.

It’s been a longer path to clarity for me. A path I’m enjoying. A path I’m still on.

Yes or No

Introducing the Three P's: How I Decide When to Say Yes or No to a Project

In the past twelve months, I’ve only worked for five clients.

I don’t need a high volume of clients to stay busy, so I need to be selective. That means saying no to 80 or 90 percent of the potential projects that come my way.

Saying no hasn’t always been easy for me. In fact, it used to be one of the hardest parts of running my business. But over time, I developed a system that helps me make these decisions more clearly and confidently. I call it the Three P’s: Project, People, and Profit.

This system acts as a filter. Before committing to a new project, I ask myself three key questions:

Project: Does this project fit within the vision I have for my business? Is it the kind of work I want to be doing? Am I excited about spending weeks or even months working on this?

People: What’s it going to be like working with these people? Are they a good fit for me? Am I for them? Will we enjoy working together and collaborate effectively?

Profit: Does the budget allow me to do my best work? Each project, no matter its size, has to be profitable. Otherwise, I can’t put my full energy into it.

In an ideal situation, a project would check all three of these boxes. When it does, saying yes is easy. But even if one or two areas aren’t perfect, having this framework helps me make clearer decisions about whether or not to move forward.

I’ve struggled over the years with choosing the right projects, but the Three P’s have become an essential guide for me. This is the beginning of a larger conversation I want to have about how to choose the work that aligns with your vision, values, and goals.

House Warming

Small talk has never come easily to me. Unless it’s about dogs or rocks, I never know what to say at parties. 

At a housewarming this weekend, I made a point to avoid talking shop. These design professionals are colleagues, and I didn’t want anyone feeling like they were still at the office.

There’s often a wall between designers and builders. We’re in the same industry, working on the same projects, but it’s like we’re distant cousins at a wedding—related but unsure what to talk about. 

Some draw rocks on paper, some break them with sledgehammers.

On Saturday I didn’t feel any separation from working on opposite sides of a blueprint. I felt like I was with my peers. 

Maybe that’s because I no longer see myself as just a tradesman. I do work in the trades, but it doesn’t define me the way it used to.

Not that long ago, I would have felt anxious at a housewarming like this. I wouldn’t have been able to ignore the fact that these designers could possibly send some great projects my way. I would have been trying too hard to say the right thing and make the right impression. I would have been so focused on that, I might have missed the afternoon light on the meadow behind the barn, the kids taking turns dragging each other across the lawn on a sled, the three large dogs chasing and being chased.

On Saturday, I wasn’t trying to get anything from anyone. I wasn’t trying to appear professional or make a certain impression. Maybe I’ll work with some of them in the future. Maybe not. I was just enjoying a housewarming on a beautiful October afternoon.

There’s a certain freedom in that shift—a relaxed indifference. 

Settling In

I was only in Wyoming for ten days.

I returned home yesterday to find Maine transformed. The landscape is ablaze with fall colors. The forests are engulfed in a slow-motion fire, the green leaves of summer burning into gold and crimson before fading to brown.

I changed in that short time, too. Yes, just ten days. Not in some grand, autumnal hymn kind of way. I’m not trading in my hammers for a cowboy hat. It’s more subtle.

When I returned home last night, I found my usual routine disrupted. We all have routines, whether we’re conscious of them or not. They guide us through our days. Who has the stamina to decide anew each morning when to get up, what to eat for breakfast, when to leave for work, where to stop for gas, who’s cooking dinner?

This morning, home from Wyoming but not forced to fully re-enter my life in Maine just yet, I woke with no alarm telling me to get up, no calendar dictating where I need to go today, no clock deciding it’s time for breakfast and a shower. Free from the constructs that keep society moving, I feel a little out of sorts, a little unsettled—and I have to admit, I like it.

Our routines give us comfort. I love my normal morning routine: waking early, sipping coffee under a low light in a quiet room, without many thoughts or burdens on my mind. In the evening, I love reconnecting with Eliza on that same couch, sinking into the comfort of sharing the ups and downs of the day.

But other routines can feel stale. Travel creates just enough space to pause and shake off the dust. It gives us the chance to step back and reevaluate the routines—and the lives—we’ve created.

Right now, tired and dazed from the travel and time changes, I feel strangely fresh. Open to possibility. I could be anyone. Do anything. Right now, I’m not a slave to the routines I’ve built. This in-between time, when I’ve returned but don’t yet feel fully home, is like a little pocket of possibility. I’ve shaken off some of the dust.

I know I’ll settle back into routine. I’m looking forward to it. But right now, I’m not quite ready to leave this transitional space. Not yet.

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.