Limitations

Limitations

My current project started with a blueprint, carefully designed by a team of landscape architects and designers. They’ve created a plan that is both beautiful and functional. The water flows away from the house. The top of the stone stairs aligns perfectly with the pool deck. Every detail, from the height and depth of the walls I’m building to their starting and ending points, has been thought through. Nothing in the plans is arbitrary.

My role, as I see it, is to build within the parameters of these plans while still making the work my own. The constraints of the design are useful limitations. Instead of bristling against them, I can, like a writer working within the confines of a genre, use them to push myself creatively. My job is to bring the designer’s vision to life while leaving my own fingerprints on the project.

This is what collaboration should feel like—a shared effort where creativity flows between people.

Yes, I’m following a plan, but that doesn’t mean there’s no room for creativity. It doesn’t mean the final result is predetermined. Far from it. If you gave a hundred wallers the same blueprint and the same pile of stones, you’d get a hundred different walls. Each one would reflect the instincts, quirks, and style of its builder.

My job is to stay true to mine. To bring these blueprints into the world while trusting my intuition and tastes.

Junkie

JUNKIE

I need a fix. A little red heart will do. But the real high comes from the red square with the head-and-shoulders icon: a new follower on Instagram. That’s the good stuff.

As good as it feels, I never really enjoy it. As soon as it hits, I’m thinking about the next one. And the next one. And the next one.

This is the darker side of my love/hate relationship with social media.

I want to make more connections, engage with a larger community, and find new outlets for my work. I don’t want to be constantly checking my phone to see if anybody likes me.

Some people I’ve met through Instagram have turned into real, flesh-and-blood friends. We’ve built things together. We’ve traveled together. We’ve struggled and grown together. These connections have had an incredible impact on my life. This is the best part of social media. But for every positive aspect of social media, there’s a shadow side - this endless cycle of chasing likes and follows.

Some recent posts created an uptick in activity on my account. As the ‘likes’ and ‘follows’ rolled in, I found myself checking my phone constantly, like I was checking the score of a football game I’d gambled the mortgage on. Now that the impact of those posts has died down, and the flow of notifications has slowed to a trickle, it feels like something is missing. What can I post to get that rush back?

I don’t like that feeling.

Is there a way to grow your audience without becoming addicted to that growth?

Does social media feel like a tool for growth or a leash around your neck?

Interlude

Interlude

In my work world, January and February feel like an interlude, a quiet reprieve between busy seasons. Last year’s work season ended with the holidays. The next one won’t truly begin until spring. This in-between time is a kind of pleasant purgatory.

I’m working right now, but it’s ‘winter work.’ It lives and dies in this short window of time, free from the usual urgency of the rest of the year. In spring, there’s a rush to complete projects before summer so clients can enjoy their outdoor spaces. In fall, there’s a scramble to finish work before winter sets in

Right now, the pace is slower. The weather causes delays. The cold makes things take longer. Mornings start later; afternoons end earlier. There’s only so much light, after all. Why resist the natural order of things?

I try to find a balance between enjoying this quieter season and still getting quality work done. It’s not an excuse to be lazy. It’s an invitation to align with the rhythms of this time of year.

The Last Stone

It’s bittersweet when some projects come to an end. You spend weeks making the same long drive to the job site, picking stones from an ever-diminishing pile of rock, eating lunch in the same sunny nook, and sharing the same corny inside jokes. The rhythm of the work consumes your days for months. Sometimes, it feels like you’ll never reach the end.

And then, one day, you do.

Norton Stoneworks

Without any fanfare, you set the last stone in place—a moment that feels both monumental and strangely ordinary. You pack up your tools, take one last look at the work you’ve done, and leave. The drive home feels different. The weight of the job is gone, replaced by the quiet satisfaction of completion, but also a small void where the familiar routine once lived.

This project was no exception. The collaboration with my friend Steve, whose craftsmanship and thoughtfulness elevated this project at every turn, made it all the more rewarding.

The end of a project isn’t just about what’s finished. The work is done, but the echoes of it stay with you.

And then, before long, you’re on to the next one.

I Said No

The 3P’s in Action: Why I Said No to a Great Project

I’m grateful when any new project inquiry comes my way. I still get a tinge of excitement knowing someone chose me. But I can’t say yes to everything. I have to be deliberate with the projects I take on. Most of the time, that means saying no.

The part of me that wants to say yes to everything is always there, but I’ve learned to fight it with my 3P’s.

The 3P’s—People, Project, and Profit—are my filter. They help me focus on the work where I can have the most impact for my clients while staying true to the kind of work I want to do.

Here’s how it works with a recent inquiry.

PEOPLE

• Prestigious, high-end contractor

• Long history of working together

• I know and like the project manager

• Currently collaborating with this company on another project

• Strong potential for future work as these relationships continue to develop

PROJECT

• Multiple fireplaces and stone veneer on a newly built home

• Located in a beautiful place

• Only twenty-five minutes from home (a welcomed change from all the driving I’ve been doing lately)

PROFIT

• This would be a very well-paying project

It checks a lot of boxes. So why was it an easy no?

From the outside, this might seem like a dream project for a stoneworker. And it is a great project. For somebody. But not for me. It only checks two out of three boxes, and that’s why it’s a no.

The people are great. The money is great, too. And this is why saying no can be so hard. Turning down the chance to work with a great company and make good money? That feels nuts.

But the work itself—the project—isn’t for me. I don’t do fireplaces or veneer anymore. If I said yes to this, I’d be doing a disservice to the contractor, the client, and myself. When your heart isn’t in it, the work suffers. The client and contractor deserve to work with someone fully invested in this type of project. That’s who will do the best work, not someone climbing onto the roof wishing they’d said no.

By saying no, I leave room for the projects I’m truly excited about. Saying no creates space for the kind of work I love to do, the work where I can give my best.

Sometimes no is the most positive thing you can say.

This filter helps remind me of that.

Have you ever taken on projects you wished you’d said no to? Does it happen again and again? Are you doing anything about it?

White Space

Every year for Christmas, Eliza’s mom gives her a calendar from Ocean State Job Lot. They’ve started showing up under the tree for me, too. These calendars are perfect for sketching out the work schedule for the upcoming season. It’s become a yearly ritual.

Here we are on January 1st, the first day of 2025. As I spread the calendar across the table and look ahead, I see four months of white space. One-third of the year might sound like a lot, but in stonework time, that’s just one or two projects. Or maybe just a single phase of a big one.

I love that white space. It’s a blank canvas, full of potential. I want to protect it. Fiercely.

I don’t want to rush to fill it. I want to wait for something I can’t say no to.

But waiting isn’t easy. There’s a tangible feeling of stability in seeing a filled-in calendar. The desire for that comfort often leads to saying yes to things that are “okay” or even “good.” But that’s not what I’m after.

That’s why I rely on my 3 P’s: People, Project, and Profit. They help me pause, reflect, and choose work that truly matters.

If you’re listening, Universe, here’s what I’m looking for: a project that’s creative, artistic, and engaging. Something with great collaborators, set in a beautiful location (preferably not too far from home), and pays handsomely.

I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

I’m grateful for every opportunity that comes my way, but that doesn’t mean I have to say yes to all of them. In fact, it’s my responsibility to say no to most of them. With only four open months available, I have to be intentional with every yes.

It’s not just about this year.

At forty-six, I can’t help but wonder how many years of stonework I have left and how many projects will fit into those years. Whatever the number, it’s finite.

Shouldn’t every project I take on be as fulfilling as possible?

Ready

I’m ready to get back to the rocks.

We took an unexpectedly long break over the holidays. I ate. I slept. I wrote. It was glorious, if a bit self-indulgent.

But I’m ready. Ready to move my body. To build something. To finish this project.

I love downtime—especially in the winter. Especially when there’s snow. And especially when I feel I’ve used that time well.

I’m sure the sweatpants-wearing part of me will resist getting up when the alarm goes off tomorrow morning and it’s still pitch dark and cold outside.

But it’s time. Time to go back to work.

As Good As It Gets

We just did a site visit for a project we’ll start in January. This is, without a doubt, the high point of the project.

Of any project.

The design is complete. The estimate has been accepted. The material is on-site. The excavation is done. Right now, I’m just imagining how these ancient stones will come together to form a beautiful wall.

At this moment, everything feels fresh, new, and full of potential. Like waking up on Christmas morning to a world of freshly fallen stone.

But I know better than to think this feeling will last.

Six weeks from now, things will feel different. We’ll be tired of the commute. The stones may not fit together as magically as we’d hoped. The clients will be eager to reclaim their mornings without the buzz of stone saws, the grind of excavators, and the endless ringing of steel hammers and chisels.

And that’s okay. It’s the natural progression of a project. The beginning, middle, and end all feel different, each with its own rhythm and challenges. If your spirits aren’t as high three-quarters of the way through as they were on day one, it doesn’t mean something’s wrong.

It just means you’re human. It means you’re doing creative work.

Beware the Slip

How quickly we fall out of rhythm. Just ten days ago, I was writing blog posts daily. Then I started a new project—a children’s book. I’ve been using the time I’d normally devote to this blog. In less than two weeks, the habit slipped. One moment, I’m in the groove. The next, it’s as if I’d never done it at all.

It’s startling how easily it happens. Does it sneak up on you too?

I might be steady with a workout routine, then catch a cold and miss a few days. Suddenly, a month has passed. Six pounds have crept on, and I can no longer touch my toes. The slip is quiet, almost invisible, like my brain has been lying in wait, ready to bolt at the first chance. Like a prisoner plotting an escape.

How do you keep your best habits from slipping away?

Christmas Presence

Staying present in your work isn’t complicated. At least, not in the ways I've alluded to in previous posts. It doesn’t require a life-changing mindset shift or some intricate productivity system. Most of the time, it’s about doing the simple, practical things we overlook because they seem too obvious.

Like turning off your phone.

Or better yet, leaving it somewhere you can’t reach. The glove box. A drawer in the next room. The other side of town, locked in a safe. The point isn’t where you put it; it’s creating distance between you and the constant buzz of notifications.

Distraction isn’t just annoying—it’s corrosive. How can we stay present in our work when our phones keep dragging us into someone else’s world? A colleague’s latest project. A client’s urgent text. The endless scroll of social media. When we let those distractions in, we’re telling ourselves—whether we mean to or not—that what’s happening out there is more important than what’s in front of us.

It’s not.

Presence starts with choices like these. Simple. Obvious. But hard to follow through on, because we crave distraction. It feels easier, safer, to let our attention wander. It gives us an excuse. It’s procrastination and self-sabotage. I could have done better if I wasn’t so distracted.

We tell ourselves this story because giving your all to the work in front of you means there’s no escape hatch, no one else to blame if it doesn’t go perfectly.

But the truth is, we can’t do our best work without that focus.

For me, staying present also means setting boundaries around my time. Creating blocks of focus, so I can give my full attention to what matters most. I can plan the next project in the morning, before I start working on the current one. Or I can work on the logistics—emails, designs, materials—at the end of the day, after I’ve laid my stones.

What I don’t want to do is bounce back and forth between tasks. Starting the current project. Calling a vendor mid-way through. Checking Instagram for “inspiration.” Writing half an email to a future client while a half-built wall waits patiently for its next stone.

At least, that’s the ideal. I often fall short. Incredibly short. I’m as or more prone to distraction as everyone else. And I’m an all-pro procrastinator. That’s why I’m writing this. That’s why I started this blog—as an instruction manual to myself.

We call it multitasking, but really, it’s just chaos. It’s a way to avoid giving your full focus to anything. And in the process, everything suffers.

The work deserves better than that.

So do we.

A Snake in the Stones

What does it mean to stay present in your work?

Is that just woo-woo gibberish, or is there really something to it?

Some thoughts recently from my journal:

Finished a post yesterday. Tweaked it this morning. Changed the title to Between a Rock and a Vague Place.

It’s about rushing through a project just to get to the next, never fully immersing yourself in the one at hand. It’s a cycle: You want something. You get it, but before you’re done, you’re already thinking about the next thing. You get that, and before you finish it, your mind is onto what’s next again.

It’s a snake eating its own tail.

It’s a kid ripping through presents, hoping there’s a better one underneath.

It’s endless swiping on a dating app without ever going on a date—or swiping while the date you finally connected with is in the bathroom.

Right now, I’m trying to stay present with this project. At the same time, I need to plan for the next one. How do I balance being present with still getting shit done?

This comes more easily with writing. When I’m writing, I’m writing. I’m not thinking about the next thing to write about. There are distractions, but they show up in different ways. Once I sit down to write, I’m in the work.

Can I bring more of that into my stonework?

Cranberries

The deadline for our current project just tightened…what a blessing. Yes, it adds pressure, but it’s the good kind—the kind that quickens your pace and sharpens your thinking.

When I’ve argued for staying present in your work—not rushing to move on to the next project or getting sidetracked by distractions—I wasn’t advocating for ignoring the future. The next project is always coming, and it can serve as a tool, applying just enough pressure to bring the current one to completion.

Staying present doesn’t mean letting things go on indefinitely. Quite the opposite. It means taking decisive action rooted in clear, focused attention. Left unchecked, the procrastinator in me can let a project stretch on forever. But you don’t have to. The next project is a gift that helps you move forward and finish strong. You don’t have to let it linger.

Between a Rock and a Vague Place

Here’s something wild: the work I’m doing now is the work I dreamed about just a few years ago. I caught up to the vision I once had for the future.

In about thirty-five minutes, I’ll slip on my boots and head out the door toward a creative, challenging, engaging project. Exactly what I wanted.

So why doesn’t it feel like enough?

There’s this mindset we’re taught, subtly and persistently, that the next thing is what really matters. The current project, the one right in front of us, is just a stepping stone. A box to check on the way to the next shiny goal.

And it’s not just about work. This mindset creeps into everything, convincing us that someday, somewhere down the line, we’ll finally feel like we’ve made it.

If I can just get through this and get to the next project, we think, then someday I’ll feel complete. Like I’ve arrived. Like I’m finally ready to start living.

But someday never comes.

You can’t ignore the future completely. Businesses don’t work that way. You have to line up the next project, take meetings, and send emails. You have to plan for what’s next. But can you do it without turning the current project into something you just want to get through?

If you keep trading the present for the future, are you ever really living?

Should I?

I’ve been beating myself up lately because it feels like I’m not doing enough. Can you relate? I bet you can.

There are a lot of shoulds.

I should work on my Instagram. I should grow my followers. I should start a TikTok and restart my YouTube page. I should network more. I should take a design class. And a drawing class (based on a recent game of Pictionary over Thanksgiving, this one feels urgent). I should write a new blog post and optimize my website. I should send out a newsletter.

I should. I should. I should.

The shoulds are never-ending. And this doesn’t even account for the ones in your personal life.

As the shoulds pile up and compete for your attention—often waking you up at 3 a.m. to plead their case—it’s almost impossible to escape that feeling of not doing enough, that vague sense you’re letting someone down.

Sometimes we seek out these shoulds as a way to convince ourselves we’re making progress, even if they don’t move the needle where it really matters.

And sometimes, the shoulds are a sneaky way to avoid the work that’s right in front of us. For example, I might be working on a wall and catch myself thinking, I really should make a new Reel—right now. It’s easy to convince myself that creating content or tackling some other task, any other task, is more important than focusing fully on the work I’m already doing.

None of these shoulds are bad in and of themselves. They’re often helpful. And many do need to get done at some point. But they aren’t the main thing. Too often, we sacrifice the main thing for the secondary things.

Right now, my main thing is the stone project I’m working on. It deserves my full attention. Instead of fretting about not doing the things I think I should to secure the next project, I need to focus on this one.

Good luck with this. I should go start that drawing class now.

Enough

I went for a walk along the Farmington River in Connecticut, trying in vain to undo the Thanksgiving eating fiasco from the day before.

It was one of those walking and biking trails that used to be railroad tracks. I wish we had one like it where I live in Maine.

At one point along the trail, there was an informative sign about an artist from the late 1800s. I’m guessing he used to paint there. To be honest, I skimmed the details.

My first reaction was judgmental. Why would someone paint here, of all places? I mean, it was nice, but there was nothing dramatic about it. It wasn’t the kind of scene that stops you in your tracks. Nobody was stopping to take selfies.

But then I noticed the flowing river, the rocks, the trees—sycamores and oaks—with sunlight filtering through their branches. It was quiet. Peaceful. Lovely, even.

What made me think he should have been somewhere else, painting something bigger, bolder, more awe-inspiring? What made me think a more impressive landscape would have made him a more impressive artist?

I’d fallen into a familiar, all too common trap.

I suspect many of us often feel like we should be somewhere else, doing something else, being someone else. Why is the here and now never enough?

What makes us think something better is always waiting around the next bend in the river? Not this moment, but the next one. Not here, but there. Not this project, the one after it.

That artist painted what was in front of him. Can we learn to do the same?

Rt 27

I’m working in my hometown. The place I grew up. The place that, in some ways, I’ve never fully left – even though I don’t live here anymore. I still read the local paper every week, scanning the police blotter and obituaries for familiar names and catching up on the drama in the letters to the editor. My parents live here. I still measure time and distance by how far a place is from town. Boston? About three hours. Brunswick? Forty-five minutes.

Driving down the Rt 27 peninsula this morning, the sun coming out after some needed rain, misty sunlight on the wet trees, passing places and faces I’ve known my whole life, I feel like a kid again. And not in a particularly good way. There are more happy memories here than I can count. But it’s not a warm and fuzzy nostalgia I’m feeling this morning. It feels like I’m crawling back into a cracked cocoon.

It feels like I haven’t grown up. Like I’m not an adult. It feels like I have to raise my hand to ask permission to speak. Like I’m waiting for a teacher or a coach to tell me what to do next. 

I don’t feel this way anywhere else. Thankfully, I don’t feel it here very often. 

Steve

After the client asked us to move things a little to the left, Steve and I had to figure out how to implement that change. We had different ideas about how to proceed, which is one of the reasons I love working with Steve.

Steve is a fellow stoneworker who runs his own business, like I do. From time to time, we team up to tackle bigger projects. This kind of collaboration is common in stonework these days. Many of us prefer staying small because managing large teams or building big companies would pull us away from the hands-on work we love. At the same time, stonework is labor-intensive, and sometimes you need extra hands to get the job done.

But working with Steve isn’t just about having an extra set of hands. It’s about having another sharp mind on the project. He’s laid more stones on this wall than I have and built its most prominent features. That alone makes his contribution invaluable. But it’s more than that:

I trust his opinions. I want to hear his ideas.

When I work on other people’s projects, I aim to be the kind of collaborator I’d want on my job site. I show up and do the work. But, if I’m honest, I don’t feel as fully engaged when I’m not on the hook for the outcome. The responsibility of solving creative problems and owning the vision is what makes me feel truly invested.

I want Steve to feel that kind of ownership too, at least as much as possible when it’s not his own project. It makes the work better. And selfishly, I hope it makes him more likely to join me on the next project.

One way to encourage that, other than bribing him with donuts and breakfast sandwiches, is by creating a space where he feels comfortable voicing his ideas. That doesn’t mean every idea will make the cut, but every idea deserves to be heard.

Steve and I had differing ideas about how to implement the client’s change to the layout of this unique wall. We talked it through. As I had done with the client, I listened fully to Steve’s idea. I visualized it in my mind. I thought about how it would ripple through the rest of the project. I held it up against my own idea. And then I trusted my gut.

My gut said to go with Steve’s idea.

This sounds simple, but collaboration rarely is. It’s natural to want your idea to win or to hold back when you’re competing with more confident voices. And then there’s the power dynamic. It’s my project. I designed it. I’m writing the checks. The final result, good or bad, rests on my shoulders.

Collaboration requires navigating egos, power dynamics, and the courage to trust other voices—or stand firm when necessary. I’m still learning how to do this.

How do you approach collaboration on your projects? Does it always go smoothly?

A Little to the Left

When a client asks you to change something, how do you react? Do you get a knot in your stomach just thinking about it? A little ball of anxiety? Do you get a little butt-hurt?

I designed our current project over a year ago. It was still t-shirt weather when we started construction in September. Last week, I spent my time cleaning up the first phase and getting ready for the next: excavating for footings, installing a crushed stone base, moving and organizing the multiple tons of stone we’ll use, and setting up the batter frames and string lines to guide the shape and size of the arched stone wall we’re building.

Before laying the first stone, I asked the client for his opinion. He suggested a change.

When I asked what he thought, it wasn’t a trick question. I wasn’t fishing for a compliment, hoping he’d tell me everything is perfect and I’m a genius. We’ve all asked for an opinion when what we really want is validation. I genuinely wanted his input, knowing full well the can of worms I might be opening.

I listened to his idea. Really listened. I pictured the change in my head, visualizing how it would interact with the work we’d already done and the work still to come.

It was a good idea. It was the right call.

This was such a quick, seemingly simple interaction, but it could have gone wrong in so many ways.

• I could have ignored his idea with a "how dare he question me" attitude and not given it my full attention.

• Afraid to offend “the artist,” he might have stayed silent and regretted it every time he walked past the wall for the next twenty years (it’s a unique design directly in front of his new house).

• I could have dismissed his suggestion out of pride or resisted it out of laziness because it meant redoing some of the prep work I’d already done.

• I could have agreed to the change but resented it because it wasn’t “my” idea.

• I could have hated the idea but, afraid to stand my ground, gone along with it anyway, letting my vision for the project get diluted.

• He could have micromanaged the implementation of the change, eroding the trust between us.

But instead, we both did what needed to be done. He spoke up. I listened. We moved forward with the idea that best served the project—and that’s the point.

How do you handle it when a client asks you to move something a little to the left?

Unemployable

A friend at a stone supplier I work with was venting about their struggles finding help. Jokingly, he asked if I wanted to fill out an application. I laughed and told him I’m unemployable.

He laughed too—maybe a little too readily. “Yeah,” he said, “after working solo for so long, you definitely are.”

I detected a hint of disdain in his laugh, but I took it as a badge of honor. The last thing I want is to be employed.

I don’t even like the term self-employed. I don’t want to work for anybody—especially me.

Saying you’re self-employed feels too much like having a job. A job where the office and the boss are both in your own head, nagging you to punch the clock and keep up with quotas. Worse, in this nightmare scenario, my boss and I are stuck in the same meat-suit 24 hours a day, seven days a week.

I don’t want a job. I want to work. I want to create, to contribute, to make money. But a job? No, thank you.

Self-directed? Absolutely.

Self-starter? On my good days.

Self-indulgent? Occasionally guilty.

Self-obsessed? I hope not.

But self-employed? There’s gotta be a better name for it.

SSW

I kept getting lost. I had to create a compass.

Not lost in the woods. I didn’t drive a stick into the ground and study its moving shadow to decipher north from south. I’m no Boy Scout.

I kept saying yes to the wrong projects.

I knew the kind of work I wanted to be doing, and that clarity is the first step. But knowing and doing are two different things. At some point, you can’t just talk about your thing; you have to do it. So, how do you start?

For me, it’s meant saying yes to the right projects and no to everything else.

It sounds simple, especially when I see the words here on the page. And it would be if we were all Spock-like, unencumbered by our humanity. 

My partner, Eliza, is also self-employed. We’re both good at walking each other through decisions. From that slightly detached position, the way forward is often clear. But when it’s your own project, your own dilemma, things get murky. Rationality gets overridden by fears, hopes, dreams, exhaustion, hangriness, miscommunications, irrational judgments, hormones, burnout, even a sugar high.

It’s easy to give someone else advice; it’s harder to follow your own.

I can’t run to Eliza every time I need to make a decision. So, I created a compass for myself:

The 3 P’s

People, Project, Profit.

Here’s how it works. Let’s say I get a new project inquiry, something intriguing. I get a little dopamine rush. Someone reached out to me, they want my work. My fingers are halfway to typing “yes” before I’ve even finished reading the email. But that’s when I stop myself and run it through my filter.

• People: Will I enjoy working with these people? Will we be a good fit? Are there collaborators? Other stoneworkers? Design professionals? Because no project, at any dollar amount, is worth it if the people aren’t a good match.

• Project: What’s the project itself? Is this the kind of work I’m excited to be doing? I’ve already spent time defining the work that matters to me, so this question should be straightforward. Does it fit my criteria? If not, say no. Say it now.

• Profit: Not every project needs to be a goldmine, but to do your best work it needs to be profitable.  That’s how business works. That’s the only way I can keep doing the work I love. Does the budget allow for quality work?

In an ideal world, all three boxes get checked. It sounds simple, right? And it is, until your schedule has a bit too much white space that you’re anxious to fill, or a project you’re not thrilled about comes along and you tell yourself, “maybe they’ll hire me for the work I really want to do down the road.” They won’t, by the way. They never do. Clients don’t think about our hopes and dreams. That’s on us. We have to be the ones to choose the projects that align our vision for our work with our service to our clients.  Anyway, all kinds of scenarios can arise to talk you into saying yes to a project when you should say no.

So there it is, my compass. Give it a try next time a project comes your way. Answer these questions honestly, and then see if you have the courage to say no when things don’t line up. Let me know how it goes.