Eric Tian

One of the fundamental concepts in managing a heart attack is the “door-to-balloon time (DTBT)”. This is the time between a patient’s arrival to hospital, and when a balloon is inflated in the blocked coronary artery, resulting in reperfusion.

Most hospitals have a door-to-balloon protocol of <90 minutes. The shorter the DTBT, the better. Every minute that the occluded artery is not opened is another minute of dying heart tissue (cardiologists have a phrase for this: time is tissue). The consequences are a matter of life and death.

Similar, the “thought-to-note time” is the time between a thought forming in one’s head, and the act of writing it down as a note. Like the DTBT, the shorter the time, the better. Also like the DTBT, the consequences of delay are a matter of life and death – albeit not of heart tissue, but of an idea.

I’ve previously written about being on the lookout for ideas that hit you. It is wonderful to capture these unexpected gifts when they arrive. It is equally devastating to lose these when you forget to write them down. It is depressing to think about how little of our lives we remember.

I’ve recently established a thought-to-note time protocol of <5 minutes. The faster, the better, but sometimes you’re in the middle of something and it’s awkward to take your phone out. But when a moment arises, I take out my Notion page, and jot down whatever hit me. These are very rough – just vomit out the idea and worry about structure and grammar later. But once I’ve captured it, I’m happy. The thought will stay forever, and I can re-examine it whenever I like.

Not all days contain ideas that hit me. Some days I feel like a broken antenna: receiving nothing but radio silence. But on others, it feels like I’m discovering something new every few minutes (these usually occur when I’ve been reading a lot). You will never really know when they will come.

The main thing is to be ready.

A repost from one of my favourites of 2021.

In the start-up space, one of the core commandments is to create a MVP: a Minimum Viable Product. This is a version of a product with just the minimum number of features for it to be usable by early customers. It’s not perfect, but it works and gets the job done.

Similarly, the Minimum Viable Happiness (MVH) is the minimum number of features one needs in their life to be happy. It’s the scenario where you think, “even if everything else goes wrong, I’m okay with this right now.”

Everybody has their own MVH. One person might require an en-suite to be fulfilled; another could be content sleeping amidst nature. One person might need to be surrounded by friends and activity; another could find solitude totally blissful.

Recently, I’ve been testing different MVHs for myself. One day I spent totally outdoors and continuously listened to podcasts to see if solitude was necessary for my happiness. That was a really miserable day. Now I know having some quiet is critical for my health.

Another day, I decided to not write anything to see if writing was important. No notes, journaling or typing. That day was also excruciating. Now I know I need to be able to write to get through the day.

So far, my MVH is pretty low. To be happy, all I really need is some quiet, somewhere to write on, a book to read, a few close friends, plus around $50 a week to cover food and water. Having a comfortable bed, being around nature and living in moderate temperatures are great bonuses, but unnecessary.

Clarifying your MVH does a few things. First, it cultivates gratitude, because if you recognise that your MVH is fulfilled, you are probably less likely to mourn over your misfortunes. Things are pretty good as they are. Second, it helps you focus your attention. If you know already know what will keep you content, you can focus on other priorities like learning new skills or bettering the world, knowing you’ll be happy regardless of what happens.

Here’s to more MVH testing.

From Stephen King’s On Writing:

“Let’s get one thing clear right now, shall we? There is no Idea Dump, no Story Central, no Island of the Buried Bestsellers; good story ideas seem to come quite literally from nowhere, sailing at you right out of the empty sky: two previously unrelated ideas come together and make something new under the sun. Your job isn’t to find these ideas but to recognize them when they show up.”

I used to think of our thoughts as a pile of mud: dirty, messy but hiding diamonds underneath. Dig deep enough past the top layers of crap and that’s when you’ll find some interesting stuff.

But the more I live, the more I find this metaphor missing a key component: randomness. Though most of my ideas are found in active reflection, a surprising amount come seemingly out of nowhere. For example, just yesterday, while in my gym’s changeroom, a story hit me: A man dreams of being a high jumper but is bound to his responsibilities as a neurosurgeon. He wrestles with his desire to improve the world (surgery) and his desire to enjoy the world (high jump) but never leaves neurosurgery. When he finally retires at the age of 70, he enters a masters athletics tournament, but trips on his first jump, falls and sustains a brain hematoma. He dies on the way into theatre.

Whoa! Where did that idea come from? No idea. Regardless, it hit me in one second, and I ran to my phone and wrote it all down. If I procrastinated, the idea would have surely vanished. Is it a brilliant plot? Not really. But it’s new, surprising, and might come in handy in a future project.

We hear of amazing discoveries that just hit people. Take these breakthroughs:

• Dmitri Mendeleev discovering the periodic table.
• Mary Shelley conjuring the plot of Frankenstein.
• James Watson discovering the double helix nature of DNA.

These events happened while the person was asleep. How crazy is that? It feels like there’s a force out there randomly shooting off ideas at us – some bad, some good – and it is up to us to catch them, consciously or not.

It is crucial that you recognize these when they arrive. Do not be distracted, mindlessly scrolling on Instagram, and do not think you will remember them later. You will forget. Catch them like a trap, and store them away in your private notebook.

Your job isn’t to find these ideas but recognize them when they show up.

Picture this:

You’re standing in dimly lit room and in the middle is a table covered with a red cloth. On it is a fish tank filled with water and in the tank is a brown octopus with white tentacles. One of its tentacles holds a ceramic cup and in another, a black pencil. On the pencil, you make out an engraving: Age quod agis.

Now, are you and I seeing the same thing? There may be some variability of course: your red may be a different shade, your cup may be cracked while my cup is new, your octopus may be bigger or smaller than mine. But the most interesting thing we’re seeing isn’t the table or tank or the octopus, it’s the pencil. This is what we’re both looking at, and we both see it. I never opened my mouth and you never opened yours. We’re not even in the same room together, let alone the same place – heck, we’re seeing this at different times.

But we are together. We’re very close. We’re having a meeting of the minds.

I sent you a room with a table and a red cloth, a tank, an octopus, a cup and a pencil. And you received it all. Everything. We are engaged in real telepathy.

Words in their purest form are magic. They give stories the power to travel across time and space, from one mind into another. They allow anyone with a basic education to face dragons, fall in love and explore universes without leaving their home. Through words, you surrender your life to the writer’s and emerge a new individual.

Do not forget that there is magic at your fingertips. Use it wisely.

“It is not true that we have only one life to live; if we can read, we can live as many more lives and as many kinds of lives as we wish.” – S.I. Hayakawa

Mild plot spoilers for “The Shining” ahead.

I recently finished reading Stephen King’s The Shining. It left a deep impression on me, not because of the intense “scary” moments, but rather the protagonist’s slow decline into madness.

The main character, Jack Torrance, is by most standards an ordinary guy. He’s trying to provide for his family, hoping to finish a creative project and has a bit of a drinking problem. Nothing too remarkable. He’s actually a pretty likeable character at the start of the book.

The most terrifying parts of The Shining aren’t the “scary scenes” – the woman in the tub or the Grady twins or the ending catastrophe, but rather the slow decline of our Jack Torrance into madness. Jack’s character is terrifying because he is completely relatable. Don’t we all want to provide for our loved ones? Don’t we all have a bit of a (drinking) problem? Don’t we all have a secret ambition? If Jack couuld slowly lose his mind, we most certainly could too. And although The Outlook Hotel – the setting of the book – doesn’t exist in reality, it exists metaphorically. We know there are environments that bring out our inner temptations and demons. It might be a certain group of people, or a drug, or a venue that brings out a side of you that you don’t like. We understand their destructive power and keep a careful distance from them.

We are all capable of immense, catastrophic harm. Our feet can kick, run and break ribs. Our hands can punch, shove and send terrible texts. And we’ve all experienced the potential for a few precise words to tear down another’s self esteem. With all that can go wrong, it’s a miracle that most of us generally behave quite civilly.

But deep down, I think we all recognise our inner demons. Although to others we smile and look innocent, we know that sometimes – most of the time – we are barely holding it together. We know that we are often just on the brink of insanity and that it takes enormous effort not to ruin our lives and to keep our demons locked up every day.

Stephen King understood this. And that is why The Shining, which describes a story where the demons win, where we lose control by just a little too much, is so terrifying.

“Monsters are real. Ghosts are too. They live inside of us, and sometimes, they win.” – Stephen King, The Shining.

You know – that thing.

1. Nobody really cares if you fail.

2. Your contributions are worthwhile (more than you think).

3. The pain of discipline and uncertainty is nothing compared to the pain of regret.

4. Our lives are a compilation of nows. Don’t wait until it’s too late. Procrastination is the thief of time.

5. You will learn so much – far more than your wildest dreams.

6. It would make a great story.

7. What if it can turn out better than you can imagine?

Ripples, by Danielle Doby:

ripples.

when you create a difference
in someone’s life
you not only impact their life
you impact everyone influenced by them
throughout their entire lifetime

no act is ever too small

one by one
this is how to make an ocean rise

---

Mark Twain once told a story about a man who scoured the planet looking for the greatest general who ever lived. When the man was informed that the person he sought had already died and gone to heaven, he made a trip to the Pearly Gates to look for him. When the man arrived, Saint Peter pointed at a regular-looking Joe. “That isn’t the greatest of all generals,” protested the man. “I knew that person when he lived on Earth, and he was only a cobbler.” “I know that,” said Saint Peter, “but if he had been a general, he would have been the greatest of them all.”

A few months ago, I ran an experiment in talking to strangers. It was difficult at first, but over time I began to notice people who were excellent at having conversations, and others who were more difficult to talk to. Some observations on what makes a good conversationalist I will share here.

Here are seven (subjective) rules on how to be a better conversationalist.

1. Make them feel heard.

The golden rule. You do not have to agree with them or even respect them a whole lot, but you must make your partner feel heard. There are few things more painful and insulting than sharing one’s time and thoughts only to realise that the other person is not listening. They might as well talk to a wall.

The questions you ask will often reveal if you have been paying attention. Take note of any ambiguous details, or any details that have been omitted and gently ask. A great question to ask is, “what do you mean by X?”

Body language is huge here as well. Obvious ways to show you are listening include giving your full attention to your partner (no phones or multitasking) and mirroring (repeat what they have said). Subtler techniques include smiling, nodding and holding strong eye contact – often known as active listening.

However, don’t pretend to listen without really listening. People can usually tell if you are smiling and nodding but secretly haven’t retained a thing. Which brings me to my next point:

2. Remember what they have said.

It is uncommon for people to remember details from past encounters. But if you can make the effort to keep notes from previous conversations and recall them later, you will be rewarded. Remembering achieves two things:

1. It signals that words are not wasted on you, for you respect their time by listening and remembering.
2. It shows interest in the other person, and to feel you are interesting is immensely comforting. This may open doors to broader conversations in the future.

Examples of easy details you can remember are:

• ongoing endeavours (how’s that project going?)
• family (how’d your sister’s recital go?)
• pets (how’s your dog?)
• birthdays / zodiacs / MBTI (isn’t it your birthday next week?)
• random / quirky stuff (you hate mangoes, don’t you?)

The more specific the memory, the better. “How’s your dog’s injury going? Has he seen the vet?” is better than “How’s your dog?”. But don’t recall too much. There’s a fine line between thoughtful and creepy. I’ll leave you to figure that one out.

Also note that the converse of this statement is true. People that continually forget details you’ve told them are mind-numbingly annoying. If you have to remind someone more than five times that you went to Tasmania last year, or you’ve started a new hobby, or you’re allergic to peanuts, then either they have dementia or they don’t really care. Do not be this person.

3. Use the other person’s name.

Most people – including myself – love to hear their name used. Easy places to add this are in:

1. Greetings (Hi Tom! / See you later Tom!)
2. Questions (Tom, don’t you think that bird looks a bit odd?)
3. Compliments / teasing (Tom, you look dashing today / Tom, your hair is positively filthy)

4. Look excited to see them.

Again, the easiest way to do this is to actually be excited to see them. People can usually tell if you’re faking this. But in case you’re particularly tired, or an alien in need of pointers, here are some quick tips:

1. Open body language: Stick your feet out towards them. Don’t cross your arms or put hands in your pocket. Lean towards them.
2. Eye contact: Strong eye contact. Wider eyes show energy and interest.
3. Vocals: Adopt a slightly higher pitch. Speak faster and louder.
4. Smile.

5. Share stories (and laugh about them).

If you can tell a personal story and laugh about it, you achieve two things:

1. You signal that it is safe to be vulnerable. The other person may also take this as an invitation to share some of their own stories, which can lead to more interesting topics.
2. You give them an opportunity to further drive the conversation. If you’ve told a somewhat decent story, there will be plenty of questions they can ask you, leading you down new paths. Telling stories are a great substitute to a constant stream of question-answer-question-answer.

6. Avoid generic responses.

When responding, try to remove these words from your vocabulary:

• “Good”
• “Interesting”
• “Nice”
• “Cool”
• “I see”

99% of people default to these phrases. They are safe and will work in most cases, but they are also boring, show a lack of effort and can often kill a conversation. Alternatives include:

• “What do you mean?”
• “Tell me more.”
• “Why?”

In particular, “why?” is a great question to move onto deeper conversations, as it often reveals deeper morals, values and goals.

Saying nothing is preferable to saying something generic. A short silence can signal that you are contemplating on what’s been said and thinking of a more thoughtful answer than “nice”.

7. Observe, and adjust.

Throughout the span of a conversation you will find topics that particularly strike a nerve. Notice these. If in response to a question they seem uncomfortable and give short replies, it is time to move on. If instead they respond with unusual excitement about a topic, lean into it and remember it for future conversations.

However, in general I have noticed that the topic matters little in how enjoyable a conversation is. If you create a safe, attentive environment, any subject can be interesting. I’ve had fascinating conversations over “mundane topics” like the weather and study, but also easily forgettable ones over “deep topics” like religion, books or mortality. What matters most is the dynamic of the conversations – whether one feels heard, safe and remembered. Bonus marks if you can be a little different and entertaining with your responses (see tip 6).

---

At the end of the day, feel free to experiment. These tips are only a culmination of my observations and the question of what makes a good conversationalist will depend on your own personality and mood. But if you can make it your chief goal to make a person feel heard, you are most certainly on the right track.

The morning of June 13th was bright and sunny, with the warmth of a mid-summer day. Orchid trees swayed in the distance and the grass in the gardens shone a rich green. Young children ran barefoot in the fields and picked stones, making noises like wild animals.  

Between 9 and 10 o’clock, the kids were called back home. Parents barked orders to shower and the best clothes and perfume were put on. The raffle was beginning.

The elderly villagers were the first to arrive, who had witnessed the raffle many times in the past. They walked slowly from their houses, always alone, and smiled sadly at passers by. Many wondered if it would finally be their turn this year.

The families were the next to arrive. Some of the older children formed groups and talked of the school semester just passed. The boys discussed teachers, pranks and sport, while the girls stood together gossiping, occasionally glancing over at the boys. The parents did not speak but nodded at friends and colleagues while keeping a watchful eye over the children. 

Finally, the workers assembled. Keys jangled from their pockets, having just closed shop for the day. The mechanic’s face was covered in soot, the baker smelt of bread and the librarian carried a bag of books. They hurried towards the crowd, sweating, and whispered greetings to the other villagers.

By noon, all the villagers were assembled in the local square, in front of the stage. 

The raffle was conducted by Mr. Barkly, the village’s mayor. He was a short, fat man and was generally liked because of his gentle and kind, yet pragmatic nature. He walked carrying a small black box onto the stage where a small table lay. He waved to the residents and called out, “Hot day, isn’t it? Let’s get this started, folks.”

Mr. Barkly placed the box on the table. His face was red from the sun and the boys noticed sweat patches under his armpits. “The raffle should be good this year,” he announced. “Our neighbours found dramatic increases in productivity from it.” The villagers didn’t respond. 

“Is there anyone who would like to be exempt from this year’s raffle?” he asked. No response. Mr. Barkly waited patiently. One minute, then two passed. But just as it seemed nobody would respond, a woman’s voice pierced the crowd. “Please, I beg you, take my youngest son out of the draw. He is too young and sick.” It was Mrs. Young, the local electrician. Her husband had died of pneumonia six months ago, leaving her alone to care for little Billy.

“Exemption denied.” Mr. Barkly said. “Unless they are being sent to another village or under the age of five, all children are eligible.” Mrs. Young bowed her head and cried silently, not bothering to argue the decision. Billy had just turned five two days ago. The crowd around her patted her back and whispered assurances in her ear. Billy stood next to his mother holding her hand, too young to understand the situation. 

“Nobody else?” The mayor’s eyes scanned the crowd, giving ample time for a statement. The whole town was silent. He nodded slowly and removed a keychain from his back pocket where one dozen keys lay. After fumbling around, he found the smallest key and unlocked the black box.

Mr. Barkly stared at the pile of names inside. The pile was smaller than he remembered, he thought to himself. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and reached his fat hand into the box. After some rummaging, he finally closed his hands onto one piece of paper, and slowly pulled it out. The whole town watched quietly.

“Mrs Young.” 

Faces slowly turned to the pale electrician, still holding little Billy in her left hand. The crowd around her backed away with a sigh, offering their apologies. Schoolboys took their rocks out of their pockets, having prepared them already, while others went to get their own from a small pile nearby. Mr. Barkly walked over. 

“Come here, Billy.” He gently called out. “Come here.” Billy looked up at his mother, who gripped his hand so hard that it began to hurt. The boy did not move. Mr. Barkly, with a sigh, beckoned to a giant man in the crowd with his finger. It was the local blacksmith, Mr. Smith, and it was usually he that sorted out situations like this. The large man approached the boy and forcefully broke the grip between mother and son. Taking Billy in his arms, he walked back to the crowd. 

Mrs. Young began to break down in sobs, having acknowledged her fate. “It is better me than him,” she reflected. If only she could have spent more time Billy and made more memories. She wondered if he would even remember her when he grew up into a man. If he grew up into a man. In her last moments, she prayed, despite having never prayed before, that God would give Billy a long and meaningful life, full of happiness and health…

“Sorry,” Mr. Barkly said, with genuine sympathy. “This is the only way we can provide adequate resources for the whole town.” With a final smile, he stepped back and the villagers closed around her. The first rock sliced Mrs. Young on the calf, opening an artery. The second hit her on the chest, where she cried out temporarily, winded by the force, but was soon silenced by the deadly flurry of stones. Even when she was quite clearly dead, some, especially the younger men, continued to hurl rocks at her, further distorting the lifeless corpse. After a few minutes, the villagers stopped and her body sat in a pool of blood, her face unrecognisable. 

“More rations for us all,” Mr. Smith muttered quietly. The town dispersed and headed home. 

Inspired by: “The Lottery,” by Shirley Jackson

After a two month break from blogging, reading my old posts again has made me realise how mediocre my writing is.

There is a clumsiness and childishness in my prose that is absent in “proper” writers. Some posts are too long, boring and redundant. Others are too short, ambiguous and unclear. Of the 300+ posts written before this one, I can say there’s only a handful that I’m truly satisfied with. For the rest, the temptation is to pick up a giant red pen and substantially edit.

One of the great benefits of a break is perspective. From reading other authors, I’ve come to realise that a great idea is insufficient by itself – to be powerful, it requires clear prose, correct grammar and a sensible structure.

When you read the likes of Neil Gaiman, Stephen King and Alain de Botton you find a sense of astonishment, for their words are like magic; each sentence has a distinct, marching rhythm, and each adjective is perfect in its place. The prose isn’t tiring but flows like butter, and you find yourself being drawn into their universe without even really noticing it.

In light of this, part of me wants to delete everything I’ve written before and retire.

But similar to how one vows change when when confronted with disgusting imperfections, there is hope. By seeing the gap between my writing and strong prose, there appears a destination to run towards. And embarking on this destination, like any adventure, is exciting. The chasm to better is simultaneously daunting and comforting.

It’s like mercilessly being destroyed by a computer at chess; it feels terrible, hopeless even, but you can’t help but feel inspired at how great one can become at the game.

And one day, with enough persistence, one may even approach greatness themselves.