Why Scientists Use Lab Notebooks

You could write in anything. Why do I specifically recommend lab notebooks?

Because they’re designed to solve a specific problem: how do you keep track of what you’re figuring out when you don’t yet know what matters?

Scientists use lab notebooks because experiments don’t always work. Most of the time you’re trying things that might fail. You need a record of what you tried, what happened, and what you thought about it—even the stuff that didn’t work. Especially the stuff that didn’t work, because that’s often where the actual learning is.

Your work is the same way. You’re trying things. Some succeed, some don’t. You’re figuring things out as you go.

Here’s what makes lab notebooks work:

Chronological order. Everything goes in date order. You don’t have to decide where something “belongs.”

Numbered pages. You can reference things later. “See p47” is useful. “That thing I wrote somewhere” is not.

Permanent record. Bound notebooks mean you can’t rip out pages or reorganize. This sounds like a limitation, but it’s a feature. You can write messy thoughts without worrying about making it pretty later.

There is no “later.” There’s just what you wrote and what you write next.

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This is part of a series about Hand-Write. Think Better.—a method for people who feel overwhelmed to start simply writing more on paper. Get the book →


A really good idea

[…] I just stumbled across [koans] in a book. They looked to be a kind of Chinese poetry. It was at a time when managing my mind had come to seem like a really good idea. And I needed a method. I knew immediately that koans might help. It was as if I held out my hand to see if it was raining and a yellow ball fell into my palm.

~ John Tarrant

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Volume 25. Inconceivable!

Volume 25. Inconceivable!

I remember when I started journaling. It began as a way to capture memories from trips—classic trip journaling. And then I started trying to bootstrap personal changes… which requires review… which requires something to review… which requires getting in the habit of…

The other day I was starting a new journal. It’s a process of unwrapping, labeling, and making my own pen-holder for the side…

But my favorite part is copying my personal oath into the front. Every one of these volumes feels like a reminder that every day can be a fresh start.

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What does practice ask, as the body keeps changing?

I have a long Aikido background before coming to Art du Déplacement in my forties. I’m in my fifties now. The age of air, this stretch has been caleld — after roots, fire and water. Things that used to take effort don’t. Things that didn’t take effort do. The practice that carried me here doesn’t fit anymore, and I’m still figuring out what I’m going to do about that.

This thread is a path through pieces I’ve written and conversations I’ve had with others, sequenced for someone who’s wondering what their practice is asking of them next. None of it answers the question! But, I’m hoping it makes the question easier for you to explore yourself.

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What does writing actually do to your thinking?

I’ve written a lot. Often daily on the blog since 2011, years of weekly writing for 7 for Sunday, and a daily journal that’s grown to thousands of pages. Until I started taking writing seriously, I thought writing was for capturing thoughts I already had. It turned out to be the opposite — most of what I think I think only exists once I write it down.

This thread is about what writing actually does to thinking. Not how to write, or what to write, or even why to write. Just about the strange thing that happens when you put words next to each other on a page — the ideas you didn’t know you had until they appeared, the gaps that showed up only because you tried to bridge them, the changes that happen to the mind in the act of clarification and articulation.

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When the Notebook Doesn’t Help

Let’s be honest: this isn’t a magic solution that fixes everything.

Decisions that are actually emotional, not analytical. If you’re stuck because you’re scared or avoiding something, writing about it might help you realize that—but it won’t make the fear go away. Different problem, different solution.

Things you genuinely don’t care about. If you keep writing “should do X” but never do it, maybe you don’t actually want to do X. The notebook will make this obvious, but it won’t make you care.

Situations where you already know what to do. Sometimes you’re not stuck on figuring it out—you’re stuck on doing it. Writing won’t help there. Just do the thing.

Problems that require other people to change. You can think through how to communicate better or what to do about a situation, but the notebook can’t make other people different.

The notebook helps you think more clearly. It doesn’t make hard things easy—it makes confusing things clearer.

There’s a difference.

Knowing when a tool doesn’t apply is part of using it well.

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This is part of a series about Hand-Write. Think Better.—a method for using paper to think more clearly. Get the book →


What does making something in public for years actually take?

I’ve been blogging since 2011. Movers Mindset started 2015. Open + Curious in 2024 with a different shape. Podtalk started in there too. Each project has its own arc, and it’s own specific thing that draws me to keep creating. After all this time, I can now see there’s a question I never paid attention to which lies underneath all of them: What does it take to keep making something in public, for years?

The pieces below are about the practice of showing up — what permission feels like, what resistance is, how cumulative invisible work pays off, and what “uphill” writing means. A couple are distilled from Podtalk conversations with people who arrived at hard truths and put them into words. This thread is sequenced for someone who’s making something in public and wondering how to keep at it without burning out, quitting, or going sideways into something they didn’t set out to do.

Permission to continue
7 for Sunday — March 2025

Open with the inheritance. Someone who modeled the practice for me dies, and I realized the permission they gave wasn’t theirs to give. I already had it. Jack London’s club it — go after what you want with force — turns out to be the most generous instruction possible, because it gives you permission to commit even when the outcome is uncertain.

Sit down
constantine.name — November 2024

The Pressfield line that does the most work for me: “It’s not the writing that’s hard. What’s hard is sitting down to write. What keeps us from sitting down is resistance.” Cling to that for everything you’re trying to keep making — it’s not the doing that’s hard. It’s the showing up that’s hard. Really hard.

The illogical thing
Podtalk Field Note — with Cassian Bellino

Cassian got laid off and immediately built everything nobody asked for — courses, communities, funnels. By any reasonable measure it was a mistake. But: “my emotions wouldn’t have settled had I tried the logical thing.” Sometimes what in hindsight is clearly the wrong path, is actually the only way to reach the destination, and the flailing is how some creators process toward clarity.

Bifocals
constantine.name — January 2026

My bifocal attention: solving today’s problem while simultaneously noticing the friction I can’t leave alone. I’ll stop in the middle of the task to write the script, the alias, the doc, the template — not because I’m procrastinating but because that is the real work. The payoff is cumulative and mostly invisible, which is what makes it hard to commit to.

100 issues of my “7 for Sunday” email
constantine.name — August 2024

At the 100-issue mark of 7 for Sunday — three years of weekly issues — what mattered wasn’t the number. It was that I’d kept going through stretches when simply knowing that readers existed was what got me through. The life preserver that saves you is necessarily thrown by another. External validation isn’t ideal, but sometimes it’s what keeps you in the boat.

Writing uphill
7 for Sunday — December 2024

Downhill writing is what you want to say; uphill writing is what you need to say — the thing you’re afraid of, the thing you think nobody wants to hear. The best writing is almost always uphill. The discomfort is usually the sign you’re onto something real.

When a Podcast Is Finished
Podtalk Field Note — with Alasdair Plambeck

Closing on the hardest part: knowing when to stop. Not failed, not abandoned — finished. Alasdair ended his podcast after four-and-a-half years because the work was complete. The skill isn’t just keeping going; it’s also recognizing when keeping going has quietly become a different act than what you set out to do.

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What does picking one word a year teach you?

In 2012 I picked the phrase will-power and self-possession as a kind of anchor — something to keep in front of me through the year. (I literally wrote it on a card and stuck on the wall above my desk. For a year.) I didn’t know I was starting a practice. In 2015 I chose simplify. I’ve now been picking one word or short phrase a year for thirteen years, and the cumulative practice has become as interesting as each year’s choice.

This thread is a path through what that practice has actually been like — what made certain words land, the year-end reflection ritual that grew up around it, and what I’ve noticed across the arc. It’s about the practice, not the words. Follow this thread if you’re wondering what a small annual ritual can do over a long enough timeline.

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Look straight at the perfectionism

Ask yourself what perfect looks like. What are the specific elements? What’s on the checklist?

Procrustes will never have an answer to this question, but always a response along the lines of “I’ll know it when I see it.” That’s not good enough. He has no idea what perfection means! He’s exposed. He cannot meet his own standards. He’s in his bed. You know what to do. Grab your creative tools and get to work.

~ Boston Blake, from Perfectionism

I’ve long agreed with the sentiment that “I’ll know it when I see it” is bullshit. I’ve long thought that was because if one doesn’t know “what it should look like” then one doesn’t actually understand whatever it is we’re talking about judging. My thinking was focused on identifying whether or not I (or whomever) was capable of judging.

But this insight from Blake got me thinking about a more fundamental layer of judgement: If I (or whomever) is not capable of judging (as evidenced by espoused sheep dip like “I’ll know it when I see it”) then I shouldn’t even be involved in the judging. Which is also a powerful way to banish my own internal critic.

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Between transitions

Each transition might be random, but what goes on between transitions is far from it: it’s all designed to interest you, to be pleasant or “nice” in some way, and sometimes even to become addictive.

~ Marco Giancotti, from Presenting Visual Koans

Just an interesting dive into what happens when you give your brain more opportunities to make connections among ideas.

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