This past week, I published a blog post every day.
And while each post focused on something different—writing, time, tools—there was a theme quietly running underneath them all.
I was counting days.
Sometimes literally. Sometimes not. But in almost every post, time was being tracked, named, measured, or faced.
Last Minute
All of the posts this week? Written last minute.
No drafts from weeks ago. No carefully planned outlines. No shower thoughts from the previous day to expand upon. Just me, every morning, sitting down with a cup of coffee and a blank page, hoping something sparks.
Sometimes it did. Sometimes it didn’t. But I wrote anyway.
I know they were all last-minute because I started tracking this, too (naturally, in a spreadsheet... as one does!). Since June 2nd, I’ve been noting where each post’s inspiration came from. Every single entry this week? Marked: “Last minute...”
Writing on the spot like that is stressful. For most people, probably unbearable. Honestly? Still tough for me too. But after years of practice—of writing badly, writing often—I’ve developed enough momentum to trust the process.
To sit down, start typing / scribbling / speaking, and believe that whatever nonsense comes out won’t be that bad. And if it is? Well… it can be made better.
Artifacts
In my post Marathon, I talked about my collection of empty pen cartridges. Each one labeled with a date. Each one now an artifact. And the bundle, an artifact itself.
An odd collection... for sure. But an honest one. And even the labels tell a story.
At first, they were whatever was nearby—washi tape and a pen. But over time, I started forming an opinion. About tape. About tools. About how I wanted these little markers of effort to look, feel, and last.
I switched from washi to electrical to gaffer tape. From pen to marker. From curling the label in portrait to wrapping it in landscape.
It wasn’t just about aesthetics. It was about intent. Purpose. Each label marked a moment. And together, they marked the moment I started caring—really caring—about how I mark things at all.
And one day, I charted the collection in a spreadsheet. Progress, over time, plotted on a graph.
A line moving up and to the right.
Not measuring ink. Measuring effort. The weight of me showing up—every day—until the pen stopped working. Not because it just dried up, but because it ran out.
Weeks
Another oddity I shared this week: my 100x52 grid. It’s a (printed) spreadsheet where each cell represents a week of my life—past, present, and (roughly) future.
To most people, it’s probably morbid. A bit much. (Ok. Probably more than just "a bit").
But for me, it’s grounding. It’s the clearest, most honest reminder I have:
This is your time. This is how much you’ve used. This is how much you might have left.
Counting Down
As I write this, I glance to the right side of my studio.
Mounted on the wall is an old Samsung smartphone. Burned into the screen is a countdown timer. Days. Hours. Minutes. Seconds.
Right now, it reads: 11 days, 8 hours, 23 minutes, 12 seconds. This timer has been running for months—tracking the time left for a major project I’m apart of.
And those numbers? They’re not the only ones it’s ever held. I see them now—glowing faintly over ghosted burned in digits of deadlines, milestones, and projects long past.
11 days. Wow. I remember when it said 80 days.
Technically, this measures the same thing as any calendar. But the feeling it gives... Completely different.
This ritual—this ticking display—was inspired by a Korean docuseries called Take1. Artists were challenged to plan and perform the greatest live show of their life… in one take. Under time pressure. With a literal countdown on-screen. That really stuck with me. The tension. The focus. The awareness.
So I built my own. And it’s never left my side since.
Command Center
The ultimate collection of counts.
My Command Center spreadsheet is where all of it comes together—progress, dates, feedback, WIPs, decisions. Everything aggregated and distilled to provide not only the shape of the thing we’re building, but also the heartbeat of how it is we’re moving. It’s not just a dashboard. It’s a pulse.
I’ve built versions of these for years. Always from scratch. Always brutally minimal. Data dense. No flourishes. Just function. Just focus. Aesthetics determined by clarity, not by vibes.
And yes—I have one for my personal life too.
I already use to-do apps, notes, calendars. But, for me, nothing quite replicates the clarity I get from this single, unified view.
Above the fold, in a single screen, I can see:
- When I paid my taxes.
- How much I contributed to retirement savings. (And when).
- How much I owe on my mortgage. (And when I need to renew it).
- Upcoming trips and bookings.
- Insurance details, internet providers, savings breakdowns.
- What’s done. What’s left. What’s coming.
It might be a “me thing,” but this view—the ability to see all of it at once—grounds me. It gives me the illusion (or maybe the reality) of control. And in a world of so many moving parts, that makes all the difference.
Time
Whether it’s a burned-in DIY countdown clock. A monthly printed calendar with scribbled margins. A spreadsheet view of everything, everywhere, all at once. A blog post written at the edge of a deadline…
It all comes back to one thing: Time.
Not just how much I have. But how I hold it. How I count it. How I carry it. How I think about it. Work with it. Try to make meaning from it.
Every chart. Every label. Every tick of a timer—these are just rituals of awareness. Attempts to not just pass the time, but to meet it.
Because when I can see my time clearly, I start spending it more clearly too.
Is this the “better” way to do things? Not necessarily. But it’s a way. My way.
Intentionally manual. Deliberately handcrafted. Deeply personal. It won’t scale easily. It won’t replace Asana, Linear, or whatever you’re using. But it might connect things in a way—a human way—that no all-in-one tool, no matter how slick the integrations, really can.
Maybe—just maybe—that’s how I begin to feel a little more in control, and understanding of my life.
And maybe the act of counting days is how we learn to make them count.