April 30, 2025 • 16 mins
Episode 1: Guard the Spark — Work No Template Can Touch
In the era of AI-everything, speed is free—but soul isn’t. In this cinematic opening to The Modern Renaissance™, Bonnie Le Page guides you through urgency-fueled creative days, Gutenberg’s press shop, Leonardo’s altar piece lawsuit, and a modern creator’s echo chamber.
Learn how to reclaim your spark, define your own tempo, and choose depth when the world only asks for more.
🎧 What you’ll hear:
- A 24-hour urgency loop from Maya Park
- The gears behind speed, hustle, and AI shortcuts
- Gutenberg vs. the Greyfriars: flood or gold leaf?
- Leonardo’s 20-year masterpiece and modern parallels
- A quiet moment to ask: Is this work mine—or just fast?
📥 Bonus: Download the Spark Threshold Checklist at modernrenaissance.today
🕯️ Let the noise pass. You’re here to build what still matters.
#ModernRenaissance #SignalNotNoise #FoundersWhoBuild
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Bonnie (00:49):
Phone alarm slash render complete. Are three hooks.
Rendering thyroof make our ownfortunes and recall these times
faster. It's 6AM. You haven'topened your eyes yet, but speed
already has.
It climbs into your bed, handsyou a phone, and whispers, wake
(01:10):
up. We're all gonna be late.That silence, it wasn't a
glitch. That was the space we'vebeen missing. We live in a world
where your inbox feels fasterthan your lungs, where Siri and
Slack and seven browser tabsbeat you to the first thought,
(01:31):
where content calendars are moresacred than creativity.
Every morning, speed wakes upbefore we do. So let me be
clear. This is not a nostalgiaproject. We're not lighting
candles and pretending theprinting press or the iPhone
never happened. I'm not here towage war on artificial
intelligence.
(01:52):
In fact, at the studio, GPTdrafts our briefs, AI agents
develop new products, andcopilot ship features while we
sleep. This is the question Ikeep hearing again and again.
Will AI steal our craft? And thetruth is, it's the wrong
question. The real danger isn'tthat the machine will steal your
(02:15):
work, it's that the system willsteal your rhythm.
This episode is about choosing adifferent tempo. It's about
deciding intentionally whenspeed serves you and when it
strips something essential awaybecause we've forgotten the cost
of moving too fast, and we'velost the sacred practice of
guarding our spark. Today, wewill do three things. One, step
(02:39):
inside the real pace of acreator's day and feel the rush
inside our bones. Two, dissectthe elegant urgency engine that
got us here, AI included.
And three, we'll go backwardsfive centuries to learn what
Gutenberg's press and a singleilluminated psalter can teach us
now. By the end, I don't want toslow you down forever. I just
(03:04):
want you to remember that youget to choose. You are not a
template. You are a spark.
Her name is Maya Clark. She'snot a celebrity. She is
something much harder to be, amid level creator just trying to
hold it all together. Parteducator, part designer, part
(03:25):
digital acrobat. She lives in anEighth Floor walk up in Portland
with a pothos plant surviving bysheer willpower and a rescue dog
named Pixel, who knows moreabout screen fatigue than most
humans.
Maya isn't burned out exactly.She's just blurred. 06:07AM. Her
phone buzzes. Her thumb'salready in the camera before her
(03:46):
eyes have adjusted.
She whispers, hey, fam. Delete.Not enough energy. Try again.
Pixel licks her knuckles.
Slack chirps in the background.She hasn't even stood up yet,
but she's already live on fivemental stages. Her feed, her
channel, her email, her groupchat, her mind. 07:12, coffee in
(04:10):
hand, she types. Write me a 10tweet thread on creative
vulnerability in the style ofBrene Brown, but funnier.
Chat GPT blinks back the perfectthread in fourteen seconds, and
she pastes it in a buffer,clicks schedule, sips on her
coffee, scrolls. She feels veryclever, efficient, until it hits
her. She hasn't written a singlesentence that passed through her
(04:33):
body today. No breath behind thewords, no hesitation, no
friction, just clever. Nineforty two.
She's opening mid journey. Sheneeds a thumbnail for a YouTube
short on AI workflows. Shetypes, Renaissance marble statue
in streetwear, glitch neon,cinematic lighting. Two seconds
later, it appears. It's perfectand somehow completely empty.
(04:58):
She wonders, was it ever mine?She has no time to ask. Alt
text, upload, post. 01:15PM.She's live on a webinar.
Three attendees, commentsscrolling faster than she can
read. A GPT powered assistantanswers half of them
automatically. The audienceapplauds at the speed. Maya
(05:18):
smiles on cue but can't remembera single sentence she said.
Eleven forty seven PM.
Maya lies on the floor next toPixel, screen inches from her
face, blue halo across hercheekbones. She scrolls on her
own feed, double taps her ownpost just to make sure that the
heart still registers. It does.She doesn't. She has produced
(05:41):
more media today than her twentyfifteen self could have dreamed
in a month, and she can't quotea single line of it.
Speed, one, spark, evaporated.The gearbox, how speed became
the default. Every call I'vetaken lately starts the same
way. Speed, the pressure, theoverwhelm, the feeling that if
(06:02):
you stop moving just for abreath, you'll vanish. And by
the end of the call, it's neverreally about speed.
It's about grief. Grief for lostresonance, grief for forgotten
clarity, grief for the sensethat what you make used to mean
something, and now it just keepsthe feed warm. So let's slide
(06:23):
the back panel off this hustlemachine. No villains here. Just
gears.
Elegant, logical, brutal. Gearone, the freshness logic.
02/2009 to 02/2015. In the latetwo thousands, platforms like
Facebook and Instagram learnedsomething simple and sticky.
Freshness keeps us scrolling.
Talent was dethroned by timing,and the algorithm didn't whisper
(06:46):
create. It shouted, don't stop.Year two, the template hustle,
2013 to 2020. Next came the eraof repurpose batch post daily.
Productivity blogs turnedcontent into commodity.
Coaching funnels turned valueinto volume, and posting daily
wasn't just advice, it becamereligion. Build your pipeline,
optimize your funnel, hack themomentum, stay visible, or
(07:08):
disappear. Year three, thegenerative shift, 2022 up until
now. And then the cost ofcreation fell to zero. OpenAI
drops chat GPT.
Midjourney paints dream shapesin two seconds. Eleven Labs
speaks in your voice, and anindie creator can now do what an
entire agency once did in amonth. It's elegant, lower
(07:30):
friction, more output. Urgencybecomes virtue. Repetition
becomes strategy.
And the result? Audience,attention fragments, creators
chase fragments with morevolume. Volume dilutes depth,
and depth evaporates intodashboards. And the dashboards
whisper, post again or your linedips. And here's the cost nobody
(07:52):
warned us about.
When friction goes to zero, sodoes the imprint. Because
nothing pressed through yourmuscles, nothing passed through
your gut, and the words cameeasy but left no fingerprints on
the clay. And the result, workflows right through your hands
and then disappears before youremember what made it. This
isn't the first time a toolrewired the tempo of creation or
(08:12):
creators wonder if their pacestill had a place. Winter,
fourteen fifty, Mann's Germany,a man named Johannes Gutenberg
dips a dabber made of sheep'swool into lamp black ink.
He rolls it across a tray oflead letters and slides the tray
into a wooden press, lowers thelever. One pull. 25 impressions
(08:34):
of Psalm 23 appear where noneexisted seconds ago. His heart
beats, and words spread likefire. The printed word was
faster than quills, cheaper thanmonks, and more scalable than
sermons.
And almost overnight, Europe isflooded. Indulgences, miracle
cures, political broadsidespropaganda. Gutenberg's
(08:56):
financier, Johann Fuss, smellsprofit. Print, print, print,
regardless of what for or forwhom. Ink is the new currency,
and speed becomes the new god.
Across the channel in London,the Grey Friars, Franciscan
monks watch skeptically. They'reknown for handprinted psalters,
gold leaf, lapis lazul dust,vermilion ink. A single book can
(09:20):
take nine months. A printer cannow spit 40 leaflets in an hour.
They face a choice.
Chase speed or guard depth. Theychoose depth. They keep grinding
azurite stones into blue powder.They keep laying gold leaf so
thin that a breath could lift itaway. Printers mocked them.
(09:40):
Markets forgot them. ButSotheby's didn't. In 2011, a
Greyfire salter sold at auctionfor £5,600,000. Fuss indulgence
leaflets largely lost,discarded, and forgotten. The
printing press didn't killcraft, but it forced a doorway,
(10:03):
speed or soul, flood orfingerprint, replication or
reverence.
And the monks, they made theirchoice. So let's pause here just
(10:23):
for a moment between ink andimpact and speed and soul. Ask
yourself, in your own work, inyour own world, what is your
ink? What is your diction?Because in Gutenberg's time,
everyone had access to thepress, but only a few chose to
develop a voice.
Templates are ink. Frequency isink. Volume is ink. But voice,
(10:47):
voices carved, protected, andunmistakable. What do you make
that no machine could everguess?
Leonardo's two virgins, a lessonin time, tension, and the
courage to wait. Milan, FourteenEighty Three. A city is humming
(11:12):
with trade, politics, and thequiet pull of the sacred. And
the quiet pull of the sacred.The Confraternity of the
Immaculate Conception signs acontract with a 31 year old
artist, engineer, painter, anddreamer named Leonardo da Vinci.
They want an altarpiece, VirginMary, Baby Jesus, an angel, and
a cave. They give him tenmonths, payment in three
(11:33):
installments, clear, commercial,and urgent. Leonardo accepts and
then disappears into theLombardy countryside. He is
spotted sketching riverbeds,kneeling in damp caves, studying
how water curls through thelimestone, how light filters
through the mist. He buys cagedbirds only to study the tremor
of their wings before release.
Months pass, no paintingarrives, the confraternity sues,
(11:55):
and under pressure, Leonardoreturns and produces the work,
fast, brilliant, andtheologically incorrect. The
Christ child looks too playful,the angel too knowing. Payment
is withheld and the reputationbruised. Most artists would rush
a correction. Leonardo does theunthinkable.
He slows down even more. Twodecades pass. No looming
(12:21):
deadline, no client breathingdown his neck, Just a second
chance and silence. He beginsagain. Same figures.
Mary, Jesus, angel, cave. Andnow the light isn't just
painted. It remembers. Itremembers the haze of those
Lombardi Caves. It remembers thebotanic details sketched into
his many notebooks.
(12:42):
Each plant so precise thatmodern scientists can still
identify the species. Itremembers the muscles beneath
the angel's skin because hedissected them, because he
watched how breath shaped bone,how sorrow shaped gaze, and the
result, a painting thatbreathes. Both versions now hang
in the National Gallery inLondon. Crowds orbit the first,
(13:05):
but linger at the second. Museumdata confirms it.
Dwell time, double. Why? Becausethe sacred one transmits
something the first couldn't.Paste became pigment. Time
became texture.
And Leonardo didn't rejectdeadlines. He renegotiated them
with reality. He crossed thethreshold, chose depth, and
(13:26):
history keeps the receipts. Whathappens when a creator trades
speed for soul in real time?Fast forward to 2024.
Different era, same dilemma.Lana Ramos is a cooking creator,
three point one millionfollowers on TikTok, known for
high speed, high style recipereels, fifteen seconds, fast
(13:48):
cuts, neon lighting. Her handsmove like choreography, and her
captions crackle. And then shedisappears. Three weeks.
No uploads. No stories. Nonoise. What her audience doesn't
know is that she's retreated toher grandmother's kitchen,
relearning fire, rewritingmemory, making broth the way it
(14:09):
was made before everything spedup. She films none of it until
the final day.
A single ten minute short, herhands slow now, her voice
quieter, and she tells the storyof the broth bubble by bubble
where the spice blend came from,who whispered the ingredients
across generations. Why? Shepaused. And the views, one tenth
(14:35):
her usual. And then then camethe emails from a heritage food
nonprofit, from a documentaryproducer, from a publisher who
wanted to write, not just post,from her grandma.
The audience shifted, notsmaller, not deeper. A new
(14:56):
algorithm, one that had nothingto do with feeds, one that
responds only to resonance.Speed got her followers, but
depth gave her legacy in motion.So let's return to you, your
work, your spark. Because here'swhat's true.
The world won't remind you toprotect it, and the feed won't
(15:19):
ask if your voice is still inthe room. That's your job. So
before you open another prompt,before you write the thing that
should be said, ask yourself. DoI know where this came from, and
is it still mine? Here's onepractice I use.
Every day before I open a tool,I open a voice memo. No editing,
(15:42):
no optimizing, just the rawthought, the first flame.
Because AI can expand what'salready sparked, but it can't
strike the match. So try this.Choose one project this month,
one piece of work you'll guardlike it's sacred.
Say it out loud. Claim it inyour voice. No one else's. This
(16:05):
is only the beginning. Spark iswhere we start, but it's not
where we stay.
In the next episode, we'll talkabout friction and why the work
that stays with us isn't alwaysthe fastest, but the most felt.
We'll explore the memory of thehand, the quiet genius of
slowing down just enough toshape something that the machine
can't replicate, and we'll ask abetter question than how fast
(16:25):
can I finish this? We'll askwhat detail would I still slow
down for even if AI could finishthis in an hour? The answer to
that might be the map back tothe kind of maker that you came
here to be. Tools can finishanything, but only you can
strike the match.
The spark doesn't survive onspeed. It survives on
stewardship. So today, don'tjust publish. Don't just post.
(16:49):
Protect.
Protect the project you don'twant anyone else to define.
Protect the rhythm that nodashboard can dictate. Protect
the part of you that still knowshow to build something that no
template could ever touch. Thisis the modern renaissance. I'll
meet you where your originalitybegins, not in the feed, but in
the quiet.
Phone alarm slash render complete. Are three hooks.
Rendering thyroof make our ownfortunes and recall these times
faster. It's 6AM. You haven'topened your eyes yet, but speed
already has.
It climbs into your bed, handsyou a phone, and whispers, wake
(01:10):
up. We're all gonna be late.That silence, it wasn't a
glitch. That was the space we'vebeen missing. We live in a world
where your inbox feels fasterthan your lungs, where Siri and
Slack and seven browser tabsbeat you to the first thought,
(01:31):
where content calendars are moresacred than creativity.
Every morning, speed wakes upbefore we do. So let me be
clear. This is not a nostalgiaproject. We're not lighting
candles and pretending theprinting press or the iPhone
never happened. I'm not here towage war on artificial
intelligence.
(01:52):
In fact, at the studio, GPTdrafts our briefs, AI agents
develop new products, andcopilot ship features while we
sleep. This is the question Ikeep hearing again and again.
Will AI steal our craft? And thetruth is, it's the wrong
question. The real danger isn'tthat the machine will steal your
(02:15):
work, it's that the system willsteal your rhythm.
This episode is about choosing adifferent tempo. It's about
deciding intentionally whenspeed serves you and when it
strips something essential awaybecause we've forgotten the cost
of moving too fast, and we'velost the sacred practice of
guarding our spark. Today, wewill do three things. One, step
(02:39):
inside the real pace of acreator's day and feel the rush
inside our bones. Two, dissectthe elegant urgency engine that
got us here, AI included.
And three, we'll go backwardsfive centuries to learn what
Gutenberg's press and a singleilluminated psalter can teach us
now. By the end, I don't want toslow you down forever. I just
(03:04):
want you to remember that youget to choose. You are not a
template. You are a spark.
Her name is Maya Clark. She'snot a celebrity. She is
something much harder to be, amid level creator just trying to
hold it all together. Parteducator, part designer, part
(03:25):
digital acrobat. She lives in anEighth Floor walk up in Portland
with a pothos plant surviving bysheer willpower and a rescue dog
named Pixel, who knows moreabout screen fatigue than most
humans.
Maya isn't burned out exactly.She's just blurred. 06:07AM. Her
phone buzzes. Her thumb'salready in the camera before her
(03:46):
eyes have adjusted.
She whispers, hey, fam. Delete.Not enough energy. Try again.
Pixel licks her knuckles.
Slack chirps in the background.She hasn't even stood up yet,
but she's already live on fivemental stages. Her feed, her
channel, her email, her groupchat, her mind. 07:12, coffee in
(04:10):
hand, she types. Write me a 10tweet thread on creative
vulnerability in the style ofBrene Brown, but funnier.
Chat GPT blinks back the perfectthread in fourteen seconds, and
she pastes it in a buffer,clicks schedule, sips on her
coffee, scrolls. She feels veryclever, efficient, until it hits
her. She hasn't written a singlesentence that passed through her
(04:33):
body today. No breath behind thewords, no hesitation, no
friction, just clever. Nineforty two.
She's opening mid journey. Sheneeds a thumbnail for a YouTube
short on AI workflows. Shetypes, Renaissance marble statue
in streetwear, glitch neon,cinematic lighting. Two seconds
later, it appears. It's perfectand somehow completely empty.
(04:58):
She wonders, was it ever mine?She has no time to ask. Alt
text, upload, post. 01:15PM.She's live on a webinar.
Three attendees, commentsscrolling faster than she can
read. A GPT powered assistantanswers half of them
automatically. The audienceapplauds at the speed. Maya
(05:18):
smiles on cue but can't remembera single sentence she said.
Eleven forty seven PM.
Maya lies on the floor next toPixel, screen inches from her
face, blue halo across hercheekbones. She scrolls on her
own feed, double taps her ownpost just to make sure that the
heart still registers. It does.She doesn't. She has produced
(05:41):
more media today than her twentyfifteen self could have dreamed
in a month, and she can't quotea single line of it.
Speed, one, spark, evaporated.The gearbox, how speed became
the default. Every call I'vetaken lately starts the same
way. Speed, the pressure, theoverwhelm, the feeling that if
(06:02):
you stop moving just for abreath, you'll vanish. And by
the end of the call, it's neverreally about speed.
It's about grief. Grief for lostresonance, grief for forgotten
clarity, grief for the sensethat what you make used to mean
something, and now it just keepsthe feed warm. So let's slide
(06:23):
the back panel off this hustlemachine. No villains here. Just
gears.
Elegant, logical, brutal. Gearone, the freshness logic.
02/2009 to 02/2015. In the latetwo thousands, platforms like
Facebook and Instagram learnedsomething simple and sticky.
Freshness keeps us scrolling.
Talent was dethroned by timing,and the algorithm didn't whisper
(06:46):
create. It shouted, don't stop.Year two, the template hustle,
2013 to 2020. Next came the eraof repurpose batch post daily.
Productivity blogs turnedcontent into commodity.
Coaching funnels turned valueinto volume, and posting daily
wasn't just advice, it becamereligion. Build your pipeline,
optimize your funnel, hack themomentum, stay visible, or
(07:08):
disappear. Year three, thegenerative shift, 2022 up until
now. And then the cost ofcreation fell to zero. OpenAI
drops chat GPT.
Midjourney paints dream shapesin two seconds. Eleven Labs
speaks in your voice, and anindie creator can now do what an
entire agency once did in amonth. It's elegant, lower
(07:30):
friction, more output. Urgencybecomes virtue. Repetition
becomes strategy.
And the result? Audience,attention fragments, creators
chase fragments with morevolume. Volume dilutes depth,
and depth evaporates intodashboards. And the dashboards
whisper, post again or your linedips. And here's the cost nobody
(07:52):
warned us about.
When friction goes to zero, sodoes the imprint. Because
nothing pressed through yourmuscles, nothing passed through
your gut, and the words cameeasy but left no fingerprints on
the clay. And the result, workflows right through your hands
and then disappears before youremember what made it. This
isn't the first time a toolrewired the tempo of creation or
(08:12):
creators wonder if their pacestill had a place. Winter,
fourteen fifty, Mann's Germany,a man named Johannes Gutenberg
dips a dabber made of sheep'swool into lamp black ink.
He rolls it across a tray oflead letters and slides the tray
into a wooden press, lowers thelever. One pull. 25 impressions
(08:34):
of Psalm 23 appear where noneexisted seconds ago. His heart
beats, and words spread likefire. The printed word was
faster than quills, cheaper thanmonks, and more scalable than
sermons.
And almost overnight, Europe isflooded. Indulgences, miracle
cures, political broadsidespropaganda. Gutenberg's
(08:56):
financier, Johann Fuss, smellsprofit. Print, print, print,
regardless of what for or forwhom. Ink is the new currency,
and speed becomes the new god.
Across the channel in London,the Grey Friars, Franciscan
monks watch skeptically. They'reknown for handprinted psalters,
gold leaf, lapis lazul dust,vermilion ink. A single book can
(09:20):
take nine months. A printer cannow spit 40 leaflets in an hour.
They face a choice.
Chase speed or guard depth. Theychoose depth. They keep grinding
azurite stones into blue powder.They keep laying gold leaf so
thin that a breath could lift itaway. Printers mocked them.
(09:40):
Markets forgot them. ButSotheby's didn't. In 2011, a
Greyfire salter sold at auctionfor £5,600,000. Fuss indulgence
leaflets largely lost,discarded, and forgotten. The
printing press didn't killcraft, but it forced a doorway,
(10:03):
speed or soul, flood orfingerprint, replication or
reverence.
And the monks, they made theirchoice. So let's pause here just
(10:23):
for a moment between ink andimpact and speed and soul. Ask
yourself, in your own work, inyour own world, what is your
ink? What is your diction?Because in Gutenberg's time,
everyone had access to thepress, but only a few chose to
develop a voice.
Templates are ink. Frequency isink. Volume is ink. But voice,
(10:47):
voices carved, protected, andunmistakable. What do you make
that no machine could everguess?
Leonardo's two virgins, a lessonin time, tension, and the
courage to wait. Milan, FourteenEighty Three. A city is humming
(11:12):
with trade, politics, and thequiet pull of the sacred. And
the quiet pull of the sacred.The Confraternity of the
Immaculate Conception signs acontract with a 31 year old
artist, engineer, painter, anddreamer named Leonardo da Vinci.
They want an altarpiece, VirginMary, Baby Jesus, an angel, and
a cave. They give him tenmonths, payment in three
(11:33):
installments, clear, commercial,and urgent. Leonardo accepts and
then disappears into theLombardy countryside. He is
spotted sketching riverbeds,kneeling in damp caves, studying
how water curls through thelimestone, how light filters
through the mist. He buys cagedbirds only to study the tremor
of their wings before release.
Months pass, no paintingarrives, the confraternity sues,
(11:55):
and under pressure, Leonardoreturns and produces the work,
fast, brilliant, andtheologically incorrect. The
Christ child looks too playful,the angel too knowing. Payment
is withheld and the reputationbruised. Most artists would rush
a correction. Leonardo does theunthinkable.
He slows down even more. Twodecades pass. No looming
(12:21):
deadline, no client breathingdown his neck, Just a second
chance and silence. He beginsagain. Same figures.
Mary, Jesus, angel, cave. Andnow the light isn't just
painted. It remembers. Itremembers the haze of those
Lombardi Caves. It remembers thebotanic details sketched into
his many notebooks.
(12:42):
Each plant so precise thatmodern scientists can still
identify the species. Itremembers the muscles beneath
the angel's skin because hedissected them, because he
watched how breath shaped bone,how sorrow shaped gaze, and the
result, a painting thatbreathes. Both versions now hang
in the National Gallery inLondon. Crowds orbit the first,
(13:05):
but linger at the second. Museumdata confirms it.
Dwell time, double. Why? Becausethe sacred one transmits
something the first couldn't.Paste became pigment. Time
became texture.
And Leonardo didn't rejectdeadlines. He renegotiated them
with reality. He crossed thethreshold, chose depth, and
(13:26):
history keeps the receipts. Whathappens when a creator trades
speed for soul in real time?Fast forward to 2024.
Different era, same dilemma.Lana Ramos is a cooking creator,
three point one millionfollowers on TikTok, known for
high speed, high style recipereels, fifteen seconds, fast
(13:48):
cuts, neon lighting. Her handsmove like choreography, and her
captions crackle. And then shedisappears. Three weeks.
No uploads. No stories. Nonoise. What her audience doesn't
know is that she's retreated toher grandmother's kitchen,
relearning fire, rewritingmemory, making broth the way it
(14:09):
was made before everything spedup. She films none of it until
the final day.
A single ten minute short, herhands slow now, her voice
quieter, and she tells the storyof the broth bubble by bubble
where the spice blend came from,who whispered the ingredients
across generations. Why? Shepaused. And the views, one tenth
(14:35):
her usual. And then then camethe emails from a heritage food
nonprofit, from a documentaryproducer, from a publisher who
wanted to write, not just post,from her grandma.
The audience shifted, notsmaller, not deeper. A new
(14:56):
algorithm, one that had nothingto do with feeds, one that
responds only to resonance.Speed got her followers, but
depth gave her legacy in motion.So let's return to you, your
work, your spark. Because here'swhat's true.
The world won't remind you toprotect it, and the feed won't
(15:19):
ask if your voice is still inthe room. That's your job. So
before you open another prompt,before you write the thing that
should be said, ask yourself. DoI know where this came from, and
is it still mine? Here's onepractice I use.
Every day before I open a tool,I open a voice memo. No editing,
(15:42):
no optimizing, just the rawthought, the first flame.
Because AI can expand what'salready sparked, but it can't
strike the match. So try this.Choose one project this month,
one piece of work you'll guardlike it's sacred.
Say it out loud. Claim it inyour voice. No one else's. This
(16:05):
is only the beginning. Spark iswhere we start, but it's not
where we stay.
In the next episode, we'll talkabout friction and why the work
that stays with us isn't alwaysthe fastest, but the most felt.
We'll explore the memory of thehand, the quiet genius of
slowing down just enough toshape something that the machine
can't replicate, and we'll ask abetter question than how fast
(16:25):
can I finish this? We'll askwhat detail would I still slow
down for even if AI could finishthis in an hour? The answer to
that might be the map back tothe kind of maker that you came
here to be. Tools can finishanything, but only you can
strike the match.
The spark doesn't survive onspeed. It survives on
stewardship. So today, don'tjust publish. Don't just post.
(16:49):
Protect.
Protect the project you don'twant anyone else to define.
Protect the rhythm that nodashboard can dictate. Protect
the part of you that still knowshow to build something that no
template could ever touch. Thisis the modern renaissance. I'll
meet you where your originalitybegins, not in the feed, but in
the quiet.
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