I turned 28 this week and have begun to find that my life and those of my peers seems to have come to a fork in the road. The ones who live in the general area I’m calling “not London” have taken one fork in the path, while those of us in the “London” camp are voyaging down a different route. Every now and again I get a reminder from the people on the other track that things are diverging even quicker than I thought.
I moved to London four years ago, primarily for my career – I’m a web developer with an interest in working for media organisations, and both of those industries tend to align themselves to capital cities. Likewise, my partner Maddy: she’s worked for a succession of charities who also tend to base themselves in major cities like London.
I have a bunch of friends here in London and a similarly-sized group back in Nottingham where I grew up. While both groups consist of people (mostly in couples these days) aged in their mid-to-late 20s, the differences are becoming more and more striking.
Almost all of the “serious” couples I know back home in Nottingham are already homeowners, or at least, well on the way to becoming one. Quite a few are married, and a few weeks ago, one of my closest friends revealed that he and his fiancee are expecting a child. This is the first of my best friends to enter this phase of the relationship (end?)game and won’t be the last. I can’t begin to imagine the same things happening in my London circle.
In London, my friends of my own age are almost exclusively renting, paying over the odds for small, random flatshares in a variety of areas. One or two somehow own places (I’ve always assumed this is down to improbable good fortune or simply support from their parents), but everybody else is in the same position I am: stuck in the 12 month rental contract cycle. As for pregnancy: nobody. Or at least, nobody I can think of in that mid-to-late 20s group.
Maybe that’s normal: living and working in a city like London is likely to mean that you’re more career-minded than someone living somewhere more provincial, and thus starting a family is probably lower on your agenda. But if Maddy and I decided tomorrow that we were ready to have kids, I’d still be completely unprepared to make it happen: we’re renting a flat where the landlord could boot us out on a month’s notice, and by August 2015 we’ll be out whether or not we want to be (assuming the landlord raises the rent to an unaffordable level, as has happened almost everywhere else we’ve lived in the capital). What kind of environment is that to bring up a child in?
It’s worth pointing out here that I do have a bunch of slightly older friends in London who hover around the mid-to-late 30s/early 40s mark. Quite a few of these have kids and own their own places. Here I can only conclude that they managed to do so when the housing climate in London wasn’t nearly as insane as it is in 2014, and the majority live outside London (or further out than zone 3) which tends to reduces the cost of living on its own.
The divergence between these two groups was made clear to me when my friends revealed their pregnancy: I literally can’t imagine it happening to us, or to any of our couple friends. I know there’s a cliché of “there’s never a good time to have kids” and I’m sure it’s true. But as much as I love London, I can’t see how it will figure in my future. I’m being priced out of a city I love and even if I did have a spare £40k lying around for a deposit (or the mental energy to save that much up), I’d feel morally opposed to blowing it all on a one bed flat in a shitty part of town you’d never look twice at if it didn’t have a 30 minute connection to Kings Cross.
What’s the answer? Clearly people can and do bring up children in London and buy homes and I’m fortunate enough to be better off than many of the people struggling to do just that. But while I’m feeling smug about London’s cultural heritage and career opportunities compared to other UK cities, my homebody friends back in the north are settling down and starting families while I feel like my development on that front is on pause as long as I live here. I have no idea what I’m going to do next.
Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about software team morale. I’ve switched teams a couple of times so far this year at work and have had a fairly different experience on each one. Some were large (10+ people), some small (3 people, one on a different continent) and each has had its own mix of positives and negatives. Morale varied: some were doing well, others had issues on and off. The team I’m currently on seems to have found a way to make sure the positives outweigh everything else. How have they managed this? Selfies.
I’m being entirely serious: the majority of GitHub pull requests on the team feature animated gif selfies, recorded via webcams using the ingenious GitHub Selfies browser plugin. Here’s an example:
When I first joined the team, someone explained that it was semi-mandatory to include a mildly-relevant gif along with a pull request or comment. Here’s my nervous first foray into GitHub selfies:
Initially I was bemused. This was just a bit of fun, a sort of initiation ceremony for a new member on an established team. But as time wore on I noticed that the team (and gradually, me) were putting in a good amount of effort into producing stuff that was entertaining, clever and endearing. Here are some of my favourites, along with the contents of the code changes:
I made a pull request making some changes to the footer (get it?):
Will hilariously responded:
Will swapped out one card processing system for another:
Jenny and Will did some work to swap over user credentials (this one took some serious co-ordination):
Will removed a “friend” tier from the app
Roberto and Will refactored payment flows:
I did a few quick fixes; Will gave his approval:
Ben removed an “optimisation”
I fixed something for stupid IE9:
Chris corrected an embarrassing error:
Will playing a ukulele (I don’t think there was a good reason for this):
The key impact here for me is that I now actively look forward to pull requests, and put some thought into how I can present mine to the rest of my team. Obviously there’s a risk that you end up spending more time thinking about funny animated gif selfies than you do about the actual code, but in practice it doesn’t work like that for us – we’re on quite a strict deadline and I genuinely believe if we didn’t have something like this to lighten the mood then we’d all be tense and snapping at each other.
On previous teams I’d come to dread code reviews: developers can sometimes (often, even) be terrible communicators. The whole “asynchronous communication” thing makes total sense when working in private on something difficult, but when it comes to collaboration, the situation where somebody sat three feet away from you is tearing apart your code can be quite difficult to manage. Sometimes it becomes easy to forget that the person producing the code is a human being with needs and emotions, rather than just a factory producing code that either is or isn’t up to scratch.
These animations and jokes have really helped my team bond: there’s a camaraderie, a sense of playfulness: it’s impossible to forget that a person is at the other end of these things and is submitting their work (and therefore, themselves) for your judgement. Making it a little more friendly and personable is so, so crucial. The web is playful at its very core: it’s a creative, experimental medium. This kind of thing is part of the whimsy and humanness that sits atop the whole thing: it’s silly, but it really works.
Mostly to avoid this post being solely comprised of gifs (good though they are), I asked some developer friends for their thoughts and got some smart tweets back:
@mattpointblank … tend to be more able to come to sensible solutions without hurting each other's feelings in face to face conversation.
I put stuff in pull requests that I know isn’t perfect, because nothing is perfect. Really what you’re aiming for is some collective level of OK-ness. Someone told me “think of the pull request comments as a to-do list” rather than a list of every single thing you cocked up, with which to flagellate yourself. This helps me now, but it took a long time to sink in. As a result, if I’m giving feedback on a pull request, I always go find the person first and check how they’d best like the feedback, sometimes I’ll offer to pair with them on it, or email them feedback privately. I think it’s polite to give people options.
This kind of thing, too, is so crucial. It all comes down to the same thing, I think: treating people like human beings, who make mistakes, have mostly good intentions, and are your friends (or, at least, colleagues…). Sometimes it’s easy to just treat someone as though they are their code. When there’s an animated gif of them playing the ukulele, you’re reminded right away that there’s more to them than that.
I teach a Guardian Masterclass as part of their “Digital Journalism Bootcamp” course. Specifically, my part of the month-long class is a 90 minute workshop aimed at journalists, outlining how developers work, what they do, and how they use process to organise work (there’s an Agile taster session). There are also some more general tips on how to get on with a type of person who’s traditionally seen as a bit grumpy, difficult to communicate with, or even hostile.
In this latter section, I found myself being challenged by one vocal member of the group who interrupted me a few times to point out that “I do that too”, particularly during a section on the cost of context-switching. I was talking through a slide which looked like this:
I was beginning to say something about the situation where a developer is juggling multiple things in their head at any one time, and how costly it can be when someone comes along and interrupts that flow. She spoke up to say that when dealing with clients, for example, she too is often juggling multiple things around. I tried to fumble an example of how a developer may be thinking about variable scope, cross-browser API implementation, an outstanding pull request to review and remembering which branch to commit on – all at the same time – but to a non-technical audience this was quite a challenge to explain.
It did get me thinking, though. I have other slides in this section dealing with the developer clichés: don’t fill their calendar with meetings; don’t disturb them when they have headphones on; keep communications brief and ideally asynchronous. But why do any of these things apply specifically to developers?
This same woman had challenged me earlier in the session when I hinted at some of these points and she suggested developers were “just being precious”. I conceded this, saying that because of their (likely) introvert personas, sometimes humouring them with this was the way to achieve results. This resulted in some challenging questions from another attendee at the end who felt I was telling them to “pander” to developers. Again, I was left wondering why we talk about things in this way.
Developers (“makers”) aren’t some special race of superhumans, whose every sensitivity and quirk needs to be preciously catered for. We’re normal people and shouldn’t be made to feel otherwise. Developers love to scoff at project managers and HR people, clogging up important coding hours with pointless meetings and busywork. Again, while there’s some truth to that, it’s also supremely arrogant to label ourselves as somehow above the systems everyone else works with (grudgingly or not).
Maybe my slides are just plain wrong and these tips just apply to people in general. But when researching the talk and reading up on other people’s top tips for productive relationships with developers, these were the kind of points being raised time and time again. Do we really think that as a profession we deserve special treatment?
The woman at the end suggested there was some give and take in both directions, which I agreed with, pointing out I was teaching a class to journalists about working with developers, and not vice-versa. Still though: why do you think we treat developers like their needs are special and different from others? How much of this is really true?
It was one of those fateful moments where you catch yourself thinking “how difficult could it be?”.
It’s been ten years (almost eleven now) since I started Scene Point Blank, the online music zine which came to define my late teens and the eventual career path I’d choose. It started out as a collective of music-loving nerds from an online messageboard writing about punk and hardcore. The website branched out and expanded and a decade later we were wondering what we could do to celebrate ten years of publishing.Since our roots were in the punk publishing world of fanzines, we talked about producing a print zine for the tenth anniversary. Eventually we rejected this due to the complexity of distribution and up-front printing costs. Scene Point Blank isn’t a profitable venture and we didn’t want to have to learn complex lessons about shipping product and fulfilling orders.
It was around this time that I remembered that Kindle books are literally a zip file containing HTML, CSS and image files. This is pretty much all the content of Scene Point Blank is. How hard could it be to just write a quick template to spit out eBook-friendly markup and publish the thing?
Quite hard in places, it turns out.
The decision to publish for e-readers was expanded by the discovery of lulu.com, a self-publishing platform. Lulu offer a print-on-demand service: you upload a PDF, your users buy it, and a single copy is printed somewhere near their location and mailed to them. It’s basically vanity publishing and the cost per unit is so high that it’s probably non-profit publishing too, but our goal wasn’t to make money, but simply to have a book of our best work that people might read.
This changed things a little. While it’s certainly possible to convert HTML into a PDF, I didn’t want to have a print edition of the book which was an afterthought. Dusting off my copy of InDesign, I decided to return to the skills of my former job as a graphic designer and actually create a proper print edition.
Next I discovered that Amazon offers an “Export to Kindle” plugin for InDesign. A few quick experiments revealed that the output of this tool was pretty decent for our needs: we weren’t using any images (mainly due to copyright concerns about things like album artwork and press photography) and it handled typography pretty well. My strategy became: design the book for print, then export a Kindle version from that.
This almost worked. I reacquainted myself with InDesign and printed pages of proofs to test font families, line spacing and margins. There are a lot of things I’d forgotten about that ended up being important concerns for a well-typeset book:
1. Inside margins need to be larger than outside ones to compensate for the spine/fold:
2. Hanging punctuation probably belongs on the outside of the margins otherwise justified text looks a little unusual:
3. Hard linebreaks between paragraphs look good on the web, but weird in print: the job of replacing them all was a tricky one (but luckily, InDesign supports regexes):
4. Widows and orphans are difficult to fix automatically (eg. without actually editing text) unless you’re happy to sacrifice consistent tracking (which you shouldn’t be):
Getting this right wasn’t impossible but took a fair bit of trial and error. It wasn’t until I received the first test print of the book from Lulu before I could find out if some of my work was usable or not. It turned out that the chapter intro pages I thought looked great onscreen looked a bit rubbish in print:
The cover was another thing I made a mess of initially: like a fool I forgot to account for the spine (perhaps because the magazine I worked for as a designer wasn’t bound with one) and so when it came to uploading the cover my design was several centimetres short. I quickly added one but the fact that its width was variable because of my page count meant I had to wait till all the book’s content was finalised to confirm its dimensions.
Generating a table of contents was also problematic: I’d used InDesign’s paragraph styles religiously, but perhaps not in the way it wanted me to: for our album reviews I typeset them like this:
This meant that when generating the ToC I couldn’t achieve an output of “Janelle Monáe – The ArchAndroid”: InDesign would treat each entity as a separate (but duplicate) page reference. After giving up finding a smarter solution I ended up manually curating the ToC, which has left me wary of changing the page numbering (and therefore most of the content).
The Kindle aspect became more difficult at this point. The aforementioned chapter pages became more of a challenge for the e-reader. Although Amazon’s plugin didn’t attempt to recreate the shaded background or circle shape, it did do weird things to the type in terms of pagebreak locations and heading sizes. I tried playing with the export options to no avail and began to investigate InDesign’s methods of outputting different layouts.
It turns out InDesign has several different methods for varying content:
Alternate Layout, which lets you keep the content but lay it out for another device or dimension, which seemed exactly what I needed. Amazon’s plugin ignored this completely when exporting: back to the drawing board.
Next I tried Conditional Text, seeing if I could just change a variable (e.g. print=true) when exporting and supply different text fields to the Kindle edition. Again, Amazon’s plugin ignored this. I could generate PDFs happily using these techniques, but I wanted the pure . format as exported by Amazon, presuming it would be the most “correct” format.
Object States seemed like another solid option: surely I could use them to just change the visual styles for the problematic pages at export time? Nope: once again, meaningless to Amazon’s plugin.
In the end I gave up and did the thing I’d been worrying I’d have to do: duplicated the entire document, saved it as “Kindle Edition”, and made the changes manually. The whole reason for doing it this way to begin with was so I could make changes in one place and export to all platforms. That dream had died with my chapter headings.
In the end, I think it was the right call. There was a certain feeling of liberation: every time I changed things in the print edition I didn’t have to spend five minutes nervously exporting to Kindle to check I hadn’t broken something. The problematic ToC became less of an issue as I could manually edit the print one but fix the auto-generated one for Kindle without butchering the printed version. Page breaks that worked in print but felt pointless on the Kindle were removed and vice-versa. The thing I’d been worrying most about – fixing typos and editing content in multiple formats – was rarely an issue. Maybe this was down to fairly diligent spellchecking before forking the document, or just luck (or ignorance).
Finally, it was time to actually publish the things. Lulu provides you with an ISBN for free when using their service, which was nice and helped me feel like the process was legitimate. They also allow you to set the book price, but it must be above a minimum, which is their printing costs + their own cut of profits, I assume. Our minimum for a ~350 page book was £9.20, which is fairly steep for a paperback, but we set it at £9.50 and on we went. Once the PDF was uploaded it was available to buy: vanity publishing, no question.
Amazon was interesting: I thought it’d take a while for it to be approved for sale. As it turned out it took less than a day. An automated scan came back after I uploaded the .mobi file, which pointed out typos I’d missed. These fixed, I resubmitted and suddenly there it was, on Amazon. I had to fill out some lengthy tax information for the US taxman, despite my bank account being a UK one, which meant I had to guess at some of the values and acronyms used in this form. I also had to create a separate author profile for each country Amazon operates in: this seemed sensible, in that you may wish to tailor these to each market/language, but it would’ve been helpful to have an “Import from Amazon.com” option when editing the UK profile.
All in all, the process was more complex than I naïvely expected. I think I would have ultimately saved time if I’d forked the book earlier and avoided trying to reach the “purity” of a single input with multiple outputs. I suppose I could’ve simply published the Kindle edition as HTML/CSS and hand-tweaked it, but life’s too short when the content is 115,000 words long.
For all the vanity publishing jokes, Lulu is a great service. The price is fairly competitive given that it’s printed on demand, and the quality was fairly good (I could’ve picked more expensive paper stocks and dimensions but was aiming for a sub-£10 product). Getting an ISBN helped make it feel more “real” (Amazon doesn’t require these for Kindle self-publishing) and although I found them slow, their tools for uploading and managing content were pretty usable.
If I was to do it all again I’d have accepted that publishing multiple formats is too different to expect one tool to process them all. That said though, it’s almost trivially simple to get something online and for sale. It’s easier than ever to publish your stuff, so why aren’t you doing it too?