A Little Selfish
I said no to three projects yesterday.
It's not that I couldn't do them.
I could have. I could have made the time. I could have done the work.
I just didn’t want to.
Not because they weren’t good projects. They just weren’t good projects for me.
What if You Need the Money
You’ve probably heard the advice from Derek Sivers:
“If you’re not saying HELL YEAH! to something, say no.”
It’s everywhere. And for good reason. It’s clean. It’s clear. It’s helped shape my own 3Ps framework. If you’ve got too much on your plate, this kind of clarity can be a lifesaver.
But.
What if you need the money?
What if it’s not your dream project, but the mortgage is due?
What if the client gives you a weird vibe, but your finances aren't aligned with your ideals right now?
What if it’s underpriced… but still better than nothing?
It’s okay to say yes when you need the money.
It doesn’t make you a failure. It doesn’t mean you’re betraying your values.
It means you’re surviving.
But do it with your eyes open.
Know why you’re saying yes.
Own it.
Show up like a pro.
Do great work.
And then, as soon as you can, come back to your deeper goals.
Come back to the kind of work you really want to be doing.
Come back to the kind of clients who see you.
Come back to your price point. Your standards. Your art.
Because the danger isn’t saying yes when you're broke.
The danger is getting stuck there.
Getting used to that low-level panic.
Letting it define you.
The 3Ps aren’t about pretending money doesn’t matter.
They’re about building a life where all three—People, Project, Price—line up.
Where you're not just surviving, but doing your best work for the right reasons.
So if you need to say yes today, say yes.
Just don’t lose sight of the Hell Yes you’re working toward.
Something I Thought I Wanted
A huge shop.
A fleet of trucks.
All the machines, with all the attachments, and trailers to pull them.
A big crew.
Big.
Big time.
For a long time, I tried to convince myself that’s what I wanted.
Isn’t that what success looks like?
Don’t you have to be big to prove you’ve made it?
Don’t you have to be the biggest to be the best?
Don’t you have to be the best to be successful?
I don’t think I ever really wanted it.
Maybe for a minute.
But deep down, I think I always knew that road wasn’t mine.
There’s nothing wrong with wanting to build something big,
with dreaming in scale, with growing a company.
I admire it. I really do.
Just because we have different dreams doesn’t mean I can’t root for yours.
Maintenance
After my grandfather died, my dad ended up with his hand tools. They sat in a black metal toolbox in the basement. Neatly arranged. A little worn. Waiting.
Eventually, they found their way to me. And I ruined them.
I got cement on some and never cleaned them off. Others sat damp too long and rusted out. I think most of them got thrown away.
I look back now with shame. I let down my lineage. I wish I could go back and take better care of those things.
But I can't. And I still haven’t fully learned the lesson.
There are two stone hammers waiting for new handles on the counter by our front door. I’ve walked past them a dozen times a day for the last three months. Still, there they sit.
My chisels are dull and the heads are mushroomed beyond saving. The registration is overdue on the one-ton. The excavator needs a service.
I get so caught up in the work itself, I neglect the things that support the work. They’re just as important. I know that.
But trade-offs have to be made, right? There are only so many hours in a day.
And... I’m rationalizing. I know I am.
It’s a flaw. One I’m well aware of. I don’t know where it comes from. Or maybe I do, but I haven’t wanted to look too closely.
I know when I close this laptop I should re-handle those hammers. I should sharpen the chisels. I should schedule the service.
But not today.
On Being Seen
I can post a photo of a finished project on Instagram without thinking twice. A perfectly fit joint, a pile of waiting-to-be-laid-stone, the shape of a curved wall. That kind of sharing feels safe.
But sharing something deeper? A line from a blog post? A reflection on the hopes and dreams and fears and disappointments that go with the work? That feels riskier.
Here on SassoStones, with its more reflective tone and space for nuance, there's room to get into deeper waters.
But sharing it with a bigger audience? On social media? It feels like being seen.
Why is that so scary for some of us?
I know what I would say to someone going through the same thing (I’m sure I’m not alone in this). Vulnerability builds connection. Sharing your real voice is how the right people tend to find you.
But advice is easier to give than to follow.
There’s still a moment, right before I hit post, where my finger hovers. And I wonder if I should just stick to the stone.
Resistance is Always There
Steven Pressfield describes Resistance as an invisible force that shows up whenever we try to do something bold, creative, or meaningful. It’s the thing that whispers excuses, delays action, feeds self-doubt, and keeps us from starting—or finishing—the work that matters most.
Ever since I read and reread his books, I can’t help but notice all the ways Resistance shows up in my own life. It rears it’s head anytime I try to do something that feels important. It’s there when I overthink, avoid, delay, distract, scroll, tidy, tweak, or suddenly convince myself that now isn’t the right time.
I feel it as much with my stonework as I do with my writing.
At this particular moment, it’s showing up like this: I have an idea I want to pitch to a former client—completely unsolicited—for an artistic stone installation on their property. I’m afraid they’ll say no, so I’m dragging my feet.
Resistance often shows up in layers. I’m also afraid the idea won’t be any good. I tell myself I can’t draw well enough to explain it to my graphic designer. And even if we nail the design and they say yes, can I even build this thing? Am I good enough? Do I even know what I’m doing? And if, by some miracle, all of that works out—will I charge enough to make it worthwhile?
Probably better not to even start.
That’s how Resistance kills your best ideas. Not with a single loud “no,” but with a steady, quiet chorus of “maybe not.” Especially the ideas that require something bold. Something that asks us to grow. To change.
I have a book I’m working on. Actually, let me rephrase that—I have an idea for a book. I haven’t started working on it yet. I’m not ready. I need to gather more information. I need to write more blog posts first. Build a bigger audience. Someday I’ll be ready to begin. Someday. Just… not today.
Pressfield is right. Resistance is insidious. And ever-present.
But there is a cure.
It’s showing up, day after day, and doing the work. It’s sitting down and doing a shitty sketch of that wall. It’s writing an unreadable first draft of the first chapter of that book. It’s starting instead of getting ready to start.
If this resonates, I recommend reading (or rereading) Steven Pressfield’s books. They’ve helped me recoginze Resistance when it shows up, and reminded me that it can be beat, but only through action:
They’re short, sharp, and worth keeping close. I find myself coming back to them again and again.
Heads up: These are affiliate links. If you buy something, I might earn a small commission—at no extra cost to you. It helps support the writing, and I only recommend things I believe in.
3Ps in Action: FOMO
-a series where I work through the decision-making process on real projects-
I know I should say no to this project.
But knowing you should do something and actually doing it are two very different things.
I’m hesitant to say no because I’m afraid.
Afraid that if I say no, I’ll lose my status as their go-to guy.
Afraid I’ll disappoint the people involved—people I like.
Afraid I’ll miss out on future opportunities.
When I stop and write those fears down, they seem silly.
And they are. But they’re also real.
Just because they’re real doesn’t mean I have to obey them.
Saying no can feel risky.
It takes faith that something better aligned will come along.
It takes letting go. Letting go of people-pleasing. Letting go of wanting to save the day. Letting go of FOMO.
If, or rather, when I say no to this project, the world won’t stop spinning.
They’ll find someone else. Hopefully someone better suited for the work.
The people involved won’t lose sleep over it.
We tend to exaggerate the weight of our own decisions.
In most cases, no one really cares. It’s not a big deal.
I might miss out on future work. I might not.
There’s no way to know.
What I do know is this: this project isn’t something I’m excited about, or even particularly good at.
It’s foolish to think that by saying yes to something only tangentially related to the work I want to be doing, they’ll think of me for something truly aligned later on.
People can’t read your mind.
They can’t see your secret heart.
You have to show them.
It’s Not Your Price
Hard to believe, but I made a mistake in the last post.
I put a lot of emphasis on the idea that your price isn’t you.
What I meant to say was: the price.
This small shift in wording matters more than it seems.
When we label something as “ours,” it becomes part of our identity. That’s my team. That’s my political party. That’s my favorite ice cream. It becomes part of who we are.
And once something is tied to our identity, it gets a lot harder to think clearly about it.
If someone talks trash about your favorite football team, it feels personal. Because it’s your team, their insult becomes an insult to you.
The same thing happens with pricing.
When I present my number to a client and they say yes, it doesn’t just feel like a yes to the project. It feels like a yes to me. A confirmation of my value.
The bigger the number, the more I must be worth.
But if they say no?
Now it feels like a rejection of me. Not just my price. Me.
Suddenly I’m not worth that much. I’m not valuable. I was foolish for even thinking I might be.
Of course, none of this is real. It’s a story we make up in our heads.
The client isn’t assigning you a moral value. They’re not judging your humanity or your creative worth. They’re trying to figure out if they can afford a new walkway.
It’s not about you.
It’s not personal.
It’s just the price.
Still, separating yourself from that number is easier said than done. I haven’t mastered it. But I have found one simple shift that helps:
Change the words you use.
It’s not your number. It’s the number.
It’s not your price. It’s the price.
It’s not your estimate. It’s the cost.
It’s a small shift. But it helps keep your identity out of the estimate. And that keeps you clear-headed, confident, and free to price the work properly.
Your Price Isn’t You
You’re putting together a quote for a new project.
You’ve added up the labor, the materials, and the hidden costs that always creep in.
You’ve built in a line for profit so you can do your best work, not just survive.
And then, just before hitting send, the doubt creeps in.
That’s a lot of money.
Can I really charge this?
What if they say no?
What if they think I’m greedy?
What if I’m not worth that much?
I’ve been there. Still go there sometimes.
Pricing can feel personal. But it’s not.
Your price isn’t you.
It’s not a reflection of your worth as a person.
It’s just a number.
A number that allows you to show up fully, to do your best work, and to deliver something you're proud of.
If you're pricing it the right way, that number would be the same no matter who the client is.
It’s the number it takes for you to do the job right.
If a client can’t afford that number, that doesn’t mean your price is too high.
It means their budget doesn’t align with the work.
That’s not personal either.
It doesn’t make the client a bad person any more than it means you overpriced your work.
It’s just a number.
When you blur the line between your identity and your price, everything gets muddled.
You second-guess.
You feel guilt.
You lower your number to feel safe or liked.
And in the process, you undercut your work, your energy, your ability to serve.
So the next time you’re tempted to reduce your price just to be agreeable, remind yourself:
Your price is not a personality trait.
It’s not a moral statement.
It’s not a character flaw.
It’s a number.
And if it’s the number you need to do great work, then it’s the right number.
On Pricing
Let’s talk about pricing.
Not in terms of spreadsheets or tax prep. I’m not an accountant, and this isn’t a math lesson. It’s about our relationship to money and the value of our work.
For years, I undercharged my work. It wasn’t some secret sales technique. I was scared. Scared I wouldn’t get the job. Scared of rejection. Scared of disappointing the client.
So I’d trim the number and tell myself I’d “make it work.”
Plot twist: I didn’t make it work. I made it worse.
When you don’t charge enough:
The work suffers.
You rush.
You cut corners.
You start resenting the project.
You stop thinking creatively.
You just want to get it done and get out.
Even if you love the work itself, undercharging puts you in survival mode. And you can’t do your best work from there.
You can’t build beautiful things when you’re stressed about bills. You can’t create magic when you’re running on fumes. You can’t give your clients the best of you when you're worrying about how to cover payroll or fix your truck.
Pricing properly isn’t greed. It’s the opposite. Pricing well is how you show up fully. It’s how you honor the work and the people you're doing it for.
A healthy price means:
You can hire good help.
You can buy the best materials.
You have the space to solve problems creatively.
You can do your best work. Work you’re proud of.
You can give the project your full attention and energy.
It’s not personal. The number you send in your estimate isn’t a declaration of your self-worth. It’s not even “your number.” It’s the number. The one it takes to do the job right.
And if a client says no to that number, it doesn’t mean you're overcharging. It doesn’t mean you’re not worth that number. It just means your price and their budget didn’t align.
That’s all.
You don’t owe anyone a discount. But you do owe the work the price it takes to do it well.
So price for your best work. Not your worst fears.
Pop Quiz
Let’s do some math.
Not the kind you learned in school. The kind that hits you one quiet morning when you realize you won’t get to do this forever.
I'm forty-six. How many more years of stonework do I have left in me? No one knows how much time they’ve got, for anything, let alone stonework. But let’s take a guess.
Could I keep doing this physical work for another ten years? Maybe. If I stay healthy. If I take care of myself.
Fifteen? That puts me at sixty-one, which is wild to think about. But yeah, with some luck—good or bad, depending on how you look at it—it’s possible.
Twenty more years? I’d be sixty-six. There are guys still at it at that age. They’re rare, but they’re out there. Maybe I’ll be one of the few who gets that chance.
More than twenty? Well, my dad is 83 and still lobstering. It’s not out of the realm of possibility. Let’s say I get that kind of stretch. That’s generous.
Last year I worked on four projects. Some years, it's less. But let’s call four the average. That means I have, at most, eighty projects left in me.
Eighty.
Fifteen more years? Sixty projects.
Ten more years? Forty.
Somewhere between 0 and 80 projects. And that number is shrinking every day.
So here’s the question I’m asking myself:
Shouldn’t I make those projects count?
Shouldn’t I choose the ones that turn me on?
The ones that light me up?
And if they don’t show up on their own, shouldn’t I go make them happen?
I’m not talking about a frantic sprint. This isn’t about saying yes to everything in a panic. It’s about finding clarity. It’s about getting clear on what you want. It’s about taking responsibility for your choices.
For me, for however many projects I have left, that means this:
Work with great people.
Take on projects I love.
Charge enough to live well and do my best work.
How many projects do you have left?
What are you going to do with them?
Two Out of Three IS Bad
The people were great and the money was good.
It was a project with a respected, high-end contracting firm I’d been wanting to build a relationship with. I priced the job properly and brought in a team of top-tier subcontractors to help me with the work.
People and pricing were on point.
But the project itself?
It was… fine. It wasn’t bad. It just didn’t line up with the kind of work I want to be doing. I took the job anyway. I wasn’t excited about it, but I thought it might lead to better things later on.
Once the project started, I realized my mistake. I tried to fake enthusiasm, but I couldn’t. I got bored. Every little obstacle felt like a mountain. I just wanted to get it done and move on. And the quality of the work reflected that.
We did a good job. A quality job. A professional job.
But it wasn’t…exceptional.
And that’s what I want to do.
That’s what the client deserves.
They deserved someone who wanted to be there.
Someone who was lit up by the work.
Someone who would give it everything.
This time, that wasn’t me. And that’s why I should have said no.
I’m not proud of that. But I did learn something.
Before we wrapped up, the contractor asked me to bid on another project. It enticed my ego. Private island. Semi-celebrity client. Good money.
But the work itself? Same story.
Not aligned. Not for me.
This time, I said no.
I wasn’t going to say yes to something I didn’t really want again in hopes it would lead to something better someday.
That’s not how it works.
You don’t get to do the work you love by saying yes to the work you don’t.
I said no. The world didn’t end. The contractor respected it.
And now, a few years later, we’re working together on a project that actually fits.
Pain Point
It was the worst project I ever took on. And I’m grateful for it.
Winter was coming, and I didn’t have much work lined up. The guy helping me at the time was relying on a steady paycheck. And rightfully so. So when a project came along that would keep us busy all winter, I said yes. Even though, from the very first meeting, something in me was saying no.
I didn’t listen.
The work didn’t excite me.
The people—the client and the contractor—were a nightmare. I don’t say that lightly.
And the price? I underbid the job I didn’t even want because I was afraid I’d lose it.
I told myself I needed it. I told myself I’d make it work.
I was wrong.
Every day on that job made me feel smaller. Less creative. More resentful. My helper nearly quit. I wasn’t making money. I hated the work. And the people. And myself a little bit for taking it on.
As bad as it was, I needed that project. Not to survive the winter, but to change my life. The pain of that project showed me how far I’d drifted from the kind of work I wanted to be doing. And who was to blame for that.
Not the client.
Not the contractor.
Me.
Another Wave
It’s tempting to say yes to every project that comes your way.
I have some white space in my schedule right now. In January, I was excited about it. It felt like an adventure, uncharted territory where something magical might happen. That white space looked like a fluffy summer cloud where my stone dreams would come true.
But here in the early days of April, instead of inspiring dreams, that white space is inducing the slightest tinge of anxiety.
What if nothing comes along?
There’s a lot of uncertainty in the world right now.
What if this is the year things dry up?
I don’t judge myself for those thoughts. It’s a perfectly human response to uncertainty. And as much as I love talking about leaving room for dream clients and epic projects, the fragile, finite human in me craves the safety of a tightly booked schedule I can wrap around my worries like a blankie.
I’ve had inquiries. There’s still potential work coming in. But I’m staying firm and saying no to things that aren’t a good fit. I’m not ready to settle.
I have faith there’ll be another wave.
I never learned to surf when I lived in Hawaii, but I enjoyed watching people glide across the water. I noticed something: most of surfing is struggling through the surf to get to where the waves are—and then waiting. Waiting for the right one.
Sometimes the waves are steady and plentiful.
Sometimes they’re few and far between.
Sometimes they seem like a waste of time.
Sometimes they’re monsters. Riding them will either lead you to greatness or take you under.
But no matter what, there’s always another one.
So be patient. Be selective. Don’t panic.
Another wave is coming.
Spring Training
I don’t watch much baseball these days, but there’s something about spring training that still stirs a little excitement and nostalgia in me. It’s a sign of spring. A sign of warmer days ahead. And a reminder of all those carefree afternoons on the field with my friends and, even better, in the backyard with my dad.
I used to think spring training was just about getting back into shape after a long winter off. Now I see it differently.
Professional athletes don’t stop training once they make it to the big leagues. If anything, they double down. They train harder. Study more. Fine-tune every part of their game to keep their edge. To stay sharp. To stay in it.
At least the great ones do.
I’ve been doing stonework for a long time. Long enough to call myself a pro—even if some might argue that point, especially after watching me try to back a trailer down a long, tight driveway. But that doesn't mean I get to stop training. If anything, it means I need to train harder because I'm more aware of all the areas where I could keep improving.
I didn’t take the winter off. I don’t need to “get back in shape.” But that doesn’t mean I get to coast. There’s so much room to grow. Not just in the craft itself, but in all the supporting skills that hold the work together: planning, logistics, communication, efficiency. The quieter disciplines. The stuff that doesn’t always make the highlight reel, but matters just as much.
Spring is a good time to remember that. A nudge to recommit. To show up with a little more focus. A little more discipline.
I never want to feel like I’ve fully arrived. Like I can skip the workout. Like the training’s over.
Chasing the Dragon
I didn’t have any big epiphanies on this trip. No breakthroughs, no big ideas. I went to Italy to eat pizza and pasta and look at old stones. Mission accomplished. But secretly, I hoped time away from work and routine might create space for something to bubble up. Some new insight that might improve my life.
Walking around the ruins of Pompeii, I wasn't thinking about things I could build with stone when I got home. Staring at the horizon to avoid seasickness on the choppy ferry crossing to Capri, I wasn't thinking about what writing project I'd tackle next. Even though I didn’t spend much time actively thinking about work, part of me thought Maybe when I get home, I’ll have the next idea, the next insight, the next shift in perspective.
Here's a scary thought:
What if I already have what I need?
What if I’ve had the insights and found the clarity, and now it’s time to follow through? Ideas feel good. Epiphanies feel even better. But without taking action on them, what good are they?
Sometimes, chasing the next breakthrough is just another way of avoiding taking action. I know what I need to work on now. It's time to do that work.
———
Turns out, something did bubble up after all: I need to stop waiting for a new epiphany and get to work.
S P A C E
For months, I’d been thinking about writing a children’s book about Sasso. Thinking about it, but not acting on it.
This winter, while waiting at the hospital during Eliza’s surgery, I just... started. I don't know where the impetus came from. But I opened my notebook and started writing. And once I started, to my surprise, I kept going.
In the days that followed, I stayed home to take care of her while she recovered. Well, I did my best. I may have eaten more saltines than I gave her, but her meds only got mixed up once. Maybe twice. Anyways, with no stones to be laid, I kept writing.
When I went back to work, I kept it going. Working in small chunks of time early in the morning before work or at night before bed made the project feel more manageable. I wasn’t overwhelmed at the notion of spending a full day in front of a blank screen. Working like this, I finished it.
How many ideas wither before they can take root because we don’t leave enough space for them?
Sasso’s book crept up like a weed through a crack in the concrete. What’s waiting for space to bloom in your life?
Less But Better
Less but better. Every time I read that line, my brain plays a trick on me and sees the word butter. Actually, less but butter would work, too.
Less but better is most famously associated with Dieter Rams, a German industrial designer known for his minimalist and functional approach to design. Less but butter is now not-so-famously associated with me, an American stoneworker trying to design his life.
I love butter. I want the rich stuff you don't need too much of to be full.
The typical way of doing stonework, and most trades, is to work 8 to 10 hours a day, at least five days a week, for as many years as you can take it, until your back and knees give out and they take you out behind the barn to put you out of your misery.
I'm sorry, but that doesn't work for me. Why can’t I set up my work in a way that does? It turns out, I can. And so can you. I don't know why I had that realization so late in life. But butter, sorry, better, late than never.
One way is to take on fewer projects. The blue-collar part of me recoils from the thought. What a lazy son of a bitch. You should be just as miserable as the rest of us. I don't know where that voice came from. I didn't grow up with it. I guess it came from wanting to fit in on job sites when I first started out, trying to prove that I was something that I wasn't.
I don't have to listen to that voice. There’s another voice, one that thinks less might lead to more. More of the good stuff. More energy to bring my best work to the right projects. More connection to clients and collaborators. More money. More space between projects for creativity, for the unexpected to arise.
Less but better.
More butter.
Crossroads
I’m at a crossroads. Metaphorically. Physically, I’m sitting on the couch in the long johns I wore under my insulated overalls today while I harvested stones out of the woods for a wall project here in wintry Maine. But it feels like I’m at a crossroads. Maybe that's the way having a business always feels?
I suppose it's healthy to continuously evaluate what you're doing and where you're going. Hence this most recent arrival at the crossroads. It’s been just over a year since I decided to do stonework with no full-time help and I'm trying to decide if I want to keep moving forward like that.
It’s been a great year. I’ve worked on some engaging projects and brought in and worked with some talented subcontractors. There were some bumps along the way; aren’t there always? To no one’s surprise but me, it took longer to get things done by myself than with two other people. But almost everything got mostly done. And now it’s almost spring again. Another season starts soon.
Do I want to do it the same way again?
I think I do.
Am I positive about that?
No.
Should I bring in some full-time help? Maybe someone to manage that help? And I can spend my days lining up work to keep them all busy, never touching a stone again?
It’s an option. It certainly has more leverage than what I’m doing now. But it doesn’t feel right.
Should I bring in more subs? Expand my network of professionals I work with and have a steady flow of work to keep an alternating lineup of pro's busy all the time?
Maybe.
A network of professionals that do great work and can do that great work without me present every day sounds like a good option. I love working with other pros. And there’s some leverage in this approach.
Could I take on two or three big jobs a year with an A-team of subs? And in between those jobs do some other fun, engaging, life-affirming, cool shit? Write, travel, build a house, start another business, just live?
That sounds pretty good.
It also sounds like I need more clarity on what I want.
The best and worst part of this is that it’s up to me. I get to decide. Just like you do with your affairs. All these options and an infinite more are possible. We get to choose how we do this. That’s some awesome responsibility.
What will we do with it?
What Do You Want?
What would you do if you weren’t tied to your 9-to-5? Or whatever your version of that looks like. My 9-to-5 is being self-employed, which has it's perks, but it’s still a job. It still requires me to show up, do the work, and get paid. If you didn’t have to do that anymore, if you had total freedom, what would you do?
Most of us dream about having complete control over our time. No boss, no deadlines, no obligations but those of our own making. But that begs the question: What do we actually want?
I don’t think many of us know.
Years ago, some friends and I were talking about what we’d do if we were rich. One of them, and I don’t mean to pick on him because I think this is completely relatable, said he’d "get in really, really good shape and drink a lot of beer." We don’t have to wait until we’re rich to do that. We can do that now.
I think almost all of us crave the ability to control our lives. But almost none of us know what we would do with that freedom.
Travel? Sure. That sounds great. But is that the whole plan? Just travel… forever?
I don’t know what the right answer is. Maybe the answer is different for everyone. Maybe it’s creating, serving, unplugging, or just being. But I do think it’s a question worth answering. And we might find that we don’t have to be rich or live with absolute freedom to start living the lives we want right now.
But what do I know? I’m not rich and I’m not in great shape. Hell, I don’t even drink beer.