Tag Archives: writings

Sandi’s Rules

Code

One day, Sandi Metz was pressed by a team she was working with to produce a simple set of rules that would lead to better code quality. After consideration, she came up with the following surprisingly numerical guidelines: classes can’t grow beyond one hundred lines of code, methods can’t grow beyond five lines of code, methods can only take four parameters (hash options count), and controllers can only send one message to one object.

What emerges from these rules is a pretty pragmatic lens on how to practice object oriented design with Ruby and Rails without falling into the tarpit of more radical approaches. You don’t end up needing to worry about fast tests, decoupling from the framework, presenter, conductors, mediators, adapters, ad nauseum.

More critically, you aren’t beset with decision fatigue. You don’t have to survey the landscape of helper gems and bolt-on approaches to writing Rails applications. You can start with the way Rails wants you to write applications: logic and data encapsulated in models, behavior encapsulated in controller actions, easy sharing of data between actions and views with instance variables, etc.

A wingding

You start with what Rails wants; when you find yourself violating one of Sandi’s rules, then you apply design and refactoring techniques. If a model does too much, extract common behaviors into an encapsulated object. If a controller action knows about too many things, move that into an object and call it from the action. You can go a really long way using only the Replace Method with Method Object refactoring until you get to Kent Beck’s notion of a Composed Method.

That bears repeating. In big letters.

Most Rails applications can be made better by relentless application of Method Object and Composed Method.

Thoughtbot has written about what this looks like as it emerges. It doesn’t have to involve a lot of pattern names, new frameworks, framework asceticism or half-baked conventions. You write classes and methods when needed. When they get too big, you refactor, rinse, and repeat.

A wingding

Sandi’s book, Practical Object Oriented Design with Ruby, is great not because it covers new territory or casts a new light on the subjects of object oriented programming and Ruby. It’s great because it shows how you work with the tools provided by OO and Ruby. It’s great because it shows how you go from less-good code to more-good code.

It’s really great because its short and easy to read. This is the book that enthusiastic, “enlightened” programmers can hand to the less energetic to help them understand how to write better code. They can do so without worrying that the book is hard to understand or a beast to read. It’s as close to a magic pill for clue enhancement as anyone has yet come.

Your application is on fire

Code

Six easy pieces on thinking about sustainable code

Your application is on fire. Something is consuming it, a process converting fresh and shiny code into rigid, opaque legacy code.

Seriously, your applications is on fire. You should look into it.

Are you going to fight the fire? Will you keep throwing logs into it, hoping that you can corner it at some point down the line? Do you draw a line in the sand and start containing the fire and eventually suffocating it?

The fire is every change you make to your application in haste. The fire is every design decision that is bolted onto one part of the application without care for how it fits into another part of the application. The fire is every stopgap put in place to fix a short-term problem that isn’t revisited once the short-term has elapsed.

Once time is not the most critical concern, you stop and think about how to make the application better in the long term. You consider what worked about the stop-gap solution, how to design your application with care, how to iterate on improving the architecture of your application.

You fight the fire by trading time for quality. Knowing how to solve your problems, knowing what is important about your application and what is consequential, you start to express a design. You write down principles that worked for you and write down an architecture that joins the principles and the design in the middle. That’s where your application lives, once it’s not on fire.

The reason green field software projects are appealing is that they aren’t on fire. A green field is lush with possibility, without the constraint of decisions already made. More so, a green field is not bound by decisions implicitly accepted but never considered.

The unconsidered decision is how the fire starts. A class here, a subsystem there. Soon you’ve got a system but no design, emergent or otherwise. You’ve got a ball of mud, but the mud is on fire.

That fire is sustained by every time you bolt something else on. It’s sustained by implementing the feature or fixing the bug without care for the program as a whole. It’s fed by making progress without making care.

The fire is warm, but eventually it will consume your application. No one wants to work on the burnt out wrecks inside of it.

Everyone can smell it, but no one wants to go near it. Firewalls are erected, teams establish practices that allow them to avoid working on or near the fire.

So it burns on.

One day, you decide enough is enough. No more fuel on the fire. Every change to the application has to meet standards: does this make the code better, does this make the design better? This here is the design; adhere to the why’s, use your creativity for the what’s and how’s.

That day is the day you start thinking for the long term. In the language of economics, its when you internalize external costs. You accept that the cost of maintaining this application is worthwhile, so you should mitigate that cost, optimizing input effort for output value.

You can’t maximize cost by just getting the work done. You can’t maximize value by building grand structures. You optimize cost for value by continuously making decisions that mitigate or reduce the fire.

Internal combustion engines are made of fire. Despite being powered by flame, combustion engines are pretty mundane things. They became mundane because they have a design and a standard of engineering that contains that fire, harnesses it, and turns it into a mechanism for converting fuel into energy.

When do we harness and focus our code, instead of letting it burn inefficiently and out of control? The moment we do is when we stop being firefighters and start being the wizards we set out to be when we started writing software.

What makes longevity?

Music

A joke for a late-night variety show monologue may only be funny for one day (e.g. a joke about a celebrity). A newspaper article may lose relevance in days or weeks. A TV show might feel dated a couple years after its run ends (e.g. most problems on Seinfeld could be solved with a smartphone). Computer programs don’t fare well over time either (though there are exceptions).

The best songs demonstrate better longevity. Beethoven and Bob Dylan still work today. There will always be something amazing about “Good Vibrations”, at least to the trained ear.

Even the rap trope of yelling the year the song was recorded has a timeless quality to it; it serves as a marker for the state of affairs. “Nineteen eighty nine!” is the first thing shouted in Public Enemy’s “Fight the Power”, marking the historical context for what Chuck D is about to tell us.

Why is this? I suspect it underlies the act of making music. Besides hit factory music, i.e. ear worms you hear on the radio, a musician’s goal is to make something expressive. Expressiveness often leads to qualities that give a piece endurance; timelessness, nostalgia, high quality. Expressiveness is less often an objective for jokes, headline journalism, or television.

That enduring quality, it’s tricky. It happens in film, television, and books too. But, for me, there’s something about music that has a more direct emotional connection. They vibrate my ear drum and work their way directly to a part of my brain containing “the feels”. I hear a good song and I’m immediately thinking about why I enjoy it so much, what makes it so good, or when I heard that song and connected it to an experience.

Maybe that’s why music is such a big deal in our culture. Really, really good music connects in a way beyond “haha that’s funny” jokes or “huh, that’s interesting” writing.

Is it possible to write expressive non-fiction or an enduring computer program? It seems like the answer is yes, but the answers are outliers. Hofstader’s Godel, Escher, Bach and Knuth’s TeX come to mind. For every GEB or TeX, there are thousands of less interesting works.

Further, the qualities of an enduring, expressive, and yet functional work seem somewhat at odds with the pragmatics of the daily act of writing or programming. A lot more perfectionism, experimentation, and principle goes into these works than the typical news article or application.

And yet, for every “Good Vibrations”, there’s probably a thousand commercial jingles composed, elevator tunes licensed, ringtones purchased, and bar bands playing “Brickhouse” yet again. Perhaps music is just as prone to longevity as writing, film, or programming but has a far longer timeline on which its easier to see what really worked. In fifty years perhaps, if we’re lucky, we’ll start to learn what is really amazing in film and software.

The downsides of live music

Music

I am a giant music nerd. I listen to a ton of music, I think about music a lot, and I often seek out new music via Twitter and Rdio. Besides a dislike for showtunes and reggae, I’m a pretty open-minded listener.

Yet, it is exceedingly rare that I seek out live music. When I do, I’m that concert goer who is only buying tickets for long-established acts. In the past several years, I’ve seen Paul McCartney, Ray Wylie Hubbard, Lucinda Williams, Steely Dan, Ben Folds, and Ryan Adams. The youngest of these started their career twenty years ago.

What’s up with that? Well, I simply don’t like live music. I’ve got reasons.

Performances don’t start on time

Having performed in jazz bands, orchestras, stand-up showcases, and improv shows, I’ve come to accept as axiom that performances just don’t start on time. There’s lots of good reasons for this. Everyone wants to get as many people into the seats as possible to make the show better, to improve the audience experience, or simply to make an extra buck.

The reasons that performances at live music venues don’t start on time come down to selfishness. The performers didn’t arrive on time, the stage wasn’t not have been set up in time. Worse, these have a knock-on effect. Once a performance is behind, it only gets more behind. There’s no shortening the break between bands or reducing the time between doors opening and the first band playing.

This leads me to the most inane reason live music is not on time: selling beer. “Doors open at 8 PM” almost universally means that you can walk in at 8 PM, but you can count on not seeing any live music until 9 PM. The opening act for the opening act is the selling of booze. I’ve got better ways to spend my time than standing around for an hour staking out a spot just so the venue can sell beer.

Standing for a couple hours sucks

Whether it’s standing in line for a roller coaster or waiting through beer-time, an opening act, and the changing of the stage, standing around is the worst. Fatigue and boredom set in; you’re taken out of the experience of enjoying music played in front of a lot of people. Sore feet and knees do not an enjoyable listening experience make.

Thank you, venues with seats, and thank you, crowds that don’t feel the need to show their enthusiasm by standing upright. You make live music a much more civil, enjoyable experience.

Crowds of people are the worst

Suppose you get a good room, with good sound, and a great performer. You’ve still got to tend to the other people in the room. The drunk heckler, the people calling out songs, the tall person blocking your view. That’s all after you stood in line to get in, waited to go to the bathroom, or put out of mind the guy who lit up next to you.

Opening acts

Opening acts. They’re a necessary but inconsistent evil. Sometimes you’ll see a really good one. One of the best bands I saw at a Dallas radio station “festival” was on the third stage. One of the worst bands I ever saw was an opener that was sufficiently uncertain of their own skills that the majority of the between-song banter was insults at the audience and counter-heckling gone bad.

I salute events that eschew the opening act and cut straight to the main performer. Give the people what they want.

It’s too loud

I don’t know why, but live music is universally an assault on my ear drums. I’ve been at concerts where I could feel the music moving inside my pants. That seems a bit excessive to me.

Beyond the personal discomfort, there’s nothing about loudness that makes music better. If everything is loud, nothing is loud. Sustained loudness is boring.

Short bouts of loudness; that’s interesting. The juxtaposition of the opening arpeggios of “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” with the wall-of-sound that follows is really nice. The way “Thunder Road” or Bolero grow into something loud and great is what makes them interesting. The amazing loudness of the opening of Also Sprach Zarahustra contrasted with the nearly non-existent quietness of the second movement is genius.

Don’t turn it up because you can. Turn it up because you mean it.

Drums are a lie

Let’s talk about the actual music again. In particular, drums. Drums, my friend, are a lie. They do not sound like you think they do. What you hear on the radio and on albums are the results of trained sound engineers using microphone and equalizer tricks to make drums sound decent.

This is problematic for two reasons. First off, drums are really loud in the hands of an enthusiastic player. Often quite a bit louder than your typical amplifier. Thus, it’s guaranteed you’re going to hear a lot more drums than guitars, horns, strings, or vocals at a live music event. I take that back; I guarantee you that you will not be able to hear strings at any music club you ever go to, but I’ll come back to that.

The more problematic aspect of a drum kit is you’re going to hear raw drums when you go to a live music event. Very little microphone tricks or equalizer cleverness; the drums may not even be isolated. That means the snare is going to sound like a can of beans getting hit with a stick. The toms will sound like someone banging on an empty box. The cymbals are going to sound like a mad person beating on pots and pans.

If you’re anything like me, you’re not going to enjoy them drums.

It sounds terrible

Drums are not the only problematic instrument. In my experience, most live clubs have very poor sound. Even if it’s not too loud, the mix is wrong, you can’t hear the melody, you can’t hear the singing, or the overall sound is distorted.

Assuming that clubs don’t exist merely to move booze (not a big leap in reasoning, I know), I don’t understand how this is the situation. If you want to be a part of a music scene, a good sound system and someone who can operate it seems like par for the course.

I am happy to note that, if you’re lame like me and only go to see performers who have been around the block dozens of times, you’re going to have a much better listening experience. Less prominent musicians are starting to tour with just one accompanying performer and that person is not playing a drum kit. The A-list performers have really good drummers (Paul McCartney’s drummer is a blast to watch) and the sound engineers on the tour are excellent. This makes for a far more enjoyable, balanced sound.

There’s little mystery

This one is rather personal, though I’ve spoken with musicians who feel the same way. If you know how to make music, watching the performance of music can be boring. A song that you can listen to and quickly pick up the structure and details of isn’t all that exciting. Even if it is, you can see the musicians enjoying the performance of the song and just wish you were up there playing and not down here watching.

I do enjoy watching very talented performers do their thing. Someone who mixes music with a good stage show or interesting banter between songs is fun to watch. The Rolling Stones are interesting to watch because Mick Jagger is such a good showman, Charlie Watts seems so apathetic, and Keith Richards is, well, Keef. I’ve really enjoyed seeing Hayes Carll and Lyle Lovett because the stories they tell are great and their banter between songs is amusing.

Genres I don’t know how to make are also fascinating. Hip-hop is not a thing I really know how to make, so that’s fun. Jazz and classical can be fun because I know how they work but didn’t reach the level where I could really make it. My new rule is, whenever Rite of Spring is performed, I need to be there; it’s relatively short (about forty minutes), really awesome, and I’m certain I would not be able to perform it with an orchestra without ruining it for everyone else.

Maybe I’m doing it wrong. Perhaps my heuristics for trying to time a concert so I arrive as the opening act is finishing require tweaking. I should definitely remember to bring earplugs more often. It’s entirely possible I’m just a grumpy guy.

But: I’m not the guy who tells you about the hippest new musical thing. I’m probably not the guy who’s going to catch your favorite band. I’m the guy who goes to see Paul McCartney out of reverence and because my wife and I both like him. I’m the guy who listens to an album as a long-form idea. I’m the guy who wants to understand the history and creation of a thing. That’s just the nerd I am: I understand music over time, not over the course of an evening.

Ed. this originally ran in The Internet Todo List for Enthusiastic Readers. You should check that out. It was pointed out that I’m a bit of an old man. In spirit, this is absolutely true. Also worth noting: I’m going to see Paul McCartney again this week, so I must not entirely hate live music. Human inconsistencies, eh?

Look up every once in a while!

Expanded ideas

Sometimes, I feel conditioned never to look beyond the first ten feet of the earth. Watch where you’re going, don’t run into things, avoid being eaten by bears. Modern life!

A Texas sunset

I see stuff like this out my office window every day. Be jealous.

When I remind myself to look up, there’s so much great stuff. Trees, antennae, water towers, buildings. Airplanes, birds, superheroes. Never mind the visual pollution of smoke, contrails, and billboards. Nifty things, natural and man-made.

Clouds in particular are nifty. They’re almost always changing, even if you look at the same patch of sky. They have pleasing shapes, and just a little bit of texture. Simple pleasure, clouds are.

And sunsets! Hooo boy, those are great. I thought they were overrated for a long time, but boy was I wrong. Colors, dynamics, fading off into darkness. I’m pretty sure sunsets invented the word “poetic”.

Ed. This originally appeared in my Internet Todo List for Enthusiastic Thinkers. It’s an email thing you can subscribe to. When you do, good things come to you, often via email. It’s free, and it bears no shilling for other people.

Exemplary documentation: size and purpose

Code,

There’s a lot to say about programmer-focused software documentation. It’s more crucial than many developers think, so it is often neglected. Even when its not neglected, it’s often an after-thought. I’ve noticed there are three kinds of documentation I’m interested in.

When I first come across some software, I want short and focused examples of how I can use it for my own purposes. I’m not looking for a lot of theory or exposition; just show me the benefit. If I can’t quickly see how the software works and makes my life easier, I’m very likely to discard it. In other words, I want shorter, “tweet-sized” documentation that sells me on the sizzle right away.

rbenv's README

rbenv‘s old README is a good example. I can see from the screenshot what using rbenv looks like. The bullet points make it easy to know the specifics of what this software is about.

If I come back to some software, I often want to learn the whole thing in one sitting. I want a longer document that I can read through in a serial fashion to learn most or all of the concepts and details about using the code. It should cover the domain ideas of the software, the individual APIs, and how it all works together to make something. To continue the metaphor, I want a well-written, “Instapaper-length” document worthy of reading in a comfy chair.

Backbone.js homepage

The Backbone.js homepage is great at serving as a long-form read. It serves as a reference document and guide at the same time.

After I start using something, I will often want to return to it to remember how to do specific things or to figure out if a task is possible at all. This is when I lean most on traditional API documentation. One to three paragraphs, easily searched are the ideal here. Kind of like the “Tumblr-post” of documentation.

I’ve yet to find all three of these qualities in the documentation for a single piece of software. Finding that software has done a really good job at one of them is delight enough. I can’t imagine how excited the world, at large, would be if something were to have all three. There would be a lot of rejoicing.

The Third Shift

Expanded ideas,

In the days of industrial labor, many factories ran three shifts per day. Three eight-hour shifts per day keeps a factory fully utilized and some business major’s spreadsheets happy. Luckily, for many of us, knowledge/thinking oriented businesses don’t usually follow this paradigm. We’re not (often) pressured to pick up a double shift, possibly freeing time to do useful things that we don’t get paid for.

For the ambitious (possible euphemism), this opens up an interesting opportunity: allocating the second shift to one’s own projects. Writing that great book you’ve got inside you, penciling a comic, running your Etsy business on the side, or bootstrapping that web app you’re dreaming about all make a great fit for a second shift. Find time before or after your day job, and then aim for the sky.

I found it easy to take this logic to the next level and think, well if two shifts works and I can make progress on _two_ things, three shifts might work and then I can do _three_ things! Wake up early, do something awesome. Work the nine to five, do awesome things. Take a couple hours in the evening, do even more awesome things. Seems good, right?

Unfortunately, the third shift is a bandaid over too many projects and lead me to do lower quality work across the board.

I need more physical rest and mental space than working on three things affords. Turning down an extra hour of sleep or the bleeping of an alarm clock is a hard bargain. One side project, as it turns out, is plenty.

That said, the third shift _is_ useful as a “turbo button” that I only press when I really mean it and used only for short-term projects that are important to whatever awesome thing I’m trying to do. A couple weeks waking up early to bang out a presentation or longer-form article are good. Sustaining that for a series of projects doesn’t work for me.

In short: ambition is great, but striking a balance with mental and physical rest is better.

Web design for busy programmers

Code, Design, ,

Here it is: I’m somewhere between horribly afraid and way-too-smart to seriously attempt front-end web work. Browsers are not the software whose bugs I am interested in knowing about.

That said, putting information on the web that doesn’t look like utter dross is a kind of required literacy in our field. While bravely dipping my toes back into the front-end waters, I recently found some great tricks. Rediscovered, probably, but I’m not sure where the idea originally came from.

Most important: design in greyscale. Color is hard and can lead to tinkering. My goal is to get in and out of the front-end bits quickly, so tinkering is the enemy. Greyscale is one dimensional, greatly simplifying matters. Give important information higher contrast and less important information or “chrome” less contrast. Now you’re done thinking about color.

Almost as important: use a fixed-with font. As a programmer, you look at them everyday, so it’s a touchpoint of comfort. Pick a font you don’t use in your editor all day, just so you can stare at something different for a while. Copy and paste a “font stack” from the aptly named fontstacks. Make important things big and unimportant things small. Now you’re done thinking about type.

The key to avoiding browser dragons, it seems, is to skip horizontal layout, i.e. pull quotes, text wrapped around images, etc. It’s pretty easy to use CSS if you only run things down the left side of the page. All the depth and despair of CSS is in trying to get things to appear off the left margin. So don’t do that. Leave it to people who know how browsers work and how to manage their gnarly bugs. Now you’re done thinking about layout.

It’s tempting to think you should make your code examples look really nice. Don’t worry about it; highlighting code is of marginal value. You’ll never be satisfied with how it looks. The human mind is capable of reading code without a rainbow spectrum of colors. Spend time on writing about the code, not on polishing the colors and how its highlighted.

With all of those things out of the way, your way is clear to think about the really important things. What do you need to say, how do you structure the message, what do you leave out, how do you organize all the information? That’s the essence of publishing on the web, not the accidental complexity of making things look interesting.

Lessons from premature design

Code, Curated

Lessons from Premature Abstractions Illustrated. I’ve run afoul of all three of these:

Make sure you have someone on the team or externally available that will keep the critical, outside look at the project, ready to scream and shout if things turn bad.

Don’t let your technical solution influence your design decisions. It’s the tool that needs to fit the job, not the other way round.

Don’t build abstractions as long as you have no proven idea on how the levels below that abstraction will look like.

I could have used an outside, trusted voice to gently reel me in if when I went off into the unproductive weeds. Someone to ask “how will this help the team in two weeks?”, someone to point out ideas that might be great but have only achieved greatness in my head. A person who is asking questions because they want me to succeed, not because they’re trying to take me down a notch.

I have rushed into implementing the first idea in my head. Sometimes I’ve convinced myself that my first idea is the best, despite knowing I need to review it from more angles. I’ve jumped into projects with a shiny new tool and a bunch of optimism, only to cut myself on a sharp edge later on.

I’ve built systems that look fine on their own, but don’t fit into the puzzle around them. I’ve isolated myself building up that system, afraid to figure out how to fit my system into the puzzle in a useful way. I’ve used mocks and stubs to unintentionally isolate myself from the real system.

Basically, these are all really good ways to paint yourself into a corner. It seems like being in a corner with a shiny new system/tool/abstraction would be nice. Unfortunately, my experience is that once you have to make sense of that abstraction in a team, things get dicey.

It’s dangerous to run a software project on your own! Take a friend.

Semantics/Empathy

Expanded ideas

People argue about words all the time. In the past two weeks, I’ve participated and watched as nerds unproductively tried to convince each other that they are incorrectly using the words bijection, hypermedia, and dependency injection. Nerds easily fall into this trap because many of us are fascinated by knowledge, sharing that knowledge, and teaching that knowledge.

Arguing about words is fun. Arguing about words is practically useless.

Semantics are good

Words are a tricky business. An overused, overloaded, or ambiguous word isn’t particularly useful. “Synergize”, “web-scale”, or “rockstar” are mush words that don’t convey much meaning anymore. It’s tempting to think that encouraging others to be judicious in their use of words and mind the specific context and meaning of their statements could move the needle in making the world better.

On the other hand, human interaction is fidgety. We all have differing experiences, so the way we think and feel about things can vary wildly. You might say “we should pivot our business”, remembering the time you did so and took the company in a much better direction. I might hear you say “pivot” and think about all the abuses of the word in startup discourse or all the companies that have “pivoted” and still failed. Even though we are thinking of the same definition of “pivot”, we are thinking different things.

Semantics are good for getting two people in the same mental ballpark. I can say “web framework” and expect you to know I’m not talking about dogs, tacos, coffee, or compilers. You and I may differ on what a web framework is and what it does, but at least we’re both thinking of things that help developers build web-based applications. We may not be talking about the same thing, but we’re close.

This is why I think strong semantics are interesting, but not a silver bullet. Very rarely have I solved a problem by applying stronger semantics to the words used in the discussion of the problem. Never have I solved a problem by telling someone they are using the wrong semantics and that they should correct themselves.

We can argue about words all we want, but it’s not getting us any closer to solving the real problem. The problem we started talking about before we decided to have a side argument on the meaning of a word.

Empathy is better.

Empathy is a better tool. When someone misuses a word, I stop myself and think, “OK, let’s allow that one to slide. What are they really trying to say?” Rarely does someone misuse a word on purpose. It’s more likely they know it in a different context; discovering that context and matching it to your own is how the conversation moves forward.

If you say “we need to pivot our web commerce company to a web framework consultancy”, I may not know precisely what you mean by “pivot”, “web framework”, or “consultancy” but I can get on the same page with you. You think we need to change directions and that some services-oriented business based on helping people build web applications is the way to move forward. Armed with that, I can ask you questions about why we need to change directions, what that web framework looks like, or how we would change ourselves to a services-oriented company. It’s not as important that you get the words right; it’s important that we find a way to talk about the same thing.

Words are fun, but what’s useful is to figure out what the other person is thinking or feeling and talk to that. Setting aside the tension of telling someone they’re wrong, it’s not productive. I’d rather talk about how we can make better programs or better understand our world than foible over the meanings of a few words.

Words are a lossy representation, they can’t possibly ever connote the full meaning and nuance of any idea of interesting size. Don’t get caught up in skirmishes about the marginally important details of semantics. Use words to show others what you’re thinking and guide them towards your understanding of the problem and a proposed solution.