Programming insights to Storytelling, it's all here.
Once, I inherited an application so offensive, it felt like a personal insult. It wasn’t just bad code, it was a decade of bad decisions stacked like a Jenga tower. My task was to address a complaint by the internal users on a report that was generated. I looked in the company's git repository for the tool, but it was nowhere to be found. Only after digging through the server it ran on, I found that it was using Concurrent Versioning System or CSV, a version control system older than some interns.
Every developer knows the rush. You are driving and suddenly you’re struck by a “life-altering” idea (your 14th this week). At the next red light, you record an audio while driving, avoiding eye contact with what clearly looks like a cop’s car. At 2 AM, you wake abruptly remembering the recording. Now you’re setting up repositories, debating frameworks, and buying AWS servers in the middle of the night. The blind spot? You’re convinced this time, you’ll finish.
When I built shotsrv, a service that takes screenshots of URLs using PhantomJS, I did what most solo developers do: I opened my IDE, hacked together some Node.js scripts, and celebrated when it spat out its first screenshot. There was no roadmap, no team to consult, and no definition of “success” beyond “it works… mostly.”
Every programmer has a “lightbulb moment” that sparks their love for code. For many of us, it’s video games. You marvel at sprawling open worlds, intricate quests, and heroes who swing swords or fire plasma rifles, and you think, “I want to build something like this.” Then you join the industry and realize: nobody lets you build the sword.
