Stephen D Cook's Blog: Notes From the Work

There’s a photograph on my website that I keep coming back to.

On the surface, it’s simple: a clean horizon, a quiet composition, a moment that looks effortless. But I remember the patience it required—the narrow window where variables had to align perfectly before the shutter finally closed.

What pulls me back isn't the image itself, but the conditions that made it possible.

Lately, that pull has taken the shape of pelicans. Watching them move as a group—adjusting instinctively to the invisible shifts in wind and water—I’m struck by how little is wasted. There’s no excess motion. No visible friction. Just a rhythm of efficiency and a level of trust that can only be built through repetition.

That kind of coordination isn't an accident. It’s the result of shared standards and a long familiarity with the work. Everyone knows their role. Everyone knows when the movement is actually finished.

I see this principle everywhere lately—in the lens, on the page, and in the ideas behind “When We’re Finished”. There’s a massive difference between motion and completion. Between activity and alignment. Between stopping because you’re tired and stopping because the work is actually done.

For now, I’m content with the pursuit. Watching the sky. Studying the birds. Waiting for the light to offer something new. I’m returning to the field today not because I have to, but because the standard hasn’t been met yet.

I wrote more about this intersection of photography and reflection in this week’s post: https://photography.stephendcook.com/...

If the mindset in my book, “When We’re Finished” resonates with you, this is that same discipline at work. Different medium. Same definition of finished.

There’s a specific kind of silence that happens when you’re 90% done.

It doesn't matter if you’re at the end of a twenty-mile night movement with a heavy ruck, or if you’re at hour fourteen of a complex data migration, or even if you’re just staring at a sink full of dishes after a day that has already hollowed you out.

In that silence, a voice appears.

It isn’t a scream. It isn’t a drill sergeant. It’s actually quite kind. It’s seductive. It whispers, “You’ve done enough. Look at how far you’ve come. Nobody will notice that last 10%. You’ve earned the right to stop.”

For years, I thought this voice was a sign of weakness. I thought that "real" performers—the guys I looked up to in Special Forces—didn't hear it. I thought they were fueled by some internal engine that didn't have a "quit" setting.

I was wrong.

The truth I’ve found—in the cities of Iraq, the mountains of Afghanistan, and now in the "civilian" world of deadlines and family responsibilities—is that everyone hears that voice. The biological urge to seek comfort is a universal dataset. It’s the brain’s way of trying to save you from perceived harm.

The voice isn't the problem. The problem is when we start to believe that "feeling tired" is the same thing as "being finished."

We live in a world that is increasingly designed to help us find an exit ramp. We are told to "listen to our bodies" and prioritize "self-care," which are often just polite ways of saying "take the 90% and go home." But there is a high cost to that last 10%. When we listen to the seductive voice, we don't just leave a task incomplete. We slowly erode the trust we have in ourselves. We start to drift toward the lowest common denominator.

I wrote "When We’re Finished" because I realized that the hardest battle isn't against an external enemy or a difficult boss. It’s against that quiet, reasonable voice that tells us "good enough" is a destination.

If you’ve ever sat in your car in the driveway, unable to move because the day was too much, yet knowing there was still a "Priority of Work" waiting for you inside—you aren't alone. If you’ve ever felt the friction of being the only person in the room who refuses to walk away until the perimeter is actually secure, you belong here.

The connection between us isn't that we are "superhuman." The connection is that we recognize the voice, we see the exit ramp, and we choose to keep walking anyway.

Because comfort is just a feeling. But "Finished" is a condition. And only one of those lets you sleep with a clean conscience.

The books on my Goodreads profile aren't there because they’re trending or highly rated. They are there because I return to them repeatedly. At different stages of my life, these titles have shifted my perspective—not with a loud bang, but quietly. Just enough to matter.

Steven Pressfield’s work has had the most profound effect on me—specifically Turning Pro, The War of Art, Put Your Ass Where Your Heart Wants to Be, and The Artist’s Journey. It isn’t just his message; it’s his delivery. He doesn’t over-explain. He points, then leaves space for the reader to step in. I respond deeply to that level of restraint and the trust he places in his audience.

There is a personal resonance here, too. Pressfield’s career didn't truly take flight until later in life—around the age I am now. That matters. It reframes the concept of timing and serves as a constant reminder that creative work has no expiration date.

Rick Rubin’s The Creative Act landed with a similar weight. The structure is simple, the entries are short, and there is no attempt to sound profound. These are clean observations that feel lived rather than theorized. I don't read it cover-to-cover anymore; I open to a random page, read for a minute, and close it. That’s usually enough.

Bob Proctor’s Change Your Paradigm, Change Your Life served a different purpose. It helped me recognize how much of my life was governed by habit rather than conscious choice. It gave me the courage to step out from under that weight—not recklessly, but deliberately—to pursue work defined by expression and expansion rather than mere repetition.

Finally, Austin Kleon’s Steal Like an Artist removed a pressure I hadn't realized I was carrying. It reinforced the idea that everything has been done before. The work isn't to invent the "new"—it’s to do it your way. It taught me to stop tracking the competition and simply stay in my own lane.

I owe this current chapter of my life to these books. They didn’t hand me a list of answers; they opened doors. They helped me realize that the work isn’t about "arriving"—it’s about commitment, presence, and showing up honestly every day.

For that, I’m grateful.

I’d be interested to hear what books have pushed you toward your own expression and expansion. If there are titles you return to—the kind that quietly changed the way you see or work—please share them in the comments below...

Last Saturday night, I watched Alex Honnold free solo the Taipei 101 skyscraper — live on Netflix.

I’d seen Free Solo years ago, so I understood the stakes. But this wasn’t a documentary. There was no knowing how it would end. My body reacted immediately. Heart racing. Stomach tightening. Feet sweating. Even from a couch, the risk felt real.

What stayed with me wasn’t the danger itself.

It was how ordinary his movements looked. No drama. No rush. No hesitation. Just calm execution, one deliberate action after another.

That kind of calm doesn’t show up on the day of the climb. It’s built quietly, over years, through repetition, visualization, and incremental exposure to discomfort. Fear doesn’t vanish — it gets managed. It turns into information instead of noise.

I recognize that pattern. In writing. In photography. In any pursuit where confidence isn’t declared but accumulated through work no one sees. You show up. You practice. You stay patient while progress remains invisible. And slowly, something shifts.

Confidence isn’t claimed. It’s earned.

I explored this more fully — including why that distinction matters to me — in this week’s SDCP post, if you’re interested:
https://photography.stephendcook.com/...

I want to begin simply by saying thank you.

If you’ve found your way here, it means you’ve expressed interest in a book I wrote — and that isn't something I take lightly. Writing is a solitary act. Reading is an act of trust. I’m grateful for both.

For many years, the work lived quietly. "Finding Your Way in the Dark" and "Plan Like a Green Beret" sat on my computer, revised and re-revised, but never shared. Not because I doubted the ideas — but because putting words into the world with your name attached requires a different kind of courage than writing them for yourself.

For most of my adult life, I worked as part of a team. Decisions were shared. Responsibility was collective. The work mattered, but the individual rarely stood alone. Leaving that world meant learning how to speak in my own voice — without the insulation of a unit patch or a shared mission statement. That transition took longer than I expected.

Eventually, the work demanded to be finished.

Nonfiction was where I started. Those first field manuals were my attempt to translate experience into something useful — frameworks, language, and perspective that might help others navigate uncertainty, pressure, and complexity. They were written deliberately, without urgency, and only published once they felt honest.

Fiction came later — and for a different reason.

"In the Shadows of the Sky" is the opening of a larger story. It was written with continuation in mind, and it ends that way — not as a cliffhanger for effect, but because the world it explores doesn’t resolve cleanly in a single volume. The second book is already underway, carrying forward both the narrative and the questions that emerged once the foundation was laid.

Alongside that work, I’ve been finishing a short field manual titled "When We’re Finished". It’s a compact reflection on standards, accountability, and the danger of confusing motion with progress. It grew out of the same mindset that informs everything I write — the belief that clarity matters, and that “finished” should mean something.

I don’t plan to use this space to announce releases or promote sales. There are plenty of places for that. Instead, I see this as a place to share reflections on the work itself — what I’m thinking about, what I’m learning, and why certain ideas continue to pull at me long after the pages are written.

If you’re reading this, you’ve already taken the first step. I appreciate that more than you know. Thank you.