The Reciprocity Gap

~ David Willis ~ Leave a comment

The researchers brought them in expecting a fight.

Two groups of people, opposite sides of a topic so polarizing I don’t need to name it for you to picture the room. Each side walked in believing the other side was the enemy. Each side believed they had nothing in common with the people across the table. Each side believed the conversation would go nowhere.

Then the researchers did something most of us never do. They trained the participants. Not in debate. In listening. In how to make the person across from you feel heard — not agreed with, not validated, heard. Then they paired them off.

What happened in those rooms wasn’t agreement. It was something rarer. One of the participants said it was the most understood he had felt in any conversation in his adult life. The person who made him feel that way held beliefs and values that were the opposite of his own.

That’s the experiment. That’s the result.

Then the researchers tried to scale it.

They built a Facebook group. They invited the participants who had been through the training. And they invited a hundred more people who hadn’t.

It took 45 minutes for the whole thing to fall apart.

Not because the trained participants forgot what they had learned. Because a hundred untrained voices walked in with their default attack methodology, and the medium itself rewarded them for it. You can’t make someone feel heard through a comment thread when the people next to you are sharpening knives. The training couldn’t survive contact with the platform.

I read this in Charles Duhigg’s Supercommunicators this week and I haven’t stopped thinking about it.

Here is what the experiment proved that the researchers didn’t set out to prove. The reciprocity you get from listening to another human being is not available through a keyboard. Not because keyboards are evil. Because writing is a high-skill medium, and most of us are not skilled at it.

Most people are not good at writing. I don’t mean that as an insult. I mean it as a fact about the moment we live in. Writing carries no face. No tone. No pause. No softening of the eyes when something hard needs to be said. The whole apparatus humans evolved to communicate meaning is stripped away, and what’s left has to do all the work alone. That’s a hard medium even for skilled writers. For most people, it’s an impossible one.

What’s left is venting. You sit behind a screen, you type how you feel, you hit post, and for a moment you feel better because you got it out. Then it lands in front of someone who can’t see your face, can’t hear your tone, can’t extend you the benefit of the doubt because the medium has trained them not to. They read venom you didn’t mean to send. They send venom back. The cycle compounds.

Both sides do this. I am not picking a team.

We are alike on most things. Family. Food. The basic dignity of being known. Where we differ is sometimes a question of method — how to organize, how to solve — and sometimes a question of values, of who gets protected and who pays the cost. The deeper disagreements are real and they don’t dissolve just because two people sat across from each other. But the experiment showed something the participants didn’t expect either: even when the values were opposite, the experience of being heard didn’t require agreement. It only required the room.

The Facebook group failed in 45 minutes because the people who hadn’t been through the training brought the old habits in with them, and writing — for most of us — can’t do the work that face-to-face does.

So we have to go back.

Not as a preference. As a necessity. The technology is going to keep accelerating. The amount of text in the world is going to keep multiplying past anyone’s ability to read it carefully. If we don’t relearn how to sit across from each other and listen, the fracture that social media started will widen until there’s nothing left to bridge.

This doesn’t get fixed by politicians. It doesn’t get fixed by platforms. It gets fixed by two people, in a room, doing the work the experiment proved was possible — and the Facebook group proved was fragile.

One conversation. Then another.

No More Excuses

~ David Willis ~ Leave a comment

Ten days ago I signed up for an AI music tool called Suno. On a whim, I uploaded some songs I’d written over the years — lyrics, melodies, composition notes — and let it arrange them into full productions.

What came back stopped me cold. Not because the AI was impressive. Because my stuff was good.

I’ve been writing songs since 1994. I sat down at a piano my sophomore year of high school and taught myself to play by plunking keys until something recognizable came out. I got my first guitar Christmas of 1997, hated picks, grew calluses on my thumb and index finger from strumming bare-handed. I never really learned other people’s music. I wanted to write my own.

For thirty-two years, the gap between what I heard in my head and what I could produce with my hands was wide enough to park every excuse I ever made inside it. I didn’t have the production budget. I didn’t have the studio. I didn’t have the band. The songs stayed in notebooks and rough recordings, and I told myself someday.

Ten days ago, someday showed up. Here’s what it sounds like:

By My Side

Hearing those arrangements — hearing my melodies orchestrated, my lyrics set against drums and bass and layers I never could have built alone — I realized something I’d been circling for a while. The creative instinct was always right. The ideas were always there. What was missing wasn’t talent or vision. It was the bridge between the idea and the finished product. And that bridge exists now.

I wrote a novel last year on my iPhone. Voice to text, thumbs, and an AI editing partner. Over a hundred thousand words down to sixty thousand after I went through it with a machete. It’s on Amazon. I made it. It’s mine. And I wrote it in a way that would have been impossible five years ago.

I’m writing songs. I’m writing novels. I’m creating things that would have been impossible five years ago with the tools I had then. And I’m doing it from my phone, my living room, and my lunch break.

Years ago, I joined an online community built around Seth Godin’s Tribes. I was trying to develop my thinking, contribute ideas about customer service and business. A woman jumped on one of my posts and tore me apart. Told me I was crazy, that I was enabling people, that I was an idiot. I never logged on again. I let one person’s pushback silence me entirely.

That version of me doesn’t get to make decisions anymore.

The excuses are gone. The tools are here. The only variable left is me.

The Impostor

~ David Willis ~ Leave a comment

I look in the mirror and I see a different version of me staring back. Someone who doesn’t know me now, but thinks he has the right to speak into my life.

It doesn’t matter that I’ve spent twenty years building a career. It doesn’t care that I’ve published a novel, or that I’ve given more speeches than I can count, or that I’m 115 days into a challenge that has changed my body and my mind. The voice doesn’t listen to evidence. It just talks.

Here’s the thing about the impostor — he doesn’t show up as some stranger. He shows up as me. A younger version. A twelve-year-old kid with his insecurities and his fears. They never left. They just learned to whisper instead of shout.

I can flip through snapshots of my life like a photo album. The arrogance of seventeen, when I thought I had the world figured out. The joy of twenty, newly married to a woman who would become the strongest person I’ve ever known. The fear of twenty-six, sitting in a doctor’s office hearing the word cancer for the first time. The elation of twenty-nine, finding out we were going to be parents. The terror that same year, watching her get taken back for an emergency C-section, not knowing where she was or if she or my son were okay. The relief later that night, sitting in a hospital room, watching her hold him, seeing a kind of love I’d never witnessed before.

All of it lives inside me. Every version of who I’ve been is still in there somewhere. And the impostor uses all of them. He takes the fear of the twenty-six-year-old and mixes it with the insecurity of the twelve-year-old and tells me I’m not going to make it. That nobody’s going to listen. That the world is too crowded for what I have to say. That I’m going to miss this moment, just like I’ve missed others.

I don’t listen to him. But the voice is loud sometimes. And it is hard, from time to time, to tune him out.

I’m saying this because I’m almost four months into one of the hardest things I’ve ever done on purpose. I’m excited about everything I’ve accomplished so far. And I’m overwhelmed by everything I still have in front of me — even though I put it there myself. I want to be more and do more. Because accomplishing feels good. And I feel like I’m standing on the edge of one of the most opportunity-filled seasons of my life.

The impostor tells me I’m going to miss it.

He might be loud. But God has not given me a spirit of fear, but of love and power and a sound mind. So I keep looking in the mirror. And I keep choosing which voice to listen to.

Some days that’s easier than others.

Substack Confucius

~ David Willis ~ Leave a comment

I’ve been spending a lot of time on Substack lately. Reading Notes, engaging with other creators, trying to learn the platform and find my voice inside it. And I keep running into the same thing.

Substack Confucius.

You know the type. They post Notes that sound profound until you read them twice. “Conceal your strikes from your opponent and you will more easily strike his hide.” That’s not actually from Substack — that’s the Sphinx from Mystery Men, a character whose entire joke is that he speaks in pseudo-wisdom that sounds deep but means nothing. The joke works because we’ve all met that person. Apparently, a lot of them have Substack accounts.

But there’s a difference between a truth that’s been earned and a truth that costs nothing to say. A platitude and a hard-won insight can look identical on the surface. The difference is whether the person saying it has bled for it or just typed it.

Here’s my test: is this true on and off the message board? Can I take this sentence, walk into my office on Monday morning, and apply it to real work? Can I use it to grow my Substack, write a better blog post, have a harder conversation? If the answer is no — if it only works as a caption underneath a sunset — then it’s not wisdom. It’s decoration.

I’m writing this as a reminder to myself. Because the temptation is real. I’ve felt the pull — the urge to write a Note that gets restacked because it makes people feel something for three seconds instead of one that makes them think for three minutes.

I don’t want to be Substack Confucius. I want to say things that are honest, even when they’re not pretty. I want to write things that work on Monday morning, not just on a feed. And if that means fewer restacks and slower growth, I’ll take it. Because the audience I want isn’t looking for fortune cookies. They’re looking for someone who’s actually doing the work and willing to talk about what it’s really like.

He Fell the Wrong Way

~ David Willis ~ Leave a comment

I’ve been posting daily Bible illustrations for four months now. One image per chapter, every day, using AI to generate scenes from scripture. This week, a video of David and Goliath crossed 110,000 views on Instagram. I’ve gained over 1,500 followers in a week.

And at least ten people have told me Goliath fell the wrong way.

They’re right. The Bible says he fell forward. My video shows him falling backward. I can read scripture — I do every day. But the spirit of that image wasn’t a forensic recreation of which direction a giant’s body hit the ground. It was a young shepherd standing in front of something impossibly bigger than him, armed with a sling and a rock, and winning.

Someone else pointed out that Goliath was nine feet tall, not thirty. There’s actually theological debate about whether he was nine feet or thirteen. But the point was never the exact measurement. The point was scale. Goliath was over twice David’s height and many times his weight. He was a warrior above all warriors. The exaggerated size in the image captures something a historically accurate rendering might not — how it must have felt to stand at the bottom of that shadow.

Not just David. All of Israel. They stood on those sidelines for forty days, paralyzed. And in an instant, God used a shepherd boy to conquer what an entire army couldn’t face.

That’s what I want people to see. Not a Bible diagram. Not a historical diorama. I want people who have never been exposed to these stories, or who’ve heard them a hundred times but never really pictured them, to see differently. To feel the dust. To sense the weight of the moment.

Will I get every detail right? No. But I’d rather make someone stop scrolling and think about a shepherd boy’s courage and his reliance on God rather than produce a technically accurate image nobody pauses for.

Goliath fell. That is what I was trying to show.