I spent 23 years building automation systems at a large financial institution. Over 200 automated jobs. Fraud detection watchlists. Self-service dashboards. Reporting pipelines that ran so reliably most people forgot they existed. I built the kind of infrastructure that quietly keeps things working while everyone focuses on something else.
Then, last spring, I was laid off.
I'm not going to dress that up. It was a gut punch. When you spend more than two decades somewhere, the work becomes part of how you see yourself. Losing it doesn't just change your schedule. It changes the story you've been telling yourself about who you are and what you're for.
But here's the thing I didn't expect: underneath the shock, there was something else. Something that had been sitting there for a long time.
The realization that wasn't sudden
I'd known for years that I wanted to build something of my own. Not in the dramatic, quit-your-job-and-follow-your-dreams way. More like a low hum in the background. A thought that would surface during long weekends or quiet evenings, then get filed away under "someday."
I'd look at the tools I was building at work, the frameworks and systems that saved thousands of hours, and think: I could do this for myself. I could build things I actually own.
But there was always a reason not to. The job was stable. The work was meaningful. The paycheck was reliable. And honestly, after spending all day engineering solutions for someone else, I didn't have much left to give.
So the idea just sat there. For years.
The layoff didn't create that desire. It just removed every reason I had to keep ignoring it.
The trap I almost walked into
My first instinct was to do what most people do: update the resume, start applying, get back on the path. And I did start that process. But pretty quickly I ran into something that stopped me.
The data engineering landscape had changed. The tools I'd mastered over two decades, SQL, SAS, Teradata, were being replaced by a new wave of platforms and frameworks. To compete for the same kind of role, I'd need to retool. Learn the new stack. Prove myself all over again.
And I realized I'd done this before. I'd spent years becoming an expert in systems that someone else chose, solving problems that someone else defined, building value that someone else owned. If I was going to start over anyway, why would I start over doing the same thing?
That was the question that changed everything. Not a single moment. Just a question I finally let myself sit with instead of pushing away.
Building for a different audience
I started building. Not for a corporation. Not for a boss. For myself.
The first thing was a website engine. I called it Headstring Web. I wanted a way to get a professional site online without the bloat of WordPress or the limitations of drag-and-drop builders. Something fast, clean, and built for people who care about their work but don't want to become web developers to share it.
Then came an AI writing assistant. Not a replacement for the writing process, but a tool to handle the scaffolding. Structure, formatting, the mechanical parts that slow you down before you get to the actual creative work.
And then this site. Uncreative Work.
Why creative professionals
Here's what I noticed as I started building: the people who need this kind of help the most are the ones least likely to go looking for it.
Writers, musicians, filmmakers. People who got into their craft because they love the work itself. Not because they love building websites, managing email lists, optimizing for search engines, or figuring out which AI tools are worth their time.
I call it the creative tax. All the work that surrounds the work. The invoices, the scheduling, the file management, the marketing. None of it is why you started creating. All of it eats your time and energy.
I spent 23 years automating exactly this kind of work. The tedious, repetitive, necessary stuff that pulls people away from what they're actually good at. The difference now is that I get to choose who I build for.
And I'm choosing the people who make things.
What this site is for
Uncreative Work is where I document what I'm learning, building, and figuring out as I go. You'll find build logs about the tools I'm creating, practical guides for using AI without losing your voice, and honest assessments of what works and what's just noise.
I'm not going to pretend I have it all figured out. A year ago I was sitting in the same chair, doing the same job I'd done for over two decades. Now I'm building a website engine, writing a journal, and trying to turn a slow realization into something real.
But I think that's exactly the point. The best time to start was years ago, when the idea first showed up. The second best time is now, when I've finally stopped filing it away under "someday."
If you're a creative professional drowning in the work that isn't your work, this site is for you. Pull up a chair. I'm figuring this out in public, and you're welcome to follow along.