The Quartermaster Experience
“Plans That Survive Contact with Real Life”
A confession: I’m lazy. Not catastrophically so, but enough that if something requires too much effort, my enthusiasm collapses like a bad soufflé. I’ve tried every planning method known to humankind — colour-coded calendars, digital dashboards, apps that ping, chirp, and nudge — but the end result was always the same: I felt busier, not better.
The lists grew like weeds in my garden (still untamed — perhaps next quarter’s project). I ticked off easy, irrelevant tasks just to feel productive, mistaking activity for achievement. It took me an embarrassingly long time to realise I was working for my planner, not the other way round.
So, over the course of 30 years, I built my own system — one so simple that even my lazier instincts could tolerate it. I call it “minimalist planning,” but really, it’s refined idleness. The result is The Quartermaster: a compact companion for people who want to get things done without losing their will to live in the process.
It’s gloriously and intentionally low-tech — a pen, some paper, and no notifications. Writing by hand forces you to think before you scribble “reorganise sock drawer” to your to-do list when you’re supposed to be saving the company. Planning should feel like pleasant progress, not punishment.
At the Beginning of Every Month
It begins, as all good things do, by confronting your past mistakes.
I open the Monthly Review of last month and experience the full emotional buffet: disbelief, denial, and that faint, sparkling optimism I once had on day one. There, in ink, lies evidence of things I swore I’d do and then artfully dodged. Still, this is archaeology of the useful kind. Amongst the rubble are clues about what actually worked and what merely sounded impressive when written in a café.
Next comes Defaults — These are the time blocks that stop your calendar from turning into a game of meeting Tetris played by someone you don’t like. I set aside my non-negotiables — focus hours, lunch breaks that involve actual food, and time to stare heroically into the middle distance while pretending to “ideate.” Defaults are how I remind the world (and myself) that I am not a public park open to every “quick meeting.”
Then there’s Waiting On, affectionately known as the Hall of Eternal Promises. It’s a glorious reminder of all the things that are technically in progress, assuming you define “progress” very generously. I scan the list and note who I need to politely nudge, and who I might need to haunt.
With these three — Review, Defaults, and Waiting On — I have the ingredients for the month ahead. Time to climb to the Monthly Grid for the big-picture view.
Here’s where the grand illusions begin. I start by marking the immovable bits: deadlines, holidays, launches, and the one Tuesday that’s already doomed. Then I pick my three objectives for the month — the Big Three that would make me feel smugly accomplished if I managed even one.
Short. Simple. Achievable on this planet.
At the Start of Every Week
Every week begins with Reserve & Commit. This is where I wrestle optimism into submission. I look at what’s already on the Monthly Grid and start slotting things into place, resisting the urge to pretend that I’ll write a strategy plan, host a meeting, and reinvent the wheel before Wednesday.
Then I choose my Top 3 Outcomes. By this point, I’ve accepted that time is finite and I am not powered by caffeine and wishful thinking alone. These three things, if done, will make the week a win. Anything beyond that is a delightful accident.
Everything else — the half-baked ideas and nice-to-haves — goes to Tasks to Park, that peaceful pasture for projects not ready for prime time.
Then there’s Important, Not Urgent — a tiny sanctuary for the long‑horizon work that quietly upgrades your life and craft but never shouts for attention. Think: documenting a process so Future‑You doesn’t hate Past‑You; setting up a reporting template; booking the health check; writing the onboarding page you wish existed; calling your accountant before the tax year becomes a Greek tragedy.
Each week, I pick one (just one) INU item and make a micro‑commitment: 30 minutes, once, no heroics. If it’s documentation, I create the skeleton and write the first two bullets. If it’s a process, I sketch the happy path and the “if this, then that.” The goal is not to finish; it’s to move the glacier.
Before closing the book, I check Waiting On again — a roll call of half-finished business. A few nudges, a sigh, and I’m ready for the week.
Every Day
Mornings begin before email wakes up and starts demanding attention. I open Action This Day and pick no more than five outcomes. Just five — because I’ve learned that no mortal can tackle seventeen “urgent” things and remain cheerful.
One of them gets a star — ★ — the One Move. The act that, if completed, redeems the entire day. If my calendar already looks like a collapsing deckchair, I make the One Move smaller: write one page, send one message, blink purposefully. Small moves are easier to catch.
And then, without thinking too hard, I do the ★ first. Always first. Before Slack pings, before someone books a meeting titled “Quick Alignment,” before the day turns feral.
At day’s end, I tick what’s done, arrow forward what survives, and add a note or two for tomorrow. It’s fast, oddly satisfying, and feels like giving my brain a hot shower.
At the End of Every Week
Last Friday, I parked myself at the kitchen table with a heroic mug of Earl Grey and a biscuit that absolutely did not count as dinner. I wrote:
What mattered and happened? “Shipped the pricing one‑pager; coached Maya through her first client demo; ran two deep‑work blocks without touching email (proud).”
What mattered and didn’t happen — why? “Didn’t draft the onboarding doc. Reason: let three ‘five‑minute’ requests colonise my afternoon. Also, underestimated the time to wrangle examples.”
Tweak(s) for next week? “Protect a 45‑minute ‘doc sprint’ before lunch on Tue/Thu with calendar blocks; create a simple example library first, then draft.”
On Sunday evening, I opened to that page, copied the tweaks straight into Reserve & Commit, and placed one Important, Not Urgent block for the doc sprint. The following Friday, I could honestly write, “Doc skeleton done, examples captured, momentum alive.”
It’s not therapy. It’s a weekly nudge from your better self.
I might also add a line to the Index for anything worth remembering — a clever idea, a lesson learned, or just something that worked and didn’t set anything on fire. If the week was a complete shambles, I simply scribble “Did my best.” It’s usually true, and it’s remarkably therapeutic.
At the End of Every Month
Then comes the Monthly Review again — the loop that turns chaos into continuity. This is where I face the facts, celebrate small wins, and try not to repeat the same mistake for a fourth consecutive month. It’s the reset button, the mirror, the part where wisdom (and a faint sense of control) begins.
Here is how I do it step‑by‑step, like a calm air‑traffic controller guiding a slightly wobbly plane.
What moved the needle? Look back over the Monthly Grid, weekly Top 3, and your Index. Circle the few actions that delivered outsized results. Write why they worked.
Example: “The customer health dashboard reduced surprise fires by half. Why? Clear thresholds, shared visibility, and we actually looked at it.”
Why it matters: You’re teaching your future brain which levers are real levers, not shiny distractions.
What could have been better? Name the friction points without theatrics. Was it a bottleneck (waiting on approvals), a habit (doom‑scrolling between meetings), or a system (ambiguous owners)?
Example: “Quarterly planning slid because decisions kept bouncing. No single DRI; everyone was ‘sort of’ in charge.”
Why it matters: You can’t improve fog. Give the gremlin a name; then you can shrink it.
What should I delegate — or not do at all? List the tasks that keep boomeranging back to you despite adding little value. Decide: delegate, automate, or delete.
Example: “Weekly ‘status’ deck: move to a rolling doc; assign Jade as owner; stop making slides unless we’re presenting.”
Why it matters: Your attention is not communal property. Every ‘no’ buys time for the work only you can do.
Course corrections. Translate insights into tiny adjustments you can actually keep. Edit Defaults, add a standing ‘Important, Not Urgent’ block, move a meeting, set a response SLA with your team.
Example: “Add two 30‑min doc sprints Tue/Thu; set a 24‑hour limit on ‘quick asks’; create a template for new project kickoffs.”
Why it matters: Strategy is just decisions plus calendars. If the calendar doesn’t change, nothing does.
Reflections & Decisions. A short narrative to close the loop. Two paragraphs, tops: what you learned, what you’re choosing to do differently, and what you’ll ignore on purpose.
Example: “This month proved that visibility beats valour. I’ll invest in shared dashboards and stop firefighting by heroics. Next month’s Big Three: finish onboarding doc, run two customer interviews, and pilot the alert thresholds.”
Why it matters: Writing clarifies intent. Intent becomes direction. Direction becomes momentum.
When you’ve done those five, roll forward anything still alive, retire the rest with thanks, and pick your next Big Three. It’s the reset button, the mirror, the part where wisdom (and a faint sense of control) begins.
Rinse and Repeat
And then the cycle begins again: review, adjust, commit, act, reflect — each month slightly tidier, slightly saner, slightly less dramatic.
Somewhere along the way, you stop feeling like you’re chasing your calendar and start feeling like you’re commanding a ship. A small ship, perhaps, slightly weathered, but steady, charting its course one page at a time.
That’s the real magic of The Quartermaster. It doesn’t just organise your life — it helps you laugh at the chaos, steer through it, and somehow come out ahead.
Your Turn
Now it’s over to you. Open your Quartermaster, find your first blank page, and begin your mission.
And when you’ve had your first small victory (or hilarious failure), tell us about it here. We’d love to hear how you’ve made it your own — the good, the bad, and the gloriously human.
Because that’s the whole point of The Quartermaster: not perfection, but progress — one well-planned, slightly messy, marvellously real day at a time.