A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away....
A brother wanted to make a Christmas present for his sibling.
He reached for the sacred texts. The scripture. The only language he thought might carry it.
He got the characters all wrong. The timeline was a disaster. The metaphors didn't line up at all.
He trampled the sacred ground. With muddy boots.
But he hoped his sibling might forgive him—and maybe, eventually—help him tell the story right.
This is that story.
Working on a moisture farm is fine.
It's noble work. Stable. The kind of thing you're supposed to want.
The suns rise. The suns set. Another day, another credit.
For me it's the hospital job. Analyzing insurance claims data. Helping the hospital collect what they're owed from the insurance company. Honest work.
So why do I keep staring at the horizon?
I've been wondering if there's something more out there.
And wondering if you might feel the same.
After moisture farming—err, after my hospital work—I'd come home and tinker with the droids.
Little coding projects. Small tools to summarize podcasts. Automate dreary accounting. Nothing substantial. Just tinkering.
That's when the hologram started flickering.
But it's not Leia asking for help.
It seems like she's offering it.
It feels like crazy ol' Uncle Ben gave us something. A new tool that at first seemed novel, but kind of useless.
AI.
Not bad at code. But frustrating for anything else.
Writing? AI-slop is maddening. I bang my head against the keyboard trying to get it to find a good, consistent style. I can't. Maybe it can't.
Not yet.
Turns out ol' Ben wasn't so crazy after all.
His gift. It's getting stronger.
Now I'm not writing code. It's possible to just chat, and vibe apps into existence.
We're not lifting X-wings out of the swamp. Yet.
But "The Force" is getting... stronger.
It still hasn't fixed my writing skills, though.
"Luke, you switched off your targeting computer. What's wrong?"
AI can build the app. It can write the code.
But it has no taste. No feeling. But it can't find the voice. The angle. Something new, and unique. The thing that makes people actually care.
That's taste. That's instinct.
I think that's you.
You've got skills the machine doesn't. Writing that doesn't read like slop. Ideas that come from years of obsessing over the things you love.
See where I'm going with this?
Then my world got turned upside down.
Not as dramatic as finding Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru in the smoke and rubble. But after five years of working remotely from Thailand, the hospital gave me an ultimatum:
Return to the U.S. or lose your job.
I stood there looking at the smoke.
And chose Mos Eisley.
I don't have Obi-Wan guiding me. I don't have the droids.
I'm heading into the cantina alone—and there's a decent chance I get blasted before I even find Han and Chewie. I'll definitely end up in the trash compactor at some point.
But that's okay.
Because that's when I thought of you.
I wondered if you might have ideas kicking around—projects you'd pursue if you just had a programmer.
Someone to handle the technical friction. Help you build and deploy a first version, or get you set up so you can vibe code yourself.
I wonder if you could use a Chewbacca?
Because I know I could use help where the AI "force" doesn't cut it. I could use a Yoda to share wise advice and sharpen my ideas. An Obi-Wan to give feedback on my lightsaber—er, writing skills.
I'm not asking you to leave Tatooine. I know you have responsibilities there.
But maybe we could build something together on the side?
Just to spark some ideas of what we might haul:
I don't know exactly where this goes.
I'm very happy flying solo. But thought it might be fun to have some other rebels to collaborate with.
No pressure. No timeline. Just a standing offer.
Merry Christmas.
Punch it, Chewie.
— Matt
Even if none of this is your thing, the domain whillice.com is yours to keep.
Do whatever you want with it. Park it. Build something. Let it sit. It's yours either way.