I've spent just about every single day for the last 6 months doing something with Python 3. Some days it was helping port a library, other days it was helping projects put together their porting strategies, and on others I've written prose on the subject. At this point, I am very very bored of talking about porting, and about the health of our ecosystem.
Most of all, I'm exhausted, particularly from arguing about whether or not the process is going well. So here's what I would like:
I would like to know what the success condition for Python 3 is. If we were writing a test case for this, when would it pass?
And let's do this with objective measures. Here are some ideas I have:
I'd like a measurement, and I'd like a schedule: "At present x% of PyPI downloads use Python 3, in 3 months we'd like it to be at y%, in 12 months we'd like it to be at z%". Then we can have some way of judging whether we're on a successful path. And if we miss our goal, we'll know it's time to reevaluate this effort.
Quo vadimus?You can find the rest here. There are view comments.
If you've been around an Open Source community for any length of time, you've probably heard someone say, "We're all volunteers here". Often this is given as an explanation for why some feature hasn't been implemented, why a release has been delayed, and in general, why something hasn't happened.
I think when we say these things (and I've said them as much as anyone), often we're being dishonest. Almost always it's not a question of an absolute availability of resources, but rather how we prioritize among the many tasks we could complete. It can explain why we didn't have time to do things, but not why we did them poorly.
Volunteerism does not place us above criticism, nor should it absolve us when we err.
Beyond this however, many Open Source projects (including entirely volunteer driven ones) don't just make their codebases available to others, they actively solicit users, and make the claim that people can depend on this software.
That dependency can take many forms. It usually means an assumption that the software will still exist (and be maintained) tomorrow, that it will handle catastrophic bugs in a reasonable way, that it will be a stable base to build a platform or a business on, and that the software won't act unethically (such as by flagrantly violating expectations about privacy or integrity).
And yet, across a variety of these policy areas, such as security and backwards compatibility we often fail to properly consider the effects of our actions on our users, particularly in a context of "they have bet their businesses on this". Instead we continue to treat these projects as our hobby projects, as things we casually do on the side for fun.
Working on PyCA Cryptography, and security in general, has grealy influenced my thinking on these issues. The nature of cryptography means that when we make mistakes, we put our users' businesses, and potentially their customers' personal information at risk. This responsibility weighs heavily on me. It means we try to have policies that emphasize review, it means we utilize aggressive automated testing, it means we try to design APIs that prevent inadvertent mistakes which affect security, it means we try to write excellent documentation, and it means, should we have a security issue, we'll do everything in our power to protect our users. (I've previous written about what I think Open Source projects' security policies should look like).
Open Source projects of a certain size, scope, and importance need to take seriously the fact that we have an obligation to our users. Whether we are volunteers, or paid, we have a solemn responsibility to consider the impact of our decisions on our users. And too often in the past, we have failed, and acted negligently and recklessly with their trust.
Often folks in the Open Source community (again, myself included!) have asked why large corporations, who use our software, don't give back more. Why don't they employ developers to work on these projects? Why don't they donate money? Why don't they donate other resources (e.g. build servers)?
In truth, my salary is paid by every single user of Python and Django (though Rackspace graciously foots the bill). The software I write for these projects would be worth nothing if it weren't for the community around them, of which a large part is the companies which use them. This community enables me to have a job, to travel the world, and to meet so many people. So while companies, such as Google, don't pay a dime of my salary, I still gain a lot from their usage of Python.
Without our users, we would be nothing, and it's time we started acknowledging a simple truth: our projects exist in service of our users, and not the other way around.You can find the rest here. There are view comments.
This year was my 7th PyCon, I've been to every one since 2008. The most consistent trend in my attendance has been that over the years, I've gone to fewer and fewer talks, and spent more and more time volunteering. As a result, I can't tell you what the best talks to watch are (though I recommend watching absolutely anything that sounds interesting online). Nonetheless, I wanted to write down the two defining events at PyCon for me.
The first is the swag bag stuffing. This event occurs every year on the Thursday before the conference. Dozens of companies provide swag for PyCon to distribute to our attendees, and we need to get it into over 2,000 bags. This is one of the things that defines the Python community for me. By all rights, this should be terribly boring and monotonous work, but PyCon has turned it into an incredibly fun, and social event. Starting at 11AM, half a dozen of us unpacked box after box from our sponsors, and set the area up. At 3PM, over one hundred volunteers showed up to help us operate the human assembly line, and in less than two and a half hours, we'd filled the bags.
The second event I wanted to highlight was an open space session, on Composition. For over two hours, a few dozen people discussed the problems with inheritance, the need for explicit interface definition, what the most idiomatic ways to use decorators are, and other big picture software engineering topics. We talked about design mistakes we'd all made in our past, and discussed refactoring strategies to improve code.
These events are what make PyCon special for me: community, and technical excellence, in one place.here. There are view comments.
Try something like this:
When a user visits the website, they will be assigned a session ID, and it will be transmitted to them in the HTTP response and stored in their browser.
But not like this!
When a user visits the website, he will be assigned a session ID, and it will be transmitted to him in the HTTP response and stored in his browser.
Using gendered pronouns signals to the audience your assumptions about who they are, and very often lets them know that they don't belong. Since that's not your intent, better to just be gender neutral.
And if you don't believe me, some folks did some science (other studies have consistently reproduced this result).
It's a nice idea, unfortunately it doesn't work. Your users don't read your documentation cover to cover, so they won't be able to see your good intentions. Instead they'll be linked somewhere in the middle, see your gendered language, and feel excluded.
In addition, not everyone identifies by male or female pronouns. Play it safe, just be gender neutral.
I've been assured by people far more knowlegable than I that it's ok, even Shakespeare did it. Personally, I'm comforted by the knowledge that even if I'm wrong about the grammar, I won't have made anyone feel excluded.
So merge it! If you've got some process that a contributors needs to go through (such as a CLA), let them know. They're just trying to make your community better and bigger!
I'm sorry, but you were. Your choice of language has an impact on people.
That's ok, hostility isn't about intent, your words had an impact whether you meant it or not.
Maybe you didn't know, you're not a native English speaker, your 11th grade English teacher beat you over the head with some bad advice. That's ok, it only takes a moment to fix it, and then you're letting everyone know it's easy to fix!
There are so many giant issues we face. This one takes 15 seconds to fix, has no downsides, and we can all be a part of making it better. If we can't do this, how could we ever tackle the other challenges?
You have no idea.
Whenever the topic of affirmative action comes up, you can be sure someone will ask the question: "How would you feel if you found out that you got your job, or got into college, because of your race?"
It's funny, no one ever asks: "How would you feel if you got your job, or got into college, because you were systemically advantaged from the moment you were born?"
Interesting.You can find the rest here. There are view comments.
This post is intended to describe how open source projects should handle security vulnerabilities. This process is largely inspired by my involvement in the Django project, whose process is in turn largely drawn from the PostgreSQL project's process. For every recommendation I make I'll try to explain why I've made it, and how it serves to protect you and your users. This is largely tailored at large, high impact, projects, but you should able to apply it to any of your projects.
Security vulnerabilities put your users, and often, in turn, their users at risk. As an author and distributor of software, you have a responsibility to your users to handle security releases in a way most likely to help them avoid being exploited.
The first thing you need to do is make sure people can report security issues to you in a responsible way. This starts with having a page in your documentation (or on your website) which clearly describes an email address people can report security issues to. It should also include a PGP key fingerprint which reporters can use to encrypt their reports (this ensures that if the email goes to the wrong recipient, that they will be unable to read it).
You also need to describe what happens when someone emails that address. It should look something like this:
From the moment you get the initial report, you're on the clock. Your goal is to have a new release issued within 2-weeks of getting the report email. Absolutely nothing that occurs until the final step is public. Here are the things that need to happen:
Obtaining a CVE
In short, follow these instructions from Red Hat.
Your release announcement needs to have several things:
Why complete disclosure?
I've recommended that you completely disclose what the issue was. Why is that? A lot of people's first instinct is to want to keep that information secret, to give your users time to upgrade before the bad guys figure it out and start exploiting it.
Unfortunately it doesn't work like that in the real world. In practice, not disclosing gives more power to attackers and hurts your users. Dedicated attackers will look at your release and the diff and figure out what the exploit is, but your average users won't be able to. Even embedding the fix into a larger release with many other things doesn't mask this information.
In the case of yesterday's Node.JS release, which did not practice complete disclosure, and did put the fix in a larger patch, this did not prevent interested individuals from finding out the attack, it took me about five minutes to do so, and any serious individual could have done it much faster.
The first step for users in responding to a security release in something they use is to assess exposure and impact. Exposure means "Am I affected and how?", impact means "What is the result of being affected?". Denying users a complete description of the issue strips them of the ability to answer these questions.
A zero-day is when an exploit is publicly available before a project has any chance to reply to it. Sometimes this happens maliciously (e.g. a black-hat starts using the exploit against your users) and sometimes it is accidentally (e.g. a user reports a security issue to your mailing list, instead of the security contact). Either way, when this happens, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.
When a zero-day happens basically everything happens in 16x fast-forward. You need to immediately begin preparing a patch and issuing a release. You should be aiming to issue a release on the same day as the issue is made public.
Unfortunately there's no secret to managing zero-days. They're quite simply a race between people who might exploit the issue, and you to issue a release and inform your users.
Your responsibility as a package author or maintainer is to protect your users. The name of the game is keeping your users informed and able to judge their own security, and making sure they have that information before the bad guys do.
Let's start with a definition, a meritocracy is a group where leadership or authority is derived from merit (merit being skills or ability), and particularly objective merit. I think adding the word objective is important, but not often explicitly stated.
A lot of people like to say open source is a meritocracy, the people who are the top of projects are there because they have the most merit. I'd like to examine this idea. What if I told you the United States Congress was a meritocracy? You might say "gee, how could that be, they're really terrible at their jobs, the government isn't even operational!?!". To which I might respond "that's evidence that they aren't good at their jobs, it doesn't prove that they aren't the best of the available candidates". You'd probably tell me that "surely someone, somewhere, is better qualified to do their jobs", and I'd say "we have an open, democratic process, if there was someone better, they'd run for office and get elected".
Did you see what I did there? It was subtle, a lot of people miss it. I begged the question. Begging the question is the act of responding to a hypothesis with a conclusion that's premised on exactly the question the hypothesis asks.
So what if you told me that Open Source was meritocracy? Projects gain recognition because they're the best, people become maintainers of libraries because they're the best.
And those of us involved in open source love this explanation, why wouldn't we? This explanation says that the reason I'm a core developer of Django and PyPy because I'm so gosh-darned awesome. And who doesn't like to think they're awesome? And if I can have a philosophy that leads to myself being awesome, all the better!
Unfortunately, it's not a valid conclusion. The problem with stating that a group is meritocratic is that it's not a falsifiable hypothesis.
We don't have a definition of objective merit. As a result of which there's no piece of evidence that I can show you to prove that a group isn't in fact meritocratic. And a central tenant of any sort of rigorous inquisitive process is that we need to be able to construct a formal opposing argument. I can test whether a society is democratic, do the people vote, is the result of the vote respected? I can't test if a society is meritocratic.
It's unhealthy when we consider or groups, or cultures, or our societies as being meritocratic. It makes us ignore questions about who our leaders are, how they got there who isn't represented. The best we can say is that maybe our organizations are (perceptions of subjective merit)-ocracies, which is profoundly different from what we mean when we say meritocracy.
I'd like to encourage groups that self-identify as being meritocratic (such as The Gnome Foundation, The Apache Software Foundation, Mozilla, The Document Foundation, and The Django Software Foundation) to reconsider this. Aspiring to meritocracy is a reasonable, it makes sense to want for the people who are best capable of doing so to lead us, but it's not something we can ever say we've achieved.You can find the rest here. There are view comments.
Maybe you practice code review, either as a part of your open source project or as a part of your team at work, maybe you don't yet. But if you're working on a software project with more than one person it is, in my view, a necessary piece of a healthy workflow. The purpose of this piece is to try to convince you its valuable, and show you how to do it effectively.
This is based on my experience doing code review both as a part of my job at several different companies, as well as in various open source projects.
It seems only seems fair that before I try to convince you to make code review an integral part of your workflow, I precisely define what it is.
Code review is the process of having another human being read over a diff. It's exactly like what you might do to review someone's blog post or essay, except it's applied to code. It's important to note that code review is about code. Code review doesn't mean an architecture review, a system design review, or anything like that.
Why should you do code review? It's got a few benefits:
So now that I've, hopefully, convinced you to make code review a part of your workflow how do you put it into practice?
First, a few ground rules:
So how do you start? First, get yourself a system. Phabricator, Github's pull requests, and Gerrit are the three systems I've used, any of them will work fine. The major benefit of having a tool (over just mailing patches around) is that it'll keep track of the history of reviews, and will let you easily do commenting on a line-by-line basis.
You can either have patch authors land their changes once they're approved, or you can have the reviewer merge a change once it's approved. Either system works fine.
As a patch author
Patch authors only have a few responsibilities (besides writing the patch itself!).
First, they need to express what the patch does, and why, clearly.
Second, they need to keep their changes small. Studies have shown that beyond 200-400 lines of diff, patch review efficacy trails off . You want to keep your patches small so they can be effectively reviewed.
It's also important to remember that code review is a collaborative feedback process if you disagree with a review note you should start a conversation about it, don't just ignore it, or implement it even though you disagree.
As a review
As a patch reviewer, you're going to be looking for a few things, I recommend reviewing for these attributes in this order:
You're going to want to start at intent and work your way down. The reason for this is that if you start giving feedback on variable names, and other small details (which are the easiest to notice), you're going to be less likely to notice that the entire patch is in the wrong place! Or that you didn't want the patch in the first place!
Doing reviews on concepts and architecture is harder than reviewing individual lines of code, that's why it's important to force yourself to start there.
There are three different types of review elements:
It's important to note which type of feedback each comment you leave is (if it's not already obvious).
Code review is an important part of a healthy engineering culture and workflow. Hopefully, this post has given you an idea of either how to implement it for your team, or how to improve your existing workflow.
From time to time I joke that Bob Knight stole the title of my autobiography with his, which is titled "The Power of Negativity". I've never read the book, but it's very easy for me to imagine how it could apply to me. Many people who know me would immediately identify me as a negative person. They're not wrong, and it's a constant source of struggle for me.
To be clear: I'm sarcastic, I'm critical, I'm a perfectionist and impossible to impress, and I have a capacious ego. As a result of which I almost universally have a problem with any technology I come across, I have a critique to offer of nearly everything, both social and technical.
Some of this is probably my "personality" , but a lot of it is intentional. I'm deliberately negative about many things. There's a few reasons for this. First, I'm good at it, I seem to have an ability to identify and articulate problems with things. I also think it's important, when things are not perfect (and they so rarely are), we have a responsibility to speak honestly about them, and to discuss their flaws with the same prominence we discuss their features. Finally, articulating problems with things is one of the ways I learn best. Much of my philosophy about software, and the world, has been formed by identifying problems with the things that exist today.
The conflict about this negativity for me comes from two places. First, the effect it has on other people. For many people, when they see this negativity it has a demoralizing effect on them, they lose interest in something as a result. In particular I'm concerned that my attitudes could be an discouraging to people getting into software development; James Coglan wrote a thing about this, and I certainly don't want to be part of the problem, particularly given how much I've invested in trying to make the tech community more, not less, welcoming . The second conflict comes from the fact that I am, at heart, a boundlessly optimistic person. A strong complement to my negativity is an unyielding belief that we must and can fix all of these things.
Where does this leave me? Uncertain. It is truly important to me that I continue to cast a critical eye on everything, including playing the devil's advocate; it's part of how I learn, and learning is very much something I want to continue to do. But I don't want to ever be why someone is afraid to get involved in programming, in open source, in speaking, or in anything else, because they're afraid I'll do nothing but critique their work. I don't know how to resolve this tension. For the past few months I've been trying to be less negative and angry on Twitter, I don't know how successful I'm being. I hope you'll try to help by letting me know when I've got over the line.
|||This isn't to say it's intrinsic, or immutable, but simply that it's not a conscious thing.|
Friends of mine will know I'm a very big fan of the TV show Sports Night (really any of Aaron Sorkin's writing, but Sports Night in particular). Before you read anything I have to say, take a couple of minutes and watch this clip:
I doubt Sorkin knew it when he scripted this (I doubt he knows it now either), but this piece is about how Open Source happens (to be honest, I doubt he knows what Open Source Software is).
This short clip actually makes two profound observations about open source.
First, most contribution are not big things. They're not adding huge new features, they're not rearchitecting the whole system to address some limitation, they're not even fixing a super annoying bug that affects every single user. Nope, most of them are adding a missing sentence to the docs, fixing a bug in a wacky edge case, or adding a tiny hook so the software is a bit more flexible. And this is fantastic.
The common wisdom says that the thing open source is really bad at is polish. My experience has been the opposite, no one is better at finding increasingly edge case bugs than open source users. And no one is better at fixing edge case bugs than open source contributors (who overlap very nicely with open source users).
The second lesson in that clip is about how to be an effective contributor. Specifically that one of the keys to getting involved effectively is for other people to recognize that you know how to do things (this is an empirical observation, not a claim of how things ought to be). How can you do that?
This all works in reverse too, projects need to treat contributors with respect, and show them that the project is worth their time:
Remember, Soylent Green Open Source is people
That's it, the blog post's over.You can find the rest here. There are view comments.
Having your own open source project is awesome. You get to build a thing you like, obviously. But you also get to have your own little playground, a chance to use your favorite tools: your favorite VCS, your favorite test framework, your favorite issue tracker, and so on.
And if the point of your project is to share a thing you're having fun with with the world, that's great, and that's probably all there is to the story (you may stop reading here). But if you're interested in growing a legion of contributors to build your small side project into an amazing thing, you need to forget about all of that and remember these words: Your contributors are more important than you.
Your preferences aren't that important: This means you probably shouldn't use bzr if everyone else is using git. You shouldn't use your own home grown documentation system when everyone is using Sphinx. Your playground is a tiny thing in the giant playground that is the Python (or whatever) community. And every unfamiliar thing a person needs to familiarize themselves with to contribute to your project is another barrier to entry, and another N% of potential contributors who won't actually materialize.
I'm extremely critical of the growing culture of "Github is open source", I think it's ignorant, shortsighted, and runs counter to innovation. But if your primary interest is "having more contributors", you'd be foolish to ignore the benefits of having your project on Github. It's where people are. It has tools that are better than almost anything else you'll potentially use. And most importantly it implies a workflow and toolset with which a huge number of people are familiar.
A successful open source project outgrows the preferences of its creators. It's important to prepare for that by remembering that (if you want contributors) your workflow preferences must always be subservient to those of your community.You can find the rest here. There are view comments.
I get asked from time to time why I care about diversity in the communities I'm a part of, particularly the Django, Python, and the broader software development and open source community.
There's a lot of good answers. The simplest one, and the one I imagine just about everyone can get behind: diverse groups perform better at creative tasks. A group composed of people from different backgrounds will do better work than a homogeneous group.
But that's not the main reason I care. I care because anyone who knows how to read some statistics knows that it's ridiculous that I'm where I am today. I have a very comfortable job and life, many great friends, and the opportunity to travel and to spend my time on the things I care about. And that's obscenely anomalous for a high school dropout like me.
All of that opportunity is because when I showed up to some open source communities no one cared that I was a high school dropout, they just cared about the fact that I seemed to be interested, wanted to help, and wanted to learn. I particularly benefited from the stereotype of white dropouts, which is considerably more charitable than (for example) the stereotype of African American dropouts.
Unfortunately, our communities aren't universally welcoming, aren't universally nice, and aren't universally thoughtful and caring. Not everyone has the same first experience I did. In particular people who don't look like me, aren't white males, disproportionately don't have this positive experience. But everyone ought to. (This is to say nothing of the fact that I had more access to computers at a younger age then most people.)
That's why I care. Because I benefited from so much, and many aren't able to.
This is why I support the Ada Initiative. I've had the opportunity to see their work up close twice. Once, as a participant in Ada Camp San Francisco's Allies Track. And a second time in getting their advice in writing the Code of Conduct for the Django community. They're doing fantastic work to support more diversity, and more welcoming communities.
Right now they're raising funds to support their operations for the next year, if you accord to, I hope you'll donate: http://supportada.orgYou can find the rest here. There are view comments.