Life. Or something like it.
These rules were originally tweeted by Emma Coates, Pixar’s Story Artist.
While these in itself show directly how much thought and love has gone into making a Pixar movie, what struck me was how many of these rules reflected our own desires and inner workings. These rules distill not only what we as humans (given the universality of Pixar movies) hold to be valuable, but also hold up a mirror to our own daily lives. They enable us to see in them that which we have lost or gained, or forgotten.
Personally, I love 1, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, 14, 17, 18 and 22.
- You admire a character for trying more than for their successes.
- You gotta keep in mind what’s interesting to you as an audience, not what’s fun to do as a writer. They can be very different.
- Trying for theme is important, but you won’t see what the story is actually about til you’re at the end of it. Now rewrite.
- Once upon a time there was ___. Every day, ___. One day ___. Because of that, ___. Because of that, ___. Until finally ___.
- Simplify. Focus. Combine characters. Hop over detours. You’ll feel like you’re losing valuable stuff but it sets you free.
- What is your character good at, comfortable with? Throw the polar opposite at them. Challenge them. How do they deal?
- Come up with your ending before you figure out your middle. Seriously. Endings are hard, get yours working up front.
- Finish your story, let go even if it’s not perfect. In an ideal world you have both, but move on. Do better next time.
- When you’re stuck, make a list of what WOULDN’T happen next. Lots of times the material to get you unstuck will show up.
- Pull apart the stories you like. What you like in them is a part of you; you’ve got to recognize it before you can use it.
- Putting it on paper lets you start fixing it. If it stays in your head, a perfect idea, you’ll never share it with anyone.
- Discount the 1st thing that comes to mind. And the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th – get the obvious out of the way. Surprise yourself.
- Give your characters opinions. Passive/malleable might seem likable to you as you write, but it’s poison to the audience.
- Why must you tell THIS story? What’s the belief burning within you that your story feeds off of? That’s the heart of it.
- If you were your character, in this situation, how would you feel? Honesty lends credibility to unbelievable situations.
- What are the stakes? Give us reason to root for the character. What happens if they don’t succeed? Stack the odds against.
- No work is ever wasted. If it’s not working, let go and move on – it’ll come back around to be useful later.
- You have to know yourself: the difference between doing your best & fussing. Story is testing, not refining.
- Coincidences to get characters into trouble are great; coincidences to get them out of it are cheating.
- Exercise: take the building blocks of a movie you dislike. How would you rearrange them into what you DO like?
- You gotta identify with your situation/characters, can’t just write ‘cool’. What would make YOU act that way?
- What’s the essence of your story? Most economical telling of it? If you know that, you can build out from there.
Time is how we spend love. Everything else is just scenery.
- Siddharth Dhanvant Shanghvi (The Lost Flamingoes of Bombay)
… makes you stronger.
“Don’t sweat the petty things and don’t pet the sweaty things.” – George Carlin
The years had not been kind to her.
I left her standing at her doorway, still smiling a goodbye at us when I looked back from a hundred steps away. Just like the last time eight years ago.
The picture-perfect scene was the same as before. The house, behind her, was as regal as before. The coconut trees, behind her, cast as long a shadow as before. Her smile was as beautiful and true as before.
But the evergreen green Ambassador, a relic of her still-dashing-in-his-sixties husband’s four decades of government service, had disappeared from the picture.
Her husband, who had let a nine-year-old me sit on his lap and “control” the steering wheel of the Ambassador, who had been the first person in our entire family line to have had a personal car, who had built his dream house with his retirement money, who had one-day disappeared, who had turned up in a ditch a few days later, and who had been dismissed as a suicide case by the police, had disappeared from the picture.
Her twenty-nine-year-old son, who had first taught me “Speed thrills, but kills” when I was eight years old, who had supported Casey Stoner over my favorite Valentino Rossi in the Motogp eight years ago, who had been unable to smile as we had taken the mandatory “family picture” because Rossi had overtaken Stoner on the last turn of the last lap, who had decided to take the job away from home for the higher salary, who had missed the last overnight bus to his wife and three-month-old son, who had decided to brave the same journey in many parts – by truck, by bus, by Trekker, who had given up his seat in the back to an elderly gentleman and taken up the uncomfortable front seat, and who had been declared “brought dead” by the doctors who examined the people brought in from the head-on collision of the Trekker and a truck, had disappeared from the picture.
Her daughter-in-law, who had fought with her parents to marry the man she loved, who could not bear to be around the house which reminded her of her dead husband so much, and who had taken her then-year-old son far away to another city, had disappeared from the picture.
The woman around the smile, who was now a bag of bones and loose skin but had been once the most beautiful woman I knew, who had had the rosy cheeks to put blushing brides to shame, who had always had long, flowing, carefully arranged tresses, and who had always had an ever-present laugh hiding behind her eyes, had disappeared from the picture.
The years had not been kind to her.
I remember you.
You have been there for me sometime, somewhere, somehow, and you affected me in some way that you might not even know about, because you did something you don’t even remember.
I am grateful to you, and for you.
I am grateful for the conversations, the laughs, the support and the memories.
Some of you remember me, some of you don’t.
Some of you remember my face, some of you don’t.
Some of your faces I remember, some of yours I don’t.
Some of you are alive. Some of you are dead. All of you are going to be. Someday, I will be too.
But this post will remain.
The dead, remembering the dead. The dead, remembering the living.
You are: (more…)
Bill Waterson’s speech at Kenyon College – Class of 1990 (or “SOME THOUGHTS ON THE REAL WORLD BY ONE WHO GLIMPSED IT AND FLED”)
SOME THOUGHTS ON THE REAL WORLD BY ONE WHO GLIMPSED IT AND FLEDI have a recurring dream about Kenyon. In it, I’m walking to the post office on the way to my first class at the start of the school year. Suddenly it occurs to me that I don’t have my schedule memorized, and I’m not sure which classes I’m taking, or where exactly I’m supposed to be going. As I walk up the steps to the postoffice, I realize I don’t have my box key, and in fact, I can’t remember what my box number is. I’m certain that everyone I know has written me a letter, but I can’t get them. I get more flustered and annoyed by the minute. I head back to Middle Path, racking my brains and asking myself, “How many more years until I graduate? …Wait, didn’t I graduate already?? How old AM I?” Then I wake up.
Kenyon College Commencement
May 20, 1990
Experience is food for the brain. And four years at Kenyon is a rich meal. I suppose it should be no surprise that your brains will probably burp up Kenyon for a long time. And I think the reason I keep having the dream is because its central image is a metaphor for a good part of life: that is, not knowing where you’re going or what you’re doing.
I graduated exactly ten years ago. That doesn’t give me a great deal of experience to speak from, but I’m emboldened by the fact that I can’t remember a bit of MY commencement, and I trust that in half an hour, you won’t remember of yours either.
In the middle of my sophomore year at Kenyon, I decided to paint a copy of Michelangelo’s “Creation of Adam” from the Sistine Chapel on the ceiling of my dorm room. By standing on a chair, I could reach the ceiling, and I taped off a section, made a grid, and started to copy the picture from my art history book.
Working with your arm over your head is hard work, so a few of my more ingenious friends rigged up a scaffold for me by stacking two chairs on my bed, and laying the table from the hall lounge across the chairs and over to the top of my closet. By climbing up onto my bed and up the chairs, I could hoist myself onto the table, and lie in relative comfort two feet under my painting. My roommate would then hand up my paints, and I could work for several hours at a stretch.
The picture took me months to do, and in fact, I didn’t finish the work until very near the end of the school year. I wasn’t much of a painter then, but what the work lacked in color sense and technical flourish, it gained in the incongruity of having a High Renaissance masterpiece in a college dorm that had the unmistakable odor of old beer cans and older laundry. The painting lent an air of cosmic grandeur to my room, and it seemed to put life into a larger perspective. Those boring, flowery English poets didn’t seem quite so important, when right above my head God was transmitting the spark of life to man.
My friends and I liked the finished painting so much in fact, that we decided I should ask permission to do it. As you might expect, the housing director was curious to know why I wanted to paint this elaborate picture on my ceiling a few weeks before school let out. Well, you don’t get to be a sophomore at Kenyon without learning how to fabricate ideas you never had, but I guess it was obvious that my idea was being proposed retroactively. It ended up that I was allowed to paint the picture, so long as I painted over it and returned the ceiling to normal at the end of the year. And that’s what I did.
Despite the futility of the whole episode, my fondest memories of college are times like these, where things were done out of some inexplicable inner imperative, rather than because the work was demanded. Clearly, I never spent as much time or work on any authorized art project, or any poli sci paper, as I spent on this one act of vandalism.
It’s surprising how hard we’ll work when the work is done just for ourselves. And with all due respect to John Stuart Mill, maybe utilitarianism is overrated. If I’ve learned one thing from being a cartoonist, it’s how important playing is to creativity and happiness. My job is essentially to come up with 365 ideas a year.
If you ever want to find out just how uninteresting you really are, get a job where the quality and frequency of your thoughts determine your livelihood. I’ve found that the only way I can keep writing every day, year after year, is to let my mind wander into new territories. To do that, I’ve had to cultivate a kind of mental playfulness.
We’re not really taught how to recreate constructively. We need to do more than find diversions; we need to restore and expand ourselves. Our idea of relaxing is all too often to plop down in front of the television set and let its pandering idiocy liquefy our brains. Shutting off the thought process is not rejuvenating; the mind is like a car battery-it recharges by running.
You may be surprised to find how quickly daily routine and the demands of “just getting by: absorb your waking hours. You may be surprised matters of habit rather than thought and inquiry. You may be surprised to find how quickly you start to see your life in terms of other people’s expectations rather than issues. You may be surprised to find out how quickly reading a good book sounds like a luxury.
At school, new ideas are thrust at you every day. Out in the world, you’ll have to find the inner motivation to search for new ideas on your own. With any luck at all, you’ll never need to take an idea and squeeze a punchline out of it, but as bright, creative people, you’ll be called upon to generate ideas and solutions all your lives. Letting your mind play is the best way to solve problems.
For me, it’s been liberating to put myself in the mind of a fictitious six year-old each day, and rediscover my own curiosity. I’ve been amazed at how one ideas leads to others if I allow my mind to play and wander. I know a lot about dinosaurs now, and the information has helped me out of quite a few deadlines.
A playful mind is inquisitive, and learning is fun. If you indulge your natural curiosity and retain a sense of fun in new experience, I think you’ll find it functions as a sort of shock absorber for the bumpy road ahead.
So, what’s it like in the real world? Well, the food is better, but beyond that, I don’t recommend it.
I don’t look back on my first few years out of school with much affection, and if I could have talked to you six months ago, I’d have encouraged you all to flunk some classes and postpone this moment as long as possible. But now it’s too late.
Unfortunately, that was all the advice I really had. When I was sitting where you are, I was one of the lucky few who had a cushy job waiting for me. I’d drawn political cartoons for the Collegian for four years, and the Cincinnati Post had hired me as an editorial cartoonist. All my friends were either dreading the infamous first year of law school, or despondent about their chances of convincing anyone that a history degree had any real application outside of academia.
Boy, was I smug.
As it turned out, my editor instantly regretted his decision to hire me. By the end of the summer, I’d been given notice; by the beginning of winter, I was in an unemployment line; and by the end of my first year away from Kenyon, I was broke and living with my parents again. You can imagine how upset my dad was when he learned that Kenyon doesn’t give refunds.
Watching my career explode on the lauchpad caused some soul searching. I eventually admitted that I didn’t have what it takes to be a good political cartoonist, that is, an interest in politics, and I returned to my firs love, comic strips.
For years I got nothing but rejection letters, and I was forced to accept a real job.
A REAL job is a job you hate. I designed car ads and grocery ads in the windowless basement of a convenience store, and I hated every single minute of the 4-1/2 million minutes I worked there. My fellow prisoners at work were basically concerned about how to punch the time clock at the perfect second where they would earn another 20 cents without doing any work for it.
It was incredible: after every break, the entire staff would stand around in the garage where the time clock was, and wait for that last click. And after my used car needed the head gasket replaced twice, I waited in the garage too.
It’s funny how at Kenyon, you take for granted that the people around you think about more than the last episode of Dynasty. I guess that’s what it means to be in an ivory tower.
Anyway, after a few months at this job, I was starved for some life of the mind that, during my lunch break, I used to read those poli sci books that I’d somehow never quite finished when I was here. Some of those books were actually kind of interesting. It was a rude shock to see just how empty and robotic life can be when you don’t care about what you’re doing, and the only reason you’re there is to pay the bills.
“the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.”
That’s one of those dumb cocktail quotations that will strike fear in your heart as you get older. Actually, I was leading a life of loud desperation.
When it seemed I would be writing about “Midnite Madness Sale-abrations” for the rest of my life, a friend used to console me that cream always rises to the top. I used to think, so do people who throw themselves into the sea.
I tell you all this because it’s worth recognizing that there is no such thing as an overnight success. You will do well to cultivate the resources in yourself that bring you happiness outside of success or failure. The truth is, most of us discover where we are headed when we arrive. At that time, we turn around and say, yes, this is obviously where I was going all along. It’s a good idea to try to enjoy the scenery on the detours, because you’ll probably take a few.
I still haven’t drawn the strip as long as it took me to get the job. To endure five years of rejection to get a job requires either a faith in oneself that borders on delusion, or a love of the work. I loved the work.
Drawing comic strips for five years without pay drove home the point that the fun of cartooning wasn’t in the money; it was in the work. This turned out to be an important realization when my break finally came.
Like many people, I found that what I was chasing wasn’t what I caught. I’ve wanted to be a cartoonist since I was old enough to read cartoons, and I never really thought about cartoons as being a business. It never occurred to me that a comic strip I created would be at the mercy of a bloodsucking corporate parasite called a syndicate, and that I’d be faced with countless ethical decisions masquerading as simple business decisions.
To make a business decision, you don’t need much philosophy; all you need is greed, and maybe a little knowledge of how the game works.
As my comic strip became popular, the pressure to capitalize on that popularity increased to the point where I was spending almost as much time screaming at executives as drawing. Cartoon merchandising is a $12 billion dollar a year industry and the syndicate understandably wanted a piece of that pie. But the more I though about what they wanted to do with my creation, the more inconsistent it seemed with the reasons I draw cartoons.
Selling out is usually more a matter of buying in. Sell out, and you’re really buying into someone else’s system of values, rules and rewards.
The so-called “opportunity” I faced would have meant giving up my individual voice for that of a money-grubbing corporation. It would have meant my purpose in writing was to sell things, not say things. My pride in craft would be sacrificed to the efficiency of mass production and the work of assistants. Authorship would become committee decision. Creativity would become work for pay. Art would turn into commerce. In short, money was supposed to supply all the meaning I’d need.
What the syndicate wanted to do, in other words, was turn my comic strip into everything calculated, empty and robotic that I hated about my old job. They would turn my characters into television hucksters and T-shirt sloganeers and deprive me of characters that actually expressed my own thoughts.
On those terms, I found the offer easy to refuse. Unfortunately, the syndicate also found my refusal easy to refuse, and we’ve been fighting for over three years now. Such is American business, I guess, where the desire for obscene profit mutes any discussion of conscience.
You will find your own ethical dilemmas in all parts of your lives, both personal and professional. We all have different desires and needs, but if we don’t discover what we want from ourselves and what we stand for, we will live passively and unfulfilled. Sooner or later, we are all asked to compromise ourselves and the things we care about. We define ourselves by our actions. With each decision, we tell ourselves and the world who we are. Think about what you want out of this life, and recognize that there are many kinds of success.
Many of you will be going on to law school, business school, medical school, or other graduate work, and you can expect the kind of starting salary that, with luck, will allow you to pay off your own tuition debts within your own lifetime.
But having an enviable career is one thing, and being a happy person is another.
Creating a life that reflects your values and satisfies your soul is a rare achievement. In a culture that relentlessly promotes avarice and excess as the good life, a person happy doing his own work is usually considered an eccentric, if not a subversive. Ambition is only understood if it’s to rise to the top of some imaginary ladder of success. Someone who takes an undemanding job because it affords him the time to pursue other interests and activities is considered a flake. A person who abandons a career in order to stay home and raise children is considered not to be living up to his potential-as if a job title and salary are the sole measure of human worth.
You’ll be told in a hundred ways, some subtle and some not, to keep climbing, and never be satisfied with where you are, who you are, and what you’re doing. There are a million ways to sell yourself out, and I guarantee you’ll hear about them.
To invent your own life’s meaning is not easy, but it’s still allowed, and I think you’ll be happier for the trouble.
Reading those turgid philosophers here in these remote stone buildings may not get you a job, but if those books have forced you to ask yourself questions about what makes life truthful, purposeful, meaningful, and redeeming, you have the Swiss Army Knife of mental tools, and it’s going to come in handy all the time.
I think you’ll find that Kenyon touched a deep part of you. These have been formative years. Chances are, at least of your roommates has taught you everything ugly about human nature you ever wanted to know.
With luck, you’ve also had a class that transmitted a spark of insight or interest you’d never had before. Cultivate that interest, and you may find a deeper meaning in your life that feeds your soul and spirit. Your preparation for the real world is not in the answers you’ve learned, but in the questions you’ve learned how to ask yourself.
Graduating from Kenyon, I suspect you’ll find yourselves quite well prepared indeed.
I wish you all fulfillment and happiness. Congratulations on your achievement.
- Bill Watterson
Choices come back to haunt us. Always.
It is difficult to predict the future. But almost no one seems to be able to resist trying it.
At the moment, I cannot decide between concentrating continuing with PG, or on new applications for colleges abroad, or on giving CAT my best shot. The choices, I guess, ultimately boil down to two fundamental questions:how passionately I want PG to succeed, and whether I am ok with risking not getting into an MBA program this year. (more…)
The world ain’t all sunshine and rainbows. It’s a very mean and nasty place and I don’t care how tough you are it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain’t about how hard ya hit. It’s about how hard you can get it and keep moving forward. How much you can take and keep moving forward. That’s how winning is done!
I have always come back to these few videos and quotes when I needed a pick-me-up. These, and some of my favourite poems, have helped me to regain focus on what’s important. What life is about. And what I should do.
Another one, which uses inspirational quotes and soundbytes from history and movies
And finally, the last but not the least.
This is How Winners Are Made
Entourage, the HBO series, is in its last season this year. So far, it has been pretty sad, especially knowing that there would be no more of them after this. And especially since SHE is no longer a permanent fixture in the episodes!
Say what you will about “Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara”, but you have to admit that they treated the subject very well. Despite its flaws in certain departments, it was one movie which I felt was very well made, especially for a movie that obviously paid a lot of attention to the eye-candy.
The show stealer for me though was the poetry by Javed Akhtar, which “Imran” recited at key points in the movie. It blended in beautifully with the story, as well as made it an absolutely memorable one. And reaffirmed Javedji’s place in modern poetry as second to none. (more…)
I miss you.
Everything about you. Your smell, your sight. Your lovely soft curls.
I remember the way you looked at me that night, when I got home completely drunk. You didn’t say a word, but your eyes said it all. Those big, beautiful, brown eyes, sad in a way that almost made my heart melt, telling me to grow the fuck up. You gave me the look for almost 20 minutes that night. Silent. Still.
I remember, because it had scared me how still you were, and how unsteady I was, and how strong you seemed, and how weak I felt. It was as if I was tapping into your calmness to calm myself down, and into your strength to be able to be able to even sit up straight. (more…)
I don’t remember the house in which I was born,
Nor any where I played
The memories disjointed, torn
Images, a lifetime grayed.
I remember running away from home
To go play unauthorized cricket,
And coming back for lunch
Because I knew ma would make my favourite omelette.
I don’t remember the people
Who, from the edge, kept pulling me down
“For my own safety”
They had always said, always with a frown.
I do remember the shattered glass,
the fight whether it was a ‘six’
The penfights in class,
And the sleeping in civics.
I don’t remember had-been-friends
And relationships with bitter ends
“Hi”s, “hello”s and other pretends
And obtuse views that life subtends.
I remember friends, names long forgotten
Faces blurred with cruel time;
Bitter-sweet ghosts of the past,
Of childhoods, sublime.
… Rajiv Gandhi was assasinated?
I remember the morning of May 22 1991. I was getting ready for school, it was around 7 AM. We used to subscribe to the Indian Express, which we got one day late, as it used to be published in Calcutta and would be be available in Guwahati only the next day. Obviously, the newspaper was not our source of the news. Our landlord used to subscribe to an Assamese daily, and our landlord’s bhabhi, who we called Aita (“Grandmother” in Assamese), came across the bamboo partition and called out to my mother, loudly – “Ruby! Rajiv gol!” (Ruby! Rajiv has gone!”)
My mother, the daughter of the district Congress president, was really fond of Rajiv Gandhi, and was unable to comprehend what she meant. Especially since Aita was smiling a sad smile.
“Gol. Bomb blast. Suicide attack.” Aita replied.
I remember understanding that he had died, and then wondering what what Ma had packed in my tiffin. (more…)
Over the last few weeks, as I have worked (seemingly) day and night (literally and figuratively) to get my online GMAT classes started, I have been paying a lot of attention to the amount of work I get done with respect to the time I spend on it.
I have so far not been so satisfied with the end result.
That was when I decided to seek out systems that could help me improve, and almost the first one I found was David Allen’s GTD. While it is too early to comment on how effective it has been for me, I am happy with the improvements I am seeing, slowly but surely. (more…)
I just finished viewing this documentary, about a bunch of elite British Commandos who executed an amazingly brave (stupid?) and strategically incredibly important raid on a dock controlled by the Germans. The raid was so successful because it was “impossible”, and so brave, it has been called “the greatest raid of all time”.
The documentary did increase my awareness of the people who we barely hear about – the people on the front-lines, the ones protecting our borders and our shores.
But even more than that, what struck me was the absolutely unbelievably simple and common lives that these incredibly brave men went on to live. And how easily these men, who are now either dead or in their eighties and nineties, spoke about that night at St. Nazaire, about an extraordinary night that probably definitely changed the future of the world. (more…)
One of the first things I decided to do when I landed in Bangalore, besides cursing the autowalla for ripping me off of Rs. 150 by taking me round and round in circles (the bus had deposited me squarely in front of the railway station, and the only set of directions I had to get to where I had to get to were from Majestic – which, I learned later, was directly behind me when I got into the auto in the first place) and besides hunt for a place where a respectable citizen of society might be mistaken enough to take up residence in, was to decide to buy myself a microwave.
Now don’t get me wrong. I did a lot many much more important things too. But I cannot for the life of me recall any of those any more. In my memoirs, the chapter on my life in Bangalore would have this outline – “curse autowalla – hunt flat – buy microwave – get thrown out of flat – …”
When I had moved to Bangalore, I had decided that I was going to cook myself, and I was going to eat healthy food. The two of them, to the uninitiated, might seem one and the same. But the truly wise know that they are as far away from each other as Jenna Jameson’s legs. (more…)
Poems, it seems to me, have the power to captivate, astound, inspire the human soul with a fervor that is not usually achieved by prose. The beautiful way an emotion is captured in just a few words is what makes it so powerful.
The following lines, from various poems, have been special to me at various stages in my life. I keep turning to them regularly for support, for inspiration, and occasionally, for help with introspection.
For the last few days, weeks, months, years,
I have been wandering.
Whiling my time away,
They say “All those who wander
are not lost”
Or am I just fancying myself
to be Faust?
Mary Oliver asked me - ”Tell me, what is it you plan to do,
With your one wild and precious life?”
Figuring this out is painful,
And the cause of a lot of strife.
Being the “Captain of my soul”
Is tough, it is.
Especially alone, and without a compass,
in black rough seas.
As I wait for the bus to Chennai, I cannot help but notice the noisy family bidding adieu to their relatives. I hate travelling by bus, especially if I had to compromise my sleep while doing it. ESPECIALLY if there were people like this family on board.
If looks could kill, I would have qualified as a mass-murderer. Killing more than 4 people, at one place, at one time without any political motivation was the definition of “mass murder” according to the 1st episode of Grey’s Anatomy, season 7 that I had watched a couple of hours ago. I count five. Yup, I definitely would have qualified.
All of us are fascinated with the lists that Forbes comes up with. Newspapers splash it across the front pages. TV channels run exclusive interviews based on it. It is the topic of many a water-cooler conversation at the work place.
When it comes to money, we are not born equal. Some of us own private islands and jets, whereas some could barely afford two square meals every day. Yet, most of us dream about reaching those dizzying heights of affluence. Or at least daydream about it.
But have we ever stopped to wonder about what those fabulously rich people will take with them to their graves?
What does anybody take to their graves, really?
You know when you feel like you want the world in the palm of your hand? When you are bored with the mundane? The ordinary? The everyday? The forgettable? When you want to change the world, leave behind a legacy, or just be famous?
When you want more from your life than just a paycheck? Or a “do waqt ki roti”? or even world peace? or Megan Fox?
When you want to leave your footprints on the sands of time?
What do you do then?
Some people drink to lessen the pain. Some drink to forget. Some give up in frustration. Some give in to temptation.
Some quit their jobs without much of a backup plan. (Or maybe it was just me.)
HELL YEAH, in short, is this - If you are not “HELL YEAH!” about something, then say NO.
It asks you to do what you love. Work on projects you believe in. Be passionate about everything you do – and don’t commit to anything you aren’t prepared to fully throw yourself into.
When you say no to most things, you leave room in your life to really throw yourself completely into that rare thing that makes you say “HELL YEAH!”
HELL WHY NOT, in short, is this – Even if you have something better to do, if its not life-altering, just say “Yes” to EVERYTHING!!
It asks you to experiment. To go to that unknown restaurant, and try that unknown dish. To go to that new band’s concert. To GET A LIFE!!! You never know what might lead from it.
(This mantra was also there in “Yes Man“. Good movie. I liked it )
For me, a combination of both over the last few months has indeed made my life interesting.
What about you?
- Bali is beautiful. Thailand is incredible. And the people of both these places know more about “Indian culture” than most Indians.
- Voting in a general election is pretty useless. But you should still do it.
- Employment is over-rated. Quitting a job is no big deal. Just be sure to have enough money to last you a while without any inflows. And keep an eye on the credit card expenses.
- It is possible to have an expensive DSLR, and be made to feel like an idiot by a 18 year old kid with a Point n Shoot.
- Shutter block is BAD.
- It is possible to mail the President of your company and expect (and get) a reply. It is possible to tweet Pritish Nandy, Chetan Bhagat, Gul Panag, Imran Khan and Barkha Dutt and expect (and get) a reply. It is possible to tweet Mallika Sherawat and Priyanka Chopra, and expect (and get) promotional merchandise from their latest movie.
- It is possible to find your ideal job, and go for it. It is however not in your hands whether you will get the job or not. Just give it your best shot.
- It is OK to delay BIG plans. It is NOT OK to give up on them. (more…)