Wishing your friend well, with good words, is necessary. Human beings need words because the only thing that truly separates us from apes is our sophisticated ability to express ourselves, to communicate, in ways multifarious. Our friends need words like cold water to the face, voltage jolt, espresso shot hitting the blood, teflon armor for the onslaught of the day, a knife in the sleeve for an alpha invading the proximitas.
The idea “Good luck” is misleading.
As if 1,000 people telling you “good luck” will fatefully get you through that job interview successfully.
As if thinking about “good luck” really, really wincingly hard, will rewrite the laws of motion so that you become the nucleus for the moment you have to face.
As if sparkling heavenly winds of velvet inspiration will whisk through you like Elizabeth Gilbert’s friend.
As if 100 likes from Facebook will just like, you know, make the day skippingly sunny.
Fuck “Good luck.”
Haruki Murakami, writer of 12 novels, “wakes at 4:00 A.M. and works for five to six straight. In the afternoon, he runs or swims (or does both), runs errands, reads, and listens to music; bedtime is 9:00. ‘I keep to this routine every day without variation.’”
Yahoo’s President and CEO Marissa Mayer graduated with honors from Stanford with a B.S. in symbolic systems and an M.S. in computer science and was Google’s first female engineer back in 1999.
I’m gonna even say it, look at Sarah Palin’s resume.
It’s called work.
Day in, day out, a ruthlessly consistent routine.
Predicting the job interview questions and crafting answers married with body language and rehearsing at least 10 fucking times.
Editing 3 hours of video footage — for 17 hours over 2 days of forgotten meals — into 1 blissful minute of a journey.
Going out to meet people in your industry in the spare moments you have instead of watching Cake Boss-Suits-Gossip Girl-gahgahgoogooblahblahblahblahblah.
(And not to “network” — to genuinely want to help people out with the project they are trying to finish.)
This very piece is being written on a Sunday morning in Hanoi, grinding it out — only after driving round town on the motorbike — jolting the senses — clawing through this hangover, two cups of Americano — Kelis’ Flashback on loop.
You think me hanging out with Charles Phan was written in those proverbial celestial stars?
You think me getting on HBO’s Def Poetry Jam was a fluke?
You think me getting my current coordinator position was some charity case?
Next time you want to wish your friend true “Good luck”…
“Eat. Pray. Love.”