One of the few things I miss about my activity tracker from my 10,000-steps-a-day experiment is its vibration alarm. Whenever I hadn’t moved in an hour, it would buzz on my arm, reminding me to get up. It would even follow up every 15 minutes if I stayed still. What a great invention!

Of course, as with everything, you get used to it. Still, each humming was a chance to change position and get my blood flowing—and, as it turned out, my thoughts. I would rise from sitting cross-legged, and sure, stretching my legs was nice, but you know what was even better? Finally figuring out the next sentence to write. “Wow! I got up, and, suddenly, I had an idea! What’s that about?”

It’s one thing to read in a Stanford study that “walking boosts creative ideation in real time and shortly after,” but it’s another to experience it—especially when all you’ve done is lift your butt off your couch. Who knew? Changing your position also works in small doses.

It’s been a minute since I had a smart device on my arm, but lately, I’m doing a decent job at remembering to move even without one. That’s because I found a new trigger: When I hit a mental wall, I change physical position. If creative breakthroughs can be made more reliably by squatting, dancing, or shadowboxing for a few seconds, I’ll gladly look silly for a few seconds on a recurring basis.

I don’t manage to do it every time, of course. Sometimes, I still stew in a question for too long before shifting gears. But changing position has been a fantastic—and endlessly fascinating—addition to my creative arsenal. I hope I can remember to remember it.

The next time you’re stumped, swing your legs. Finding the angle you need is usually a matter of changing your perspective—and often, the easiest way to do that is to change your position.

“What is the best lesson you learned from your parents?” the young girl asked famed actor Sam Neill during a publicity event. Visibly moved, the Jurassic Park star needs a moment: “I’m, uh, yeah, um… I don’t know why that question’s moved me so much, but it has.”

Then, with tears in his eyes, he answers: “My parents were of the generation that went through a lot of things. They went through the Depression. My mother lost her father in the First [World] War, so she grew up without a father. They went through a lot of stuff, but they were very stoic people.”

With a “gosh, in hindsight this is so embarrassing” kind of laugh, he continues: “And I’d had a year at university… I was acting in plays and trying to find a girlfriend, and it came to exam time. I realized I had done almost no work. It got me very anxious. Anyway, I got home. Mom said, ‘How are you, darling?’ And I said, ‘Oh Mom, I think I’m having a breakdown. And I’ve got exams in a couple of weeks, and I don’t know how I’m gonna gonna…'”

And then, with the stern but infinitely kind love only a caring parent can deliver, Sam Neill’s mom taught him everything he needed to know about life with a single sentence:

“She just looked at me, and she said, ‘Well, you’re just going to have to pull yourself together, aren’t ya?’

Sam Neill’s mother died in 1999. But even 25 years after her departure, he still has to pull himself together. As an aging actor. In shooting a sequel to a franchise he last featured in 30 years ago. And through his cancer diagnosis and so-far-so-good treatments.

Somehow, my gut tells me her legacy won’t be lost any time soon. Not just because of her son’s accomplishments, but because of the story he chose to tell to that young girl on a seemingly random day at a seemingly random event. A story Sam concluded with the same look his mother gave him all those years ago—and with the same idea, passed on to a new generation:

“That was the best lesson I learned from her: Sometimes, you just have to pull yourself together.”

One feature of life is that we rarely know in advance what we’ll soon leave behind. You don’t remember the last time you used your old computer before it broke, the last run you made to pick up your kid from tennis before he quit, or the last package you accepted for your neighbor before they moved out—because you never saw these things coming. That “feature” is as it should be.

The last times we miss prevent us from being constantly overwhelmed with grief. They allow us to keep on living. But what about the last times we see coming at us at full speed? And what if some of the former kind were more like the latter?

Your last day at your current job. The last class before graduation. The last login to a project before you delete it. Sometimes, we know the end is coming, and we do our best to deal with it. But often, it’s better not to know. Take death, for example. He’s always there, but do you really want to see him coming? What about when he comes for the people you love? It’s better if it’s an interruption, isn’t it?

My great-grandpa had a heart attack in his 60s. One minute he was alive, sitting in his living room. The next he was gone. Was it a sad experience for my dad? Absolutely. But if you had told him three months in advance, he’d only have gone mad with worry. A German user on Reddit faced this exact dilemma. His grandma had decided to commit assisted suicide, and he was about to visit her for the last time.

“What should I say? What should I ask?” he asked for advice. There were a lot of good answers. “Ask her for her best recipes.” “Say thanks and ask her about her favorite memories.” “Record some video footage so you can remember her voice.” But the top comment, if you ask me, came from a user who went through something similar.

“When my grandma lay dying, she told me it was great that we talked normally. We just had everyday conversations. If she wants to tell you something, she’ll do it. If not, that’s okay, too. I stole a rose from a flower shop for her. ‘Grandma, what are they gonna do, sentence you to death?’ That stood next to her bed until the end. And one time, I spent two hours driving there and back because she really wanted a pillow from her bed at home. Long story short: Less discussing the meaning of life, more living and spending time together.”

So…what if you knew it was the last time? Perhaps the best thing is to pretend you don’t know at all. To do exactly what you would have done if the occasion weren’t so momentous—and thus make it special all the same, minus the worrying.

Life isn’t perfect, but some features are exactly as they should be. When they bug out, our honorable task is to simply restore them to their functioning state. The last times we witness without realizing are one of those features—so when death accidentally reveals his cards, just pretend you didn’t see it.

Enzo Ferrari had everything a man could want in this life. A career as a race driver. A genius mind. A business and brand people would adore for centuries to come. He even got away with indulging his female fans way more than he should have—for the most part, anyway.

Alas, fate does not hand out freebies. Ferrari’s marriage collapsed long before it ended. The company almost went bankrupt more than once. And one “project,” his greatest creation, he could not save: his son. Alfredo Ferrari, a boy with great aptitude in designing engines, the man meant to inherit Enzo’s empire, died at just 24 years old.

In the movie Ferrari, we see Adam Driver portray a calculated, often almost cruelly detached Enzo Ferrari. But “Dino,” as his son was nicknamed? He brings even this larger-than-life figure to his knees. Duchenne muscular dystrophy. It was a source of power even Enzo Ferrari could not fix.

“Everything. I did everything!” he yells at his bitter, disillusioned wife Laura at some point. “Tables showing what calories he could eat. What went in, what came out. I graphed the degrees of albuminuria, the degrees of azotemia! Diuresis! I know more about nephritis and dystrophy than cars!”

Still, it was not enough. “You let him die,” Laura snaps back. And for once, Enzo Ferrari must admit even his magic has limits. “The father deluded himself! The great engineer! ‘I will restore my son to health.’ Swiss doctors, Italian doctors. Bullshit. I could not. I did not!” And now, all both of them could look at was a picture at the graveyard.

This is tragic. This is life. We each find our own unique way through it. We become experts in some skills yet stay complete amateurs in most others. We catch lucky breaks where others fail only to be stumped where our friends may easily proceed. In the end, it’s always a package deal.

A century-long legacy is reserved for the few—but engineers can’t fix bodies, and even billionaires can’t resurrect the dead. Don’t despair at your limitations. They’re nothing but reminders to stay humble and appreciate everything you have while you have it.

Only a few short months ago, Marcus baked nothing but greasy, uninspired donuts. Now that The Bear has gone through a major glow-up from sandwich shop to fine-dining restaurant, so has he. Marcus makes tarts, pies, and elaborate desserts—but he never stops learning.

One day, he spots a word in head chef Carmy’s notebook: “legerdemain.” “It’s French for ‘sleight of hand,'” Carmy explains. “Ahh, magic,” Marcus goes. “Yeah. To push a dish further.”

Being the sponge that he is, Marcus immediately begins soaking up Youtube videos about the topic. In one of them, a narrator explains why “real” magic is harder to conjure than cheap tricks in a card game: “What makes magic different is that it’s inherently honest. You tell someone you’re gonna deceive them before you deceive them. In some way, that makes it more difficult.”

Nobody likes being duped at a high-stakes game of poker, but when you go see Hans Klok, Mr. Copperfield, or David Blaine, you fully expect to be lied to. You want to be. Deep down, you’ll know at all times: This lady is not really being sawed in half. But between that truth and what you see on stage, there’s a tension, and the space between the two is filled with wonder.

Unless the visuals are compelling, however, the whole construction falls apart—and compelling visuals are extra challenging when the audience is in on the trick: “Physics won’t allow this. So how can this look so real?” This is, quite literally, where the magic happens.

For Marcus’ new calling, that means elevating his desserts not just in terms of variety and taste but turning them into an experience as stunning as a magic show. Can you make a dessert that looks like an apple but tastes like a pear? Can you serve a piña colada ice cream that brings the drink to life in your mouth in an entirely new way? What about collapsing chocolate domes, hidden elements, and flavors that only activate once you add the right drink? Adding such honest lies to his craft is what’ll take Marcus’ patisserie skills to the next level.

That’s the kind of magic we can make with human hands: honest lies. A gripping novel. A stunning movie. An eclair with an unexpected filling. And though it might not be the kind of witchcraft we ultimately long for, it goes a long way in making both others and ourselves feel enchanted.

Don’t knock the craft. Tell honest lies. Make magic.

After a too-close-for-comfort encounter with the corrupt cops of Shelby Springs, former Marine Terry Richmond and morally upright court clerk Summer McBride regroup to form a new plan. The evidence they need is in the court house’s basement, and the day’s fading hours might be their last chance to retrieve it.

As they’re about to set off, Summer hesitates for a moment. Terry asks if she wants to continue. “Just have a feeling tonight’s going to get pretty dark,” Summer says. Fully aware of what’s to come, Terry merely asks: “Isn’t that what nights do?”

In truth, both protagonists of Rebel Ridge have known all along: “The more I keep digging, the more dangerous this will become—but I can’t walk away.” Sure enough, more danger, more violence, more close encounters follow, but at the same time, we all know the night is darkest before the dawn.

When you’re not sure where you’re headed, trust your inner compass. A lack of vision and a lack of direction are two separate things. Nights get dark by design, and even though they can be scary, if we hold on to our light, the sun shall always rise tomorrow.

Outside of a few internships, I’ve never held a traditional job. Therefore, applying to jobs is not a routine I’m familiar with. As a result, when I first decided to try and score one, I had to get in the game.

Initially, I did so in any way I saw possible. I wrote a CV. I updated my LinkedIn. And I started submitting said CV to dozens of job postings. The results were less than impressive. Rejected. Rejected. Rejected. I got frustrated. By my own account, I was trying my best—why couldn’t I build more momentum? As it turns out, I was trying, but I wasn’t really playing yet. I was a bystander waving his arms, yelling, “Hey! Let me play too!”

Thankfully, other players more familiar with the game noticed my yelling and offered to help. My girlfriend showed me how to re-do my CV. And my friend Herbert offered invaluable tips. “Send the hiring manager a follow-up email,” he told me. “Focus your CV on a particular role profile.” “Oh, and narrow your search to certain companies you’d actually want to work at.”

Herbert showed me some of the rules of this new competition I was trying to enter, and as with any social activity, only when we know what the rules are can we actually participate. Herbert got me into the game.

When you’re trying to break into a new area in life, it’s fair and important to start where you are with what you’ve got. But sooner or later, you’ll have to actually get in the game. Chances are, your friends can help you do so a lot faster. Ask the people who are already playing. “What are the rules here? How do I score? And what’s a penalty I should avoid at all costs?” There’s nothing wrong with requesting backup. What matters is learning how to flow on the playing field—and the faster you get there, the better.

Life is short and, at times, hard. Use all the power-ups you can. Whatever helps you get in the game you must play right now, try it. It could be advice. It could be context. It could even be the simplest, faintest line of inspiration, like the last sentence Herbert told me on our call—a sentence that, perhaps more than any other, got me into the game: “You’re gonna be great.”

It can’t churn out genius in a vacuum. Sometimes, you have to lift the lid and let it breathe.

Here’s a sequence of events that plays out a lot for me: One, I make a to-do list for my day. Two, I think, “I want to push project X forward.” Three, I realize I don’t know what exactly the next step for project X should be. Four, I conclude I should allot more time to project X that day so I can think it through, decide, and then do the work. Most of the time, this is the wrong approach.

Actually, I’d be better off skipping project X for the day and doing something else. Why? Because there’s a high chance that, in the meantime, my subconscious will figure out the next step automatically. “Comes time, comes counsel,” we say in Germany. If I wake up the next morning with a strong gut feeling on where to take project X, then not only can I dive right into the actual work, I’ve also saved myself a lot of “thinking just to think.”

If you have trouble picking a direction for a project, just let it sit. Take a day. Or two. Or three. “Let’s continue on Monday” can be a perfectly productive response to an obstacle.

Sure, there are situations where you have to pull through. But whenever possible, add time, add relaxation. Give yourself the gift of patience. Let the path unfold in front of you, put one foot in front of the other—and when you run into a wall, remember that, unlike a pot on a stove, you can always just (let it) sit.

“I just needed some air,” chef Carmy says. When the restaurant where you learned every trick of your trade closes down, who wouldn’t? Especially if that restaurant had two Michelin stars—and was thriving.

“Me too,” chef Terry, the owner, responds. Standing in the cold Chicago air, the two chat until, eventually, Carmy has worked up the courage to ask the big question. Having just started his own fine dining establishment, The Bear, he can’t help but wonder: “What would you tell yourself when you were where I am?”

“I know, I know,” Carmen continues before his mentor can point out the cliché nature of his request, but she admits: “That’s a toughie.” And while she doesn’t believe there’s any one thing she could say that would change Carmy’s outlook dramatically, chef Terry ultimately shares a glorious piece of advice:

“You have no idea what you’re doing—and, therefore, you’re invincible.”

No one likes feeling like a fool, yet every beginner inevitably does. Whenever we start anew, there’s nothing we know and everything to learn—yet it is in this very predicament that we’ll find our ultimate chance to create, to have fun, to chart our own path and reinvent ourselves in the process.

Experts have a lot to lose; amateurs have a lot to gain. Only fools, however, are invincible—and like all the best power-ups, our invisible armor decays with every second. Make the most of your foolish days.

We love fantasizing about alternate universes in film and fiction, but the truth is we already live in different realities. Eight billion of them, to be exact.

This year, I went to the Frankfurt Book Fair, which is the world’s largest, for the first time. I attended both as an author and someone who promotes books.

I was in town for another meeting, and that got pushed back, so it was a spontaneous visit, and I was not well-prepared. That colored my impressions. Once there, I learned that the fair was mainly about making deals, selling rights, and negotiating licensing agreements. That, too, shaped my impressions. Finally, a fair being a fair, everything cost extra, most people were fully booked with appointments, and those who weren’t busy weren’t particularly interested in working either. In the end, I concluded: As a marketer, but especially as an author, book fairs are probably a waste of time.

But while I was zigzagging through thousands of people, noticing how few of them talked about actual books and their contents, and how no one seemed to wander about, take it all in, and be in a mode of discovery, someone else was walking across that same floor, having the time of their lives.

Perhaps she was a book seller who had just closed her first significant deal. Maybe it was a journalist excited to interview publishers about their latest hits. Or it could have been a published author learning his book rights had sold for audiobook production. Where I saw enough material to write an article about the decline of publishing culture, someone else had an experience that made them believe the very opposite is true.

It’s a good practice to try and separate our impressions from reality, but to a large extent, our impressions create our reality, and often, what we perceive is worth sharing regardless. After all, though none of our individual impressions are exactly the same, many of them do overlap.

Sci-fi is cool, and I enjoy the latest Marvel movie as much as the next person—but if you really want to dive into an alternate reality, the best thing you can do is to talk to another human being. Pull back the curtain in front of your experiences, and let them do the same. Chances are, you’ll find worlds so distinct, not even the best novel could do them justice—and you don’t need to attend a book fair to explore them.