A few Decembers ago, I was lent The Chronicles of Narnia. It was a set of 6 books in a pretty cardboard box. I wasn’t sure I would even read it in the first place. Life got busy, and I kept putting it off. But then a month later, my grandma passed away. Suddenly, my life came to a giant pause. The world I had known for a really long time now looked different. So, I decided to pick up the first book and see where it would take me.

Before I knew it, I was lost in the magical world of Narnia. At one point in the story, Aslan is killed, and all hope seems lost. The little children are grieving. It was as if their emotions mirrored mine. What began as a form of escapism soon allowed me to confront the very emotions I was escaping from.

They say books take you places and the characters suddenly become people you’ve already met. No longer do you sit in the four walls of your home or on the train during your commutes. Great stories transport you to places where fiction merges with your own reality. So as you step into a new world, your own experiences act as a guide.

While a beautiful story is essential, it alone does not bring the reader to pick up a book. The emotions it evokes in readers are what make it a success. As a writer, emotions can be tricky. You want readers to discover something new, but you also want them to draw from their own experiences. Emotions on their own don’t bring depth unless your readers can connect with them.

A few weeks ago, I was invited to a talk on customer experience. I initially expected it to be a purely business meeting. Boy was I wrong. Even as a writer, I took back so much from the session. The first thing the speaker said was—Unless your customers have a good experience, they aren’t coming back.

The same goes for storytelling. Your readers are like your customers. They may connect with your work, but unless they have a pleasant experience in the process, they aren’t going to stay to finish the book.

So what makes them stay?

By pleasant, I do not mean comfortable. Rather, it must make them pleasantly surprised. It has to allow them to confront difficult emotions. It must broaden their imagination. It has to make them think and feel differently.

As a storyteller, building worlds can seem easy, but sustaining them with characters is where the art lies. Emotions don’t sit alone. They sit within characters that are either believable, likeable, or worst—unreliable. It is through building authentic characters that readers see themselves. They don’t have to be perfect, but they have to be perfectly relatable.

Because life isn’t perfect, and neither should your story.

In the stories we choose to live in, we want to be understood and recognised. A world where there is reward and redemption. A world where wrongs are made right. A world where good always triumphs. Lastly, a world kinder than the one we live in.

Storytelling is one of the most sought-after skills in 2026. Great stories didn’t start on the internet. Yet some of the best ones live in books. But unless we read them, we wouldn’t know how to write them.

-Alinka

Before the world we live in today, I, and countless others knew what it was like to live with something called writer’s block. It felt like a death sentence. (Yep, pun intended) As a journalism student, hitting a roadblock like this one meant going for weeks without something to write. Writing was our existence and the very reason most of us chose that major. Not having to write was like trying to speak but being inaudible, even to yourself.

Back in college, my creative writing classes usually started with a 10-minute stream-of-consciousness exercise. We had to put pen to paper and write about everything under the sun, even the most ridiculous things like hearing a noisy fan or going down a spiral. As abstract or literal as they were, you had to write them down. There was only one clear instruction: There were no rules.

For the most part, I hated it because I could never actually think about what to write. I had to write as go and see where my mind took me. But over time, it became the most freeing part of my day. I didn’t have to think about how perfect my writing was. I didn’t have to care about rhythm, style, structure, or any other rule that most writing classes tell you. I could be as chaotic and messy as I wanted to, and you know what? Messy was good and messy was encouraged.

A lot of us shy away from messy writing. We are afraid that being seen as an amateur somehow makes us weak or unqualified. But messy writing is honest writing. Now here’s where it gets funny. Perfect writing is the easiest thing you can do nowadays. But honest and messy writing is hard. So now, choose your hard.

We chose ease, we lost friction

We have lost our ability for friction. For learning skills that take time and effort to develop. Writing is one of them. It has to be learnt. Writing is less tedious nowadays. But for some of us who had no easy way out, we gave it our all to get it back. The joy of bracing through a block. The accomplishment of finally writing a paragraph after an hour of struggle. The joy of seeing your words finally take shape and not giving up hope. As writers, these were not things that threw us to the side of the curb. In fact, these were the very things that led us closer to our goals.

Friction was the very thing that made us better. It refused to sugarcoat struggles. It helped us fight our battles. It made the difficult thing achievable. With friction, there were no easy lessons. We had to do the long but often rewarding work. To allow ourselves to be vulnerable. To make mistakes. To try. To fall. To fail. And to try it all over again.

Laying groundwork can be boring, and fundamentals rarely are fun. However, they do prepare you for a storm. Life is fast, and tools often help make it faster and easier. But I hope we don’t lose our love for friction. For doing difficult things. For learning from scratch. For understanding mechanics before we start building.

Because ease can make life easier, but friction is what makes us want to do it all over again.

-Alinka

I was fifteen when I first started conjugating French verbs. In a few months, I could repeat the être (to be) and avoir (to have) endings at the drop of a hat. French became a form of escapism. It was a world that felt more real to me than the one I was living in.

Most people ask me why I voluntarily chose to study a foreign language. I have no easy answer. At least nothing to satisfy the curiosity of the ones asking. Well, what can I say? You don’t choose whom to love. That was French for me. I never went to it with an agenda. I didn’t go to it for an outcome. It was a journey I was willing to take with no plans to arrive at a destination.

Jhumpa Lahiri is one of my favourite authors. Her writings contain a kind of honesty that is hard to imitate or compete with. Her poignant ramblings elude a sense of both loss and gain, a kind of sorrow that somehow brings joy.

In her book, ‘In Other Words’, she reflects on her own identity as an Indian-origin American writer. English was thrust down her throat as a child. She watched as her Indian heritage quietly stood back, giving place for her American one—yet she could never call either place home. Being too Indian in America and too American in India was the cross she carried with her wherever she went.

But that’s exactly where Italian found her.

It became a blessing in ways she could not express. At least no words in English were able to placate her. So she went to it like a child, with her palms wide open, waiting as her feelings finally found the right words. It was Italian that finally gave her the language that she could love in.

Lahiri recounts, “As I went through the show, I recognised an artist who at a certain point felt the need to change course, to express himself differently. Who had the mad impulse to abandon one type of vision, even a particular creative identity, for another. I thought of my writing in Italian: a similarly intricate process, a similarly rudimentary result compared with my work in English.”

Here she refers to Matisse, who, towards the end of his life, could not paint and decided to turn to a form of collaging. Which, though simpler than his canvas paintings, required a different set of skills that broadened his creative process.

Like Lahiri and Matisse, I too wonder if maybe French will give me a new way to tell a story. I cannot express myself in any other language as I do in English. They were the first words I ever heard from my mother. The language that brought life to my imagination. A language in which I learnt to express both joy and grief.

I have wondered what it is to be bilingual. To have a brain that naturally adapts to two distinct sounds. To be able to converse in languages that follow different grammatical structures. And to do all these things effortlessly, like switching on a lightbulb.

When I spent years studying French, the unknown had a familiarity. I was eager to learn tenses. To be able to say the same things I said in English. To be able to read with the same vigour as English.

Lahiri expresses the same sentiments I have. When we choose to study a language, the process, however difficult, is liberating. The mistakes don’t feel like failures. The sprint doesn’t feel like a race. The learnings don’t feel like lessons.

I have a deep love for words. It is evident in my love for reading. I often wonder what it would be like to read and write in French. Whether it would be a task I could accomplish. But then I look at a writer like Lahiri, who was well into her adult years when she started to learn Italian and slowly began writing in it.

I know I can do it. I know one day, the same things I want to say in English would one day be said in French. One day, I’ll fall in love with French literature the way I do with English. Maybe one day, I’ll be a writer who can cross two worlds easily. Like Lahiri, I’ll build a bridge and traverse it.

To keep up with these pursuits, I tried to write in French. As rudimentary as it can be, somehow it feels sweeter than what I could ever write in English. Like a child writing her first note to her mother. It brings with it a sense of novelty and naivety. An endearing quest that has scope for improvement.

Quand je parle, j’utilise des mots anglais. Mais après quelque temps, je vais dire les mêmes en français. C’est un voyage que je veux prendre. Je fais des fautes mais je fais des efforts. La destination est belle, mais le trajet est meilleur.

It translates as:

When I speak, I use English words. But after a while, I am going to say the same thing in French. This is a journey I wish to take. I make errors, but I make the effort. The destination is beautiful, but the commute is better.

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If you loved this, I’d love to know your thoughts! Also, if you’re an artist looking to be recognised, please email me at alinka97dias@gmail.com. Thank you!

-Alinka

My mind still wraps around winters in June. The Southern Hemisphere seasons can take a little unlearning, and I still end up leaving home without a jacket. However, I was looking forward to that particular day with my jacket in tow. A new city means new ways of socialising, and Fujifilm helped create a third space for newbies like myself.

There’s nothing a coffee cannot fix, and I was very warmly greeted with one at the entrance. The photography exhibition celebrated Auckland’s Photo Day 2025, featuring the Top 30 images from the 2025 edition of Auckland Photo Day. While I am not a photographer myself, photography has always captured my attention as a medium of cataloguing and storytelling.

I understand that photography is as much an art as a skill. It took time, effort, and scientific invention for a moment in time to stand still and be called a photograph. While our phones today have also made photography easy, accessible, and a mindless activity, it made me revisit a book by Susan Sontag I read almost a year ago. Sontag became one of my favourites because she speaks about photography so naturally and eloquently, and I often wonder what she would make of our social media life, where we are bombarded with images and videos almost every second of our day.

To photograph is to appropriate the thing photographed, she says. Now, that statement can be harsh for someone like myself who loves taking photos of a random sunset or rainbow. But Sontag believes that photography reduced the subject into an object, therefore making him or her a thing to be possessed. She believes photography could become predatory, invading a person’s space by becoming an intruder.

While Sontag sheds light on the political implications of photography, she also speaks about it as an art and a medium of expression. While she wasn’t a photographer herself, she encouraged people to look at the world critically. Time eventually positions most photographs, even the most amateurish, at the level of art, she states. This means that even a simple photograph can be a source of novelty when looked back at many years from now.

I remember how precious taking photographs was in the 2000s. It was expensive and treasured, and taking one photograph was enough to become a keepsake. Photos didn’t have to look perfect. You just had to smile while the camera evidently captured your feelings. It made the first day of school, birthdays, family get-togethers, and graduations significantly better. You could revisit those days when skimming through a photo album tucked inside a drawer.

Nobody ever discovered ugliness through photographs. But many, through photographs, have discovered beauty, says Sontag. She believes photographs have become a way of beautifying the world and influence our idea of beauty. However, she believes that sometimes we compare our own worth and beauty based on a camera’s depiction of us, which is, in fact, not reality.

Susan’s anthropomorphism of photography has allowed me to experience storytelling in a new way. She doesn’t just present a personal view, but she makes us question a simple hobby through philosophical statements by allowing us to think before hitting ‘click’. I also wonder what she would think of selfies, filters, and the issues with body image one feels when seeing thousands of carefully curated online feeds.

A simple photography exhibition took me back to the pages of a book I read in the June of 2025. They say photography freezes time, takes you back into time, and sometimes brings back memories your mind may have forgotten to capture.

P.S I did, in fact, take a photo of the book while reading it.

I did not know the intensity of moving away…until I did. I had seen the Instagram reels, the farewell parties, and the mandatory airport send-off photo. I knew that sometimes life makes you stuff everything into 30 kg of luggage and ships you right across the world. I knew all of it, but not personally, as I do now.

What may be called ambition in many places is called defiance in another. What is brave in one place is called careless in another. Moving out is a toast to freedom, yet not everyone can sip from that glass. Many dreams never see the light of day. For someone who can make that choice, it brings privilege that has to be acknowledged.

I had been told that moving away shapes you as a person. It makes you the person you’ve always been. It removes the comforts to reveal what you are capable of. It dusts off familiar voices, a roof you’ve known all your life, and a place that witnessed every major milestone. Suddenly you are left with only yourself and a dream that takes shape right before your eyes.

Home shields you, but it cannot protect you. Home nurtures you, yet it cannot sustain you. Home creates memories, which only come alive once you leave. Life, as you know it, is a strange journey. After sweet twenty-eight years, I am honoured to witness it.

Home, like every other thing in life up until this point, was a place with four walls, an address, and people who were family. But now, home transcends and becomes a person. That person is you. You become the truest version of home for yourself. Soon, you meet people who become home for you.

Now you find comfort in the unfamiliar. Strangers no longer terrify you. You don’t have to retreat when the storm arrives. You carry home wherever you go. Safety always finds its way to you.

I didn’t know it then like I do now. Nothing prepares you like a goodbye. No amount of fictional or personal accounts gears you for life like a one-way plane ticket. Nothing teaches you more about home than moving away.

A little more than three months ago, I moved to New Zealand. Adjusting to a new life and culture, as the name suggests, requires a lot of adjusting. I’ve learned that ingenuity is the mother of invention, and my cooking skills have gotten a serious upgrade. Going back to university has rewired my brain on a whole new level, and early morning lectures have made me appreciate my daily dose of caffeine. There’s so much I want to share about and so many more newsletters to write. But until then, bye!

-Alinka

Everyone talks about success. Nobody talks about the road that gets you there.

I don’t usually follow sports, much less play any. But the last few weeks hit different. India won the Women’s Cricket World Cup against South Africa. Right after the semi-finals win, my Instagram feed was filled with reels and clips cheering the Indian cricket team. I remember a friend of mine asked me to watch cricketer Jemimah Rodrigues’ post-match interview.

To give you context, Jemimah’s performance was highly praised during both the semi-finals and finals. But the interview showed another side to her. I don’t think I’ve seen a champion being so vulnerable on a public platform. She didn’t just speak about the hard work that goes into winning. She spoke about her failures. That was when it struck me. We don’t usually talk about our failures.

Failure in every shape and form has a bad rep. We glance over it. We brush it under carpets. We call it by every other name. Failure is like the elephant in the room. Everyone knows about it, yet nobody wants to talk about it.

Yes, I know the adage. Failures are the stepping stones to success. But do we really acknowledge it? Especially in today’s hustle culture, where the words surviving and thriving are used interchangeably. Even the idea of success has varied meanings depending on your background.

The world is highly rehearsed now. ‘Instagrammable’ and ‘aesthetic’ are the keywords. Everything has to look and behave a certain way. With social media, everyone has a window into your life. The graduation? Posted! The engagement? Posted! The new country move? Well, I made an entire reel about it! The layoff? I have deleted my socials for a while.

While I love the internet, I have to say that social media has changed how we interact with the world and ourselves. The posts, the stories, the likes, the DMs. We show each other a curated side. We’re all hiding behind the perfect selfie, the perfect pose, the perfect caption.

The truth is, perfection is overrated and success comes at a cost. Failure is the only thing that grounds us in reality. Because much as we’d like to plan our lives out, life will always be unpredictable.

I remember having an idyllic version of what my 20s would look like — the supposed ticket to freedom, a.k.a. adulthood. Did it turn out the same way? No, it was starkly different. But in retrospect, I’m so glad for all things that did and didn’t work out.

Making plans for the future isn’t a problem. The need for control is. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learnt, it is that while planning is great, it can and should never dictate our future.

Because the best things in life are those accidental encounters. The ‘what-ifs’ and the ‘let’s try this out’ moments. It is the road you had to take because the one you wanted to walk through had an UNDER CONSTRUCTION sign. At the end of the day, failure taught me more about success than success ever would.

Last week, I hit 100 subscribers. Yay! While I have been told that obsessing over numbers is not a very artistic thing to do, I cannot help it. What started on a whim turned into my labour of love. Substack became a virtual coffee shop where I sat with people across geographical borders. No passport or visas required, just a stable internet connection and a working laptop. I met people I would not have otherwise crossed paths with. It’s crazy how the world opened up for me while also shrinking to a size I could easily navigate.

One of my favourites on Substack is Caroline’s newsletter! She speaks about the internet being an art form. She says we must use the internet to create art. I truly believe that we all have a unique creative identity. So, if you’re a writer, write. If you’re an artist, paint. Show the world your rich inner world. It deserves to be seen.

It got me thinking about how we often take the internet for granted. I’m blessed to live in a city, but not far from home are people who struggle with basic amenities. Access to the internet is a privilege. We get the world at our fingertips. We read, we learn, we connect, we post, we like, all while sitting comfortably on our sofas.

Like everything, the internet has its pros and cons. Social media has given us a sneak peek into everyone’s lives. It has shown us the world through rose-tinted filters. From a screen, everyone’s grass seems greener than ours. From there breeds contempt, comparison, and envy. And then we blame the internet when it’s us that needs a reality check.

I often fall into the vicious cycle of comparison. Then, I turn to self-pity to soothe my woes. I look at the things on my bucket list I still haven’t ticked. While most of my dreams haven’t yet come to pass, the internet has made many things possible to a varying degree. When I couldn’t go out into the world, it brought the world to me.

A few months back, I wanted to learn 3D design. I didn’t want to spend on physical classes that would cost a bomb. Enter YouTube! I managed to find YouTubers who patiently taught me things I never knew I could learn. I joined subreddit groups, Discord servers, and found inspiration on Instagram.

Another one of my hobbies is crocheting. I learnt most of it through YouTube and Pinterest. After a few failed tries and a bunch of wasted yarn, I finally learnt the different stitches, taught myself to read crochet patterns, and made some cute crocheted projects for family and friends. I’m glad the internet gave me the chance to discover skills unbeknownst to me.

In many ways, the internet has made me feel limitless. I do not feel confined to a particular place. I know life has given me a thousand ways to dream, and the internet is one way of doing so. Who knew that little girl who scribbled poems in her maths notebook would one day find herself writing her very own newsletter? Who knew she’d one day hit publish for the world to see?

As a child, I always wanted to have a personal diary. I marvelled at the ones who did. They had their lives preserved between the pages of a book. Flip through a few, and they could easily tell what they did or felt on a particular day. Looking back, I wonder how they are doing now. Doomscrolling has all of us in a chokehold. Our attention spans are shorter than a goldfish's. We spend so much time on the internet looking through other people’s lives rather than our own.

Eventually, when I was 12, I did start a diary. Every night before bed, I chronicled my entire day. The pages consisted of school, tuition classes, extracurriculars, friends, and the things I would now cringe about. I remember being so determined and consistent. And then I did what most people with a sudden burst of inspiration do: I quit.

While I had notebooks filled with poems and teenage angst, keeping a diary seemed a bit of a stretch. I didn’t feel the need to write about trivial everyday things. I didn’t think anything I felt or did mattered. Also, it seemed like too much work with very little return on the effort.

It’s crazy how the things you dismiss as a child come back to you as an adult. So in January of this year, like everyone with a New Year’s resolution, I wanted to start journaling. I went and bought a notebook. It was a beautiful blue notebook reminiscent of the Van Gogh painting, ‘The Starry Night’. For months, it lay empty because I found it too beautiful to actually use.

Then one day, I cracked it open. It had been a while since I wrote longhand. I was so comfortable typing on my laptop or using the notes app on my phone. But there was something very therapeutic about writing by hand. Words fell on the page quite naturally, and five minutes into the process, I had written three whole pages.

In the five months I have been journaling, I can tell you that it is better than the five minutes I spend doomscrolling. We need screen-free time now more than ever. I realised that journaling helped me discover facets of myself. Writing down my thoughts, feelings, ideas, hopes, and dreams made me realise that nothing is too small or insignificant.

They say, when your mind is empty, read. When it is full, write. Our minds are full of information we don’t need. Overstimulation and brain rot are the new normal. We live inside our phones, and we exist outside of them. We have too many questions and then turn to a robot for its opinion. We know isolation, but we have never experienced solitude.

We find everyone sharing their hot takes and opinions online. Do we ever hear our own? Our thoughts are often drowned out by the noise. They are just a part of ourselves, waiting to be heard. So maybe just for five minutes, if we take up that pen and notebook, we’d hear ourselves speak.

We cannot go aimlessly scrolling our way through life. The algorithm is always running ahead of us. Social media will constantly try to sell us things we don’t need. We will confuse aesthetics for beauty. We will prioritise followers over people. Maybe what we’re actually looking for is not online. Maybe it begins with looking into ourselves.

-Alinka

There’s one thing I carry apart from my phone. Without it, I cannot board the bus or the train, and walking feels like a chore. Even my wallet is not as precious to me. Yes, it’s my earphones. The Jabra Elite 4. It has helped me survive gruelling commutes and has made running errands feel easier. No, I’m not trying to sell you anything, and this is not an affiliate marketing scheme.

Last week, I caught the flu. So there I was, wondering how to kill time when I couldn’t. I am so used to being busy, so when I was forced to rest, I did not know how. I turned on my phone and played the Forrest Frank mix from Spotify. I had no commutes and no errands to run, and so for once, I sat back and enjoyed the music.

As creatives, we’re always trying to keep ourselves occupied. After we’re done with our day jobs and chores, we still have the urge to do something. We have a constant desire to be productive. It’s great to be inspired every day and tackle creative projects, but sometimes taking breaks is imperative. We think resting is easy, yet it requires a lot more strength than being busy.

We tie too much of our worth to what we can do. We want to give, but we do not know how to receive. We want to create, but rarely do we enjoy what someone else creates. Either we end up doing a lot of things to make people like us more, or to make us like ourselves better. As Celine from Before Sunrise says, “Isn't everything we do in life a way to be loved a little more?”

We want to do a million things until we are forced to rest. That’s the sneaky thing about pride. It dresses up in the most virtuous of ways. We think we want to do many things because we’re good at what we do. Turns out, we think others can’t do it the way we can. We want to show up even with empty cups, but decline when people offer us a refill. We’re afraid to say no and too proud to ask for help.

This is not to beat ourselves up. Many of us don’t know how to take a break. Some of us never really get that chance. We’re worthy even when we have nothing to offer. Being creative doesn’t mean doing something new all the time. Sometimes it means shutting off that computer, putting down that paintbrush, and closing that book.

It means connecting with friends and family. Because creative inspiration will always come, but time with loved ones? Not always guaranteed. Circumstances in life will always slow us down. It will make us take that little pause, because soon we’ll hit the ground running.

Hi! I hope you could relate to this. If yes, please consider leaving a comment below and letting me know your thoughts. Thank you.

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The Artist's Garden at Vétheuil 1881 Claude Monet

Exactly ten years ago, I was 17. I was sitting in a classroom full of new faces, at a college overlooking the beach. I remember my professor walking in. I don’t remember if he introduced himself. I was too caught up reading the question he wrote on the board. I squinted as I read, ‘What would the world lose if you had to die tomorrow?’

I sat back aghast. Until then, I moved through life looking at all the things I was bad at. I took up this particular degree because I knew I was miserable at almost everything else. But then my thoughts shifted as I read the question. I had chosen this particular degree because maybe for once in my life, I was good at something. I didn’t know what the world would lose but something would definitely be lost.

School was a daunting place for me. I do not exaggerate when I say it. I struggled with maths and could never balance chemical equations. Rote learning seemed impossible. I was bad at sports and could barely dance. I was never selected for elocution or drama. My drawings were okay. I sung occasionally as part of school choirs. By academic standards, I was pretty average.

I would dread as my teachers would hand us our test results. But there was one subject I was unafraid of—English. It was one of those subjects where I didn’t have to try too hard. Essays flowed from my pen effortlessly. I could easily write two pages when the exam asked for one. I would use vocabulary higher than my grade, and could craft a poem in any given rhyme scheme.

English gave me the space to be creative, especially when my school education demanded otherwise. It was one subject where I could breathe easy. I didn’t have the pressure to perform. I could just be myself. I ended up completing high school with decent scores. But, I never lost my imaginative spirit. I knew it would show up for me one day.

I was never a rebellious teen. But, the day I chose to study a bachelors in mass media, something shifted. It was one of the changes you barely notice. It feels so negligible, almost like it was never there. But over time, these changes helped me forge my own path. I was finally walking down the garden I watered over the years. A secret garden where I once walked only in my dreams.

Our culture has always shrugged off creative fields, deeming it too easy or not intellectually stimulating. I remembered being compared to my friends who were studying to become CAs or doctors. ‘If he/she can do it why can’t you?’ This phrase stings. I wish we had a singular scale to judge everyone equally by their capabilities. Unfortunately we don’t. All of us bring something unique and irreplaceable, irrespective of the profession we choose.

I’m sure some of your stories would be like mine. The engineer, the doctor, the person in finance you could never be. The well meaning friends and relatives asking you to pursue a more ‘stable’ career over anything that’s edgy or bold. The disapproval you probably received when you ended up dropping from a degree you secretly despised.

The creative industry is often looked down upon for valid reasons. They don’t bring the same security that most traditional professions bring. Often they come with more cons than pros and more pain than gain. Some creative courses are also extremely expensive and don’t always guarantee you a job. The only fuel that drives these are passion and sometimes even that fizzles down when desperation strikes.

Looking back, I enjoyed the three years of my degree course. It helped me grow and nurture my God-given talents. It told me that my imaginative spirit was my superpower. It challenged me to think outside the box, express myself in ways I never thought I could, and asked me to remain myself.

But I also know that not all are granted the privilege of making a choice. People sacrifice their ambition for the ones they love and that is brave too. Ten years later, I often revisit the same question. The world would probably go on perfectly without me. But there’s one thing I need to tell 17 year old me. ‘If you hadn’t chosen that particular degree you would probably have lost more than the world ever would. To me, that would be a greater loss.’

- Alinka

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I know and have heard of many artists1 who begin well but their work often remains hidden on laptops or in notebooks tucked away inside a dusty bookshelf. It is not because they fear public opinion—far from it. Turns out, they fear themselves.

Some of their excuses include—‘This is not my best work.’ ‘I think this is stupid.’ ‘I’ll probably do it some other time.’ They find ways to dismiss their creations, often disguising it as false humility. Time moves on while they remain stuck in regret.

Artists are one of the loveliest people you can meet. They are curious, kind, sensitive, intuitive, and persistent. They see the beauty in the world with all its frailty but ironically they do not hold themselves to those same standards.

While looking at their own work, they are snarky, judgemental, and highly critical. They are their own harshest critic. I know this to be true because I am guilty of it too. Whenever I go back to read what I write, I take on the role of a ruthless editor, dissecting each word until it is incomprehensible. The childlike artist in me becomes docile, being refused autonomy for their own work.

Most of this fear stems from a skewed idea of perfection. I also know this to be true, because I am a victim of it myself. The online world is buzzing with artists who are at varying degrees in their artistic journeys. There is a natural inclination to compare, fixate, or get disheartened.

I have always identified as an amateur writer because I believe I still have a long way to go. Many hobbyists would also use the said prefix. Recently, I went down the rabbit hole unearthing etymology. I love understanding the meaning behind certain words and why they mean what they do. It was then that I came across the origin behind the word ‘amateur’. With Latin and French roots, it literally means the ‘one who loves’ or ‘lover of’.

Soon, I wasn’t just an amateur writer. I was ‘the one who loves writing’. The fear that once surrounded what I wrote was now replaced with love. I knew I loved writing and that would be it. I did not have to fear the little green monster called ‘self-doubt’ anymore. It was powerless against me. My creativity was both a gift and a craft, something that could get better with effort.

I knew that putting my work out there— in the big bad world—was necessary. The world needs more amateurs who take time to do what they love. The world also needs amateurs who show the world what they love. Irrespective of what word you choose to use and whatever creative hobby you wish to pursue, the world deserves to see what you create.

Perfectionism is beautiful but if it turns itself into an obsession, then it cannot love. If we wait for perfection to deem our art worthy of the public eye, we’d never begin in the first place. I’ve learnt that if one thing can improve our artistic endeavours, it is consistency.

This is true for everything we wish to do. The first step requires debating, questioning, and a lot of introspecting. It will be difficult and wobbly like all first steps are. We will trip, stumble or fall. But it is better than taking no step at all.

After taking the first few steps, we need to be brave to see where our creativity leads us. Often it will take us to familiar places, to childhood joys, and to forgotten favourites. Sometimes, it will whisk us away to foreign lands, beyond our comfort zone, where we’d need to learn before we can even create. As winding the journey may be, our creativity will always bring us back safely home.

The world needs you!

-Alinka

Current read/s

I’m reading ‘On Photography’ by Susan Sontag and it’s one of the best books I’ve read in a long time. The book poses deeper questions on the ethics of photography. With the whole rise in generative AI, the arguments in this book are worth checking out. You can read more about it here.

Growing up, I harboured a deep hatred for the colour pink or anything that was deemed too ‘girly’. In my failed attempt at becoming the ‘I’m not like other girls’ kind of girl, I took on a false identity that I claimed for my own. I jumped on a bandwagon with no idea in which direction it was headed.

I am flooded with flashbacks, where I traded pink for blue. A blue notebook, a blue water bottle, a blue bag, just anything that was not pink. To me, choosing pink meant being girlish and uncool — two undesirable qualities for 14 year old me.

In the end, I realised that it wasn’t so much about the colour pink that concerned me but rather people’s opinions. Pink was never the problem. I cared too much about what people felt that I ended up trying to hate what I loved. Seeking validation from others ended up making me oblivious to my own desires.

It’s appalling how we were told anything that society called feminine and girly was weak and repulsive. I can give you a rundown of the times people told me that wearing black, listening to rap, preferring sports and playing with Hot Wheels meant becoming the ‘cooler’ girl.

I came across a quote a few weeks back that said, ‘You heal when you learn to love the colour pink again.’ Flash forward to today, pink is my favourite colour. I end up wearing it so often that now it is almost synonymous with me. It’s funny how something I was told to hate, I have now grown to love.

Healing is a painful journey. Sometimes, more painful than the injury itself. It takes strength to revisit the past, the lies we were sold as truth. How people’s opinions became ours. How our opinions turned irrelevant in our bid to be seen and heard. It is healing when we reclaim our identity.

So often, we change ourselves in order to fit in. It’s a natural inclination. We all want to feel included and be part of the elite club. We all want a seat at the table. But we cannot sit at tables we were meant to flip.

It is such a joy to embody femininity as a woman. There is peace in rewriting your story, changing the narrative and correcting skewed ideas about yourself. And lastly, hate to break it to you, but I am like other girls…

-Alinka

It was five in the evening and the city of Paris was unwinding. It felt like I had transcended into a dream - an unfamiliar surrounding that brought a taste of familiarity. But my Parisian-inspired garb managed to return me to reality. Stockings and coats were not something I was comfortable or accustomed to wearing.

I stood in a long queue to enter the glorious Sainte-Chapelle. The lady in front of me exchanged pleasantries and I asked her where she was from. Georgia, she replied. I quickly smiled and told her how much I admired Pirosmani. ‘You’ve heard of Pirosmani?’ She asked almost bewildered. Her response was justified. It struck her as odd that someone from India would know about her country’s greatest and most beloved artist.

Honestly, I wouldn’t have known had I not sat for a class in college. The compulsory classes on ‘Understanding Cinema’ meant sitting through long gruelling hours of silent and foreign language films. One day, we were told that we’d be watching a 1969 biopic of a Georgian painter. I scoffed. How could I ever relate to this? But an hour later, I found a friend.

Niko Pirosmani was an autodidact and painting came second nature to him. But, since he lived in poverty, it became a means to an end. His portraits reflected his distinct style which was naïve and childlike. This set him apart from his contemporaries. He also painted signboards, murals and did odd jobs like housepainting and whitewashing to sustain himself.

Pirosmani managed to immortalize Georgian life and culture, bringing his unique perspective to his works. He went unrecognised throughout his life. He died tragically, poor and alone, unbeknownst to the legacy he would leave behind.

I remember 19-year-old me being left aghast. But looking at it now, I am not too surprised. We live in an age of relevance and virality. To be relevant means to be popular. It is certainly not a bad thing. Our careers, jobs, lifestyles, hobbies, etc, depend on relevance. Without relevance, we would not have jobs or food on our tables. The cost of being idiosyncratic is high. The cost of being indifferent to mass appeal is even higher.

The bigger picture (pun intended) of Pirosmani’s life was not his originality that inspired me but his courage. It’s the quiet kind of courage that often gets dismissed or overlooked. Choosing to walk the narrow path is tough. We all walk down that road when we choose to follow our convictions against the world’s. Walking alone brings joy and integrity, something the world cannot offer.

Side note: I changed my blog’s name! I think it better reflects my work and what I believe in. It was inspired by a book I am currently reading.

I’ve spent a considerable number of vacation days visiting the beach in Goa. I’d hunt for sea shells, make sandcastles and breathe in the warm salty mist. The seaside will always be my favourite. Despite its familiarity, it manages to teach me something new every time.

Two weeks ago, I found myself at the beach again. The reminiscence and the present day overlapped. A deep crimson painted across the twilight and the sun slowly made its way home. The sweet fragrance of nostalgia filled the air and just for a little while, time stood still.

I kept mouthing the lyrics to ‘Dancing on the Waves’ - one of my favourite gospel songs. There’s a line I particularly love. It says, ‘You’ll be walking on the water, dancing on the waves.’ I wonder what it would feel like. The intent is obviously, figurative. To have the kind of faith that makes you want to walk on water and dance on the waves is beautiful.

As I made my way to the shore, I stood on the wet seabed, waiting as each wave lashed at my feet and slowly pulled away. They were all running to the seashore. No one was late. Somehow, this irregularity gave them a distinct yet delicate rhythm. I waited as the music of the waves reverberated through my head.

That’s when I started to wonder. We’re so much like the waves. We’re each on our timelines. We’re all wading through life. We’re all looking for the prize, crossing milestones and then slipping away into eternity. The hits and misses, the successes and the failures, the rises and the falls give life this ‘rhythm’.

I don’t know how nature does it. How every minute and every second is factored in so beautifully. Nothing is ever wasted. We are all placed inside nature. Obstinate creatures with free-wills. We follow our patterns. Never in each other’s way. We move almost seamlessly yet we do not perceive it.

We are the butterfly effect. Our lives are intertwined and inter-dependent. We all play a significant part in the seemingly insignificant moments. And when our journey is complete, we will all meet at the seashore.

The job offer you turned down gave someone else their big break, the rejection you faced eventually led you to meet the love of your life, the trip you cancelled turned into someone else’s unforgettable adventure. We’re never late. We’re always on time.

-Alinka

Art and love have been almost inseparable. I cannot recall a song or movie I liked that did not talk about love. Think about it. Nearly every song in your Spotify playlist will be about love - romantic love, unrequited love, infatuation, heartbreak or the like. Love has always been the central character, the sole premise that caught our attention, making us root for it till the very end. And love always wins. Love always has the final word.

If we stepped into a time capsule, we’d see how love expressed itself through the years - through painting, sculptures, buildings, monuments, music and dance. Love has always been the artist’s favourite muse. Art is the truest expression of self and what better way to express our innate desire to love than through art?

However, like everything, our notions of art and love have evolved. As a teen, I always thought love was a feeling. This was probably the side effects of binge-watching countless 2000s rom-com classics. Maybe it was pop culture selling me a ‘clickbaity’ idea of love. A fleeting dopamine-driven response. Over time, as I matured in my understanding of love and with the aid of faith, I realised love wasn’t like that at all. Pop culture sold me only a tiny sliver of what love actually looks like.

I realised that love was not a feeling but a decision. A free act of will. It was not a giddy-headed declaration but a firm resolution. Love did not waiver with the seasons but stood bravely unwavering and undeterred. Love did not fizzle out when harsh winds and storms approached but like a hearth, it only grew stronger when one fanned the flames.

Soon I realised the same movies I watched as a teen seemed hollow and superficial. I still enjoy romcoms, but I do not look to them as examples of love. I absolutely adore this particular scene from Little Women 2019 (a.k.a the best version!), starring Timothée Chalamet and Florence Pugh as Laurie and Amy.

Amy: Well, I believe we have some power over who we love, it isn’t something that just happens to a person.

Laurie: I think the poets might disagree.

Amy: Well. I’m not a poet, I’m just a woman.

While the context of this scene had more to do with the societal divide between men and women at that time and why Amy would prefer marrying somebody in the upper end of the economic strata, I liked how honest and raw this particular dialogue was.

Much of our culture and society today shows us fractured and poor representations of love. It coerces us into thinking that love needs to be earned or makes us believe we are too unworthy to receive it. It has thwarted love and has turned it into lust, abuse, manipulation and fear. It is an unsettling feeling living in a world where holding onto our ideals and standards makes us feel like we’re asking for too much.

I’m reminded (and grounded) by this verse from 1 Corinthians 13: 4-8 in the Bible. It sums up in a few lines what the greatest poets, artists, writers and musicians have been saying for centuries.

May love find us,

- Alinka!!

Robin, one of the main characters from the TV sitcom How I met your Mother, says one of the most relatable lines on the show. ‘That’s the magic of New Year’s. When the clock strikes midnight, we all get a fresh start. And I don’t know about you but I could really use one.’ 

Growing up, I always had a love-hate relationship with New Year’s. To me, it did not feel like anything different. I would see people list down their goals and ambitions and a month into the process the vigour would fizzle down. And just like that the new year would become ‘old’ and we’d wait for another year to pin our hopes and dreams. I felt like this was a waste of time. 

For me, time was a creation of man. Just twelve months that were named in a particular order for our convenience. I always felt like the people who celebrated it were naive. A new year could not change anything. The problems I had on 31st December would not suddenly disappear into thin air on the 1st of January. So what was the point of celebrating?

However, a few years ago, things changed. I lost a loved one in mid-January 2022 and I realised how different the coming months were going to look like. How different all the ensuing years would look like. That’s when it hit me. A fresh start does not mean that the past is forgotten or things are suddenly brushed under the carpet. In fact, a fresh start may look different for different people. It may not always be something positive or happy, but merely a shift in gear that forces you to think or act differently. 

For some it would be adjusting to life after the death of a loved one, or moving into a new city, or finding new friends. A fresh start may not always be a bright new life with infinite possibilities. It could simply be finding ways to live an infinitely fulfilling life in very finite circumstances. It could be looking at the world through a fresh perspective. 

Now, we don’t need the new year to get a fresh start. Our fresh start could be at any time of the year. As Joan Didion once said, ‘Life changes in an instant.’ That instant may not necessarily be at the start of the year. Maybe our newest beginnings could spring in the middle of June. Now when I look at it, I think every New Year’s is a tangible reminder that change will always be constant and non-negotiable. Time moves on and so must we. 

I love how every new year gives us a glimmer of hope, even if it is just a speck of light in a dark abyss. Hope isn’t just a nice thing to have. It is the only thing we need. Life is beautiful because we have hope. What do we live for if not for hope?

From realists we become optimists. We become people who are willing to try again. We look at the future with hope. We begin our stories with a blank page, writing ourselves another chapter, meeting new characters, finding ourselves in various plot twists and enjoying this journey we called life. 

"HWW: Happy Wet Window!" by Martin Cooper Ipswich is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

The weather is getting cooler and I’m finally feeling myself slow down. I obviously mean this in a good way. The period between October to December feels like the ‘weekend’ of the year and the idea of unwinding after long and strenuous months of living life in overdrive is welcoming and inviting. I’ve often prioritised productivity and slowing down to me feels so unnatural, almost lazy. I remember listening to a podcast about the whole winter arc trend. The winter arc trend is all about using the winter months (namely the last three months of the year) to improve yourself, set healthier goals, and enter the new year with a new vision and focus. This is a whole lot different from the countless new years’ resolutions that often fizzle out one month into the process.

There’s one thing I want to do during this whole season and that is to prioritise writing. I remember starting this blog with so much vigour. But what started as a New Year’s resolution soon lost its steam and I felt powerless. What could I do if not write? I can only express myself authentically through my writing. There is no creative expression I hold more dear to me than the written word. These words when placed on a blank sheet reveal emotions I would have never expressed through speech. My thoughts on paper suddenly gain clarity. I see an extension of myself unfolding before my eyes as I type and this ‘self’ manages to say things I could never tell you in person. Maybe this is why I write. Maybe this is why I am drawn to read words written by others. Many of whom have gone before me. Their voice still alive years after their time on earth has passed.

I do not write often but it does come second nature to me. It’s like running into an old friend and realising that nothing has changed. Maybe we’re older now, wiser perhaps? Maybe our preferences have changed. Maybe the music we listen to now is a lot different. But this friend and I sit on lush green grass overlooking familiar waters and the conversation flows on like it had never stopped.

Writing is all about finding your voice and letting it speak as you write. It’s about unleashing a part of you and letting it find its way. I’ve understood that the more I withheld my voice and tried writing from a perspective of unfamiliarity, it became robotic and unnatural. I was reading Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. She says great writing is about being honest. It’s about removing the filters and allowing your readers to see you as you are. It is difficult work. To reveal your deepest darkest self to a nameless and faceless audience is scary. According to me, to be creative means to be brave.

It’s such a blessing to be in a world where we can create. To create is a gift but it is inherent in our nature. To express ourselves creatively in a way no one else can reaffirms that we are irreplaceable and we each have a voice that can never be someone else’s. As the winter sets in, I hope to focus on creativity instead of productivity. Not that one is better than the other. They are both necessary to maintain a balance and one cannot exist without the other.

I was confused and disappointed. As someone who used to read one book a week, reading nothing for months on end felt like the beginning of an end. And while I blame Instagram for my woes (because who doesn’t love instant gratification?), I found the antidote in the poison.

I happened to come across a book on Instagram that caught my attention. The Instagram page explained that this is a lesser-known book written by an author I have read before- L.M Montgomery. Known for her wonderful and endearing ‘Anne of Green Gables’ book series, this book called ‘The Blue Castle’ explores more mature and gripping themes.

I quickly ordered the book and sat down to read it on my Kindle. I was instantly transported back to somewhere in the 1920s and saw a reflection of myself in the protagonist. It was the first time in a long time, I read. 

The protagonist Valancy, a young woman of twenty-nine finds herself caught between a family that finds it difficult to part with her and still sees her as a child and her desire for independence. She dreams about a blue castle. A place where she can be completely herself and where all her needs are validated.

L.M Montgomery paints a pretty but painful picture of what it meant to be a woman in the 1920s. While most of the book is funny and delightful to read, it leaves a strong aftertaste. It tackles deep-rooted questions on identity, family dynamics, and parental pressure. We see the protagonist battle social constructs and fight for what she believes in. Even though a hundred years is a long time, I believe not much has changed.

Simply residing in our blue castles is meaningless. We must turn our dreams into reality. It's important to take action and step up. It's easy to be comfortable. Sleeping in boxes becomes easier. Admiring glass ceilings can be pleasant. Life is smooth sailing when everything is going well. However, we all know that storms teach us the most important lessons.

I see a piece of Valancy in myself as well. We all strive for independence. Each of us wants to break free from the shackles, to say no, and to be truly free. However, freedom comes in varying degrees. Not all of us have the energy and resources to break the chains. Today, I pray for those who are unable to take risks and pursue their dreams because it seems impossible. For those who are doing it, I'm proud of you.

And those who are reading this, pick up Blue Castle and give it a chance.

"Trail from Green Gables to LM Montgomery's Adult Home" by feministjulie is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

I spent the last three weeks completing a few long overdue chores and spending time with my family. In those three weeks, I attended an aunt’s memorial service, and an uncle’s birthday and had a lovely rosary dinner at my house. I also attended a picnic and caught up with old friends over coffee during this time. Easy to say, I was a busy bee and part of me was ridden with guilt at not having written anything on my Substack.

I remember coming home late every night and wondering if I should sit up, propped with my laptop and begin writing. I made a few attempts but the writing came up shoddy and unkempt. I was devastated. I had made up my mind to be consistent but I watched as my dedication fizzled away while my planner was filled with social events.

One Sunday, as I was heading to church, I was pondering on the word that had been drilled in my mind ever since I was a child. Sabbath. Sabbath in the Oxford dictionary is described as a day of religious observance and abstinence from work (the Sabbath), kept by Jews from Friday evening to Saturday evening, and by most Christians on Sunday.

Now we may not be religious but most of us have Sunday off from work. We all in some ways, rest it out from office work. We may spend it doing chores, spending time with family and using it like me, to work on my blog. While I am religious, I never took the idea of a Sunday rest quite seriously. But I was more determined than ever to use a little Sabbath rest to better my writing and productivity.

I realized that I do not have to feel guilty about resting on days when social engagements get the better of me. I realized that rest is inherently not a bad thing, irrespective of what hustle culture tells us. I don’t have to constantly be working to be productive. Productivity and being busy are not synonymous.

It got me thinking. How can rest improve myself as a writer? How can one day of the week help me make the most of the rest of the week? Can I use my Saturdays for writing and Sundays for rest? Would it help my creativity?

Now many of us think of rest as something passive but rather, rest is active. Active rest helps us generate new ideas and improves our vigour for life. Now you may ask me, Alinka, what is active rest and how can I use it as a writer?

1. Catch up on your reading

You can never be a good writer if you don’t read. Use your Sundays to read a new book or finish an old one. Research new and upcoming book titles that would be a great addition to your physical or virtual bookshelf. You can also use this time to shop for a few books that you can read during your commute to work.

2. Watch your favourite TV show

If you want to be a great writer, what’s better than to take some plot inspiration from your favourite TV shows? You can also build up your vocabulary especially if you like writing in a language that’s not your mother tongue. I love binge-watching Gilmore Girls because I love the extensive vocabulary used in the show. From where else would I learn to use the word ‘copious’ in a sentence?

3. Spend time with friends and family

Sometimes, all we need is to share some biscuits and tea with our loved ones and talk about life. The safe place that we receive can provide us with solace and boost our self-esteem. We will find answers to all our tough questions and find a place to vent our emotions.

4. Make time for hobbies

Yes, writing is a hobby but our other hobbies, however unrelated they may be can help us support our writing. If you love sketching, painting, knitting or crocheting, you can spend some quiet time by yourself and find new ideas and inspiration for your next writing project.

5. Move

Sunday is a perfect time to get in a workout if you can’t find time to work out during the week. Take a walk in the park, bicycle in your township or find time to do a little HIIT. You’ll feel energised and it will help you recharge your creativity.

6. Sleep

Last, get some good rest and catch up on your sleep. Sleep helps you relax and eases the tiredness of the long week. It also helps you improve concentration and alertness. Never underestimate the power of a good nap. You’ll feel refreshed and ready to start your next writing project.

Whether you’re an amateur writer like myself who also juggles a 9-5 or a seasoned writer with many books under your name, you’ll agree that a little rest can take your writing up by quite a few notches. Active rest when used correctly and efficiently can help you ease your mind, help you find new ideas and keep you on track with your writing goals. So remember, active rest is not just a little break but also a warm-up when you decide to write your next piece. Until we meet again, happy writing!!

By George Fort Gibbs (1870–1942) (Note: M. A. & W. A. J. Claus did not illustrate the cover) - https://books0977.tumblr.com/post/31686270543/anne-of-green-gables-lucy-maud-montgomery, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8882426

‘I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers,’ said little Anne Shirley prancing around with her arms full of boughs and dreaming of the onset of autumn. I reside in Mumbai and this gorgeous weather that they call ‘fall’ only lives in my imagination. I only look at Octobers and dread the humidity that usually follows. However, ‘Anne of Green Gables’ by Lucy Maud Montgomery changed the way I look at life and has taught me to live each day with new vigour and zest.

Anne of Green Gables follows Anne, a cheerful and optimistic orphan girl who is adopted by a middle-aged brother and sister in their fifties and sixties. Initially intending on adopting a boy, siblings Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert settle on Anne and raise her in the picturesque town of Avonlea in Prince Edward Island, Canada.

Anne came from a place which deprived her of having a normal life and childhood. Though not explicitly mentioned in the book, Anne is believed to have undergone traumatic experiences of physical abuse and torture in the hands of foster homes and orphanages. But after the adoption, we see her beginning to heal from her past wounds. Though Anne of Green Gables is a children’s classic, the book imparts wisdom for children and adults alike.

Embrace your inner child

Anne was forced to grow up early due to her early childhood experiences of grief and trauma. She was robbed of having a carefree and healthy childhood. But, as soon as she moves to Avonlea and lives with her adoptive family, she blossoms and begins to have a childlike view of life.

Most of us forget that we have nothing promised in this life. No future awaits us. We must live in the present, embracing whatever life throws at us. A childlike approach means a more simplified way of looking at the world. This does not mean that we reject our responsibilities and live as children but rather view the world as a child would, with no malice or hatred.

‘‘That's the worst of growing up, and I'm beginning to realize it. The things you wanted so much when you were a child don't seem half so wonderful to you when you get them.’’

Nature is your friend

Anne is so bedazzled by nature and all that it has to offer. She immerses herself in her beautiful countryside and takes immense joy in it. I live in a concrete jungle and I find it very difficult to relate to this. But ever so often I take long walks in my local park and bury myself in the moment. The light breeze, the rustling of the leaves and the chirping of the birds give me a sense of hope. When all goes wrong, nature is the safest place to confide in.

“Look at that sea, girls–all silver and shadow and vision of things not seen. We couldn’t enjoy its loveliness any more if we had millions of dollars and ropes of diamonds.”

The Power of Positive Thinking

Anne was no stranger to pain. She experienced it in the nascent periods of her life. However, her positivity and optimism came from a place of surrender and hope. She looked at the world through rose-tinted glasses and believed that life was worth living even though it was painful.

For the longest time, I detested people who told me to be positive. I believed that they weren’t realists. I thought they used their positivity as a defence mechanism against the cruelty that there was in this world. However true positivity doesn’t mean refusing to acknowledge the pain. True positivity means learning to embrace the bad with the good and holding on to the hope that there is.

‘‘Don't be very frightened, Marilla. I was walking the ridge-pole and I fell off. I suspect I have sprained my ankle. But, Marilla, I might have broken my neck. Let us look on the bright side of things.’’

Be unconventional

Anne was unconventional. She accepted the fact that she came from an unconventional family. She was adopted by a middle-aged brother and sister who were like her parents. She learnt to embrace the uniqueness of this arrangement.

A lot of us live life out of habit but rarely question the way we do things. We go through life in a rhythm. But, whenever we are asked to create our own way of doing something, we shy away. We are afraid of judgement and ridicule. Like Anne, let’s learn to be fearless and stir our boat in the direction we choose, irrespective of whether we will be accepted or not.

‘‘Why must people kneel down to pray? If I really wanted to pray I’ll tell you what I'd do. I'd go out into a great big field all alone or in the deep, deep woods and I'd look up into the sky—up—up—up—into that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was no end to its blueness. And then I'd just feel a prayer.’’

Cultivate lasting friendships

Anne grew up friendless and was overjoyed to finally have a friend when she moved to Avonlea. She believed that true friendships encourage us to be better people. We learn and grow through friendships and each friend carves a special place in our heart.

I am blessed to have amazing friends with whom I can learn and grow. Yes, friendships can also bring back bitter memories of pain and loss but true friendships last a lifetime and should never be tampered with.

“Kindred spirits are not so scarce as I used to think. It's splendid to find out there are so many of them in the world.”

Lastly, let us welcome October with a new view on life. Life is sweet and bitter. It changes us and it changes with us. We carry both laughter and pain, joy and sorrow, beginnings and ends, but life is worth living after all.

True joy is not a borrowed idea but a cultivated habit. We are bound to feel it when we choose it. We are bound to choose it when we believe that it exists. Joy doesn’t make the world happier, but it makes the world kinder and that’s the best part. Today like Anne, let’s live by joy and watch as the world changes around us.