Nicolas Boulenger

My relationship with communication shifted when I understood and absorbed what I call the first rule of design, which, in my view, holds everywhere:

Always put the most important thing first, and very, very big.

It's not very complicated, and yet everyone gets it wrong.

It's built on a simple idea: people don't care.

About your site, your business, your idea.

I once read this advice in an article on website design:

Imagine your visitors will spend seven seconds on your website, and that they're blind drunk.

So anything that isn't very, very clear, and written very, very big, is going to fall through the cracks.

Then I realized it applied everywhere else.

In articles, notes, posters, drawings, speeches, presentations, relationships...

That's one of the goals of my coaching: helping people who are very good at what they do find the two sentences that convey their value.

Of course, that's not where most of the work is.

The real work is the years of construction it took to build the foundation of knowledge and craft they offer.

And yet, without those two sentences... the real work can go unnoticed.

And go to waste.

That's the connection I made this morning with prophets.

Prophets are often accused of lying.

"He said one thing to this person, and the complete opposite to that one. He's not consistent, he's lying!"

But what scholars explain is that the prophet tells each person the truth they need to hear at that moment.

Not everyone is at the same stage of development. Not everyone has the same defenses.

The prophet's role is to move the person in front of him to the next level.

To do that, he uses the right words. Words that only work for that person. At that moment.

Just as a math teacher doesn't explain vectors the same way to seventh graders as to first-year college students, the prophet adapts his speech to trigger action.

It's a problem that fascinates me.

Knowledge isn't enough. Truth isn't enough.

If you drop the full, naked truth on a passerby's head, you knock them out. And they'll resent you for it.

Even if that truth is good for them. Even if it could save their life.

Truth has no value in itself. It depends entirely on how it's delivered.

In that sense, we're all a bit like prophets.

We've all understood something that could help our neighbor.

But often, we don't know how to communicate it.

We're blinded by the idea that the truth speaks for itself.

That once laid bare, it will dazzle everyone and be unanimously embraced.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Everything plays out in the relationship, in the moment.

In the choice of the two sentences I'm going to say.

To help this particular person.

Here and now.

One morning, I had the following realization:

I care too much about the opinion of people who aren't in my life.

Listening to the people around you: of course!

It's not about jumping when they say jump, but about taking them into account.

That's often what happens when I make a film: since I'm easily influenced, the people on the crew really leave their mark on the project.

And I find that very healthy.

I'd even say it's the essence of presence: letting yourself be touched by what's there. Not staying sealed off from things.

On the other hand, there was a (long) period of my life when I realized that I was stopping myself from doing things because I feared the judgment of people who weren't there.

That last part is what matters: these people weren't in my life.

I didn't run into them in the morning, we didn't call each other in the evening.

Ghosts. Disembodied presences I kept alive in my imagination.

Sometimes without realizing it.

I'd want to do something because I was curious, excited, motivated, and then I'd feel something like a block.

"I shouldn't. It's wrong, not funny, not appropriate, not smart, not..."

So I wouldn't do it.

When I started meditating and keeping a journal, I looked for the source of these obstacles.

And I realized that I was projecting onto my actions scraps of judgment I had internalized.

From former teachers, family, old friends, celebrities I had sometimes never met, but who had said something on TV.

These pieces of advice from strangers had become, without my realizing it, rules to live by, barriers to action.

The most striking thing is how you can unconsciously follow the instructions of people you don't even admire.

It's not about trust, it's about authority, admiration, fear.

"No part of me wants to become like this person, and yet I'm doing what they say."

That's what I realized.

It's now a question I ask myself regularly before taking on board any advice, judgment, or criticism.

Do I admire this person? Is there something shining in them that I'd like to see shine in me?

But above all:

Is this person in my life?

My web series launches today!

Panic in Space #1: The Racist of the Future

Then a new episode every Friday at 10am.

There is no barrier. There never was a barrier.

A line from Osho that I often repeat to myself.

Sometimes, I'm in panic mode.

I haven't slept enough. I have an obligation I can't avoid. Something hurts. Etc.

And there's often some underlying guilt: I see it as my fault. I deserve what's happening to me.

In those moments, being present is very hard.

Meditating or finding clarity isn't the priority.

No time. No bandwidth.

The problem has to be solved first.

It's for those moments that I keep this line close at hand:

There is no barrier. There never was a barrier.

In other words: no obstacle is stopping me from being present right now, whatever the situation.

It doesn't require any work, any time, any training.

By becoming aware of the emotions running through me, I become present instantly.

No need to meditate for hours. No need to "take a moment". I cross over in a split second.

As if I took a step to the side and, with a simple decision, I could observe my emotions from a distance.

Suddenly, I'm no longer swept away by the current. I see the flow.

The panic is still there. The anxiety hasn't disappeared. But they no longer overwhelm me.

That's what presence is: this step to the side that changes the perspective.

It's not chasing away the emotions you don't want.

It's not feeling as free and available as on the "good" days.

It's not silencing intrusive thoughts to find clarity.

It's simply becoming aware of what's there.

The stress. The confusion. The sadness. The good and the bad.

And it's absolutely immediate. Absolutely effortless.

It's a decision. One you can make at any moment.

Because there is no barrier. There never was.

This is probably the method that has helped me grow the most...

Even if I couldn't really explain it.

Sometimes, I meditate "without me".

I hear my thoughts, my desires, my worries.

But it's not me. They aren't mine.

I'm aware that they come from my brain. I know that, if I wanted to, I could take them into account, act on them.

But no.

They're just content, no more important than anything else.

They are on the same level as the flickering light or the blaring horn: phenomena that I perceive, yes, but that don't belong to me. Over which I have no control.

I think Buddhists call this Anatta: not me, not mine.

Nothing that arises is tied to me.

Or rather, for a moment, I reconsider my link with my thoughts, my body, my emotions.

And I realize that this link is a fabrication. A habit.

That the relationship of ownership and belonging is an illusion.

What's more, when I look for that famous "me" during meditation, and a big truck drives by in the street, I find nothing inside but the sound of the truck.

For ten seconds, I am that sound. And that's all.

Then I become the birdsong. The tension in the elbow. The thought about my work. The smell of the floorboards...

There is no more me.

And it's deeply restful.

The entity that had all those problems no longer exists.

The person who carried that anxiety, who handled those responsibilities, who suffered from those insults, that person has dissolved.

They can no longer be hurt.

They've become the wind, the storm. The sound of water. The smell of bread.

A succession of experiences with no center.

So it can't be wounded.

It can no longer be early or late for anything.

It can no longer be blamed for anything.

It's here, that's all.

It exists.

Without me.

The way you do anything is the way you do everything.

I've known this for a long time. But recently, I've been realizing just how pervasive it is.

A few examples.

In a shop or a restaurant, when something goes wrong, it's rarely the only problem. It's usually the first in a long series. On a TV show, a critic visiting a hotel once said there are only two kinds of establishments: those on the way up, and those on the way down. And in both cases, it shows everywhere. The front door that sticks is often a sign that the receptionist will be unpleasant and the room will be dirty.

When someone loses their temper, turns violent, or lashes out, no matter how many apologies follow, you can be certain it's neither the first nor the last time. That's also why the person who nearly runs you over is probably going to yell at you too. Their driving isn't the only thing they do badly. It's part of a life pattern that shows up everywhere.

When you watch a film, a play, or a series, if the opening lines are predictable, if the first interactions feel artificial, it rarely gets better. This is especially noticeable in shows written by writers' rooms: an episode that starts badly almost never recovers. Whereas one that hits right in the first minute often ends on a high.

And in my own life, there is no one who showed up late to a first meeting with whom things ever went well afterward. That first late arrival announced all the others – and I'm not just talking about time.

I've also come to realize how true this is within a single day.

The way I get up, the way I handle my toothbrush or my coffee, the rush or the calm with which I walk down the street, all of it reveals where I'm at.

Every small gesture exposes my state of mind, and therefore the rest of my day.

When you understand this, you realize that everything matters.

Every action. Every thought. Every small interaction.

If I'm not present now, I never will be.

And the reverse is also true: if I want to change my life, I can (and must) start with the smallest detail, and do it extremely well.

Which will become the reflection and the model for everything else.

If we don't try to move fast, are we doomed to move slowly?

If we don't chase a goal, are we bound to stay idle?

On the contrary.

Speed, like action, is seized.

It's caught on the fly.

By being present, alert, free.

Neither distracted by the past, nor blinded by the future.

Detached from the film of one's own thoughts.

Attentive.

Accepting of inaction.

Then a path appears.

A sudden alignment between outer circumstances and inner availability.

That wasn't there a second before.

That no one else sees.

That's meant for you.

You go for it.

No speech. No plan.

It's not about starting to think.

Because the road isn't laid out.

It reveals itself as you move forward.

There are forks, false leads, traps.

But the route always becomes obvious.

As long as you keep moving.

As long as you don't think about the next step.

Truth appears in action.

At the last moment.

Seen from the outside, some will say you move fast.

Seen from the outside, some will say you have a goal.

Some will say "I wish I could move fast like him."

And others: "I wish I had a goal like her."

So they'll focus on the goal, on the speed.

They'll think about means, about solutions.

They'll look for the same path as you.

Which was never meant for them.

They'll ask themselves questions.

"Should I improve? Transform myself?"

They'll be lost in their heads.

It's fine.

There are countless paths.

Everywhere. All the time.

When they come back to the present, they'll see theirs.

Just as you could see yours right now.

In front of you.

Right behind your thoughts.

I've stopped thinking of myself as a "filmmaker."

It isn't a job.

I make films, yes.

But I don't necessarily feel close to other filmmakers.

Using a camera, lights and the whole kit isn't a strong enough common ground to create a sense of community.

What interests me is the subject. What people have to say. Their process as artists.

Which, in the end, doesn't depend on the job.

In that sense, to me, a filmmaker who only made cooking films would be closer to a cook or a food critic than to another filmmaker.

A filmmaker obsessed with crime would have more to say to a novelist or a police officer than to someone who makes comedies.

As for the one who bets everything on improvisation, on organic creation, he probably wouldn't have much in common with the one who storyboards every scene down to the millimeter.

I meet plenty of filmmakers I have nothing to say to.

I watch plenty of films I couldn't care less about.

Which surprised me, at first. We do the same thing, don't we? We're part of the same world?

But actually, no. Not at all.

And I think this is true for many jobs, especially in creative fields.

Using common tools to produce works that go by the same generic name doesn't guarantee compatibility.

Between two writers, two painters, two artists, there can be a world of difference.

Unless you really talk shop.

"What software do you use?" "What camera?" "What brush?"

But very quickly, the conversation stops because on what matters, there isn't necessarily any connection.

The artistic equivalent of talking about the weather.

What's stopping you?

"Well, first I need to..."

"I can't start until..."

"I have to wait until I have a..."

External obstacles are only the visible manifestation of your inner barriers.

If you were ready, you wouldn't need anything.

If you're missing something, there's inner work to do to get aligned.

Nothing justifies delaying that work.

It requires nothing.

It won't get easier with time.

Every condition is already in place.

You could do it right now.

In fact, that's the real work.

Everything else – getting started, execution, collaboration, promotion... – is just a consequence of this inner work you could start this very moment.

No matter the scale of the task.

No matter how important it is in your life.

The first step, the most important one, is immediately accessible.

It's the only one that counts.

And it requires nothing. Nothing!

So, what's stopping you?

No, this isn't another post about fasting.

It's a reflection on freedom.

This morning, after dropping off my four-and-a-half-year-old son at day camp, I was... tired.

I tried to get the day going as usual, but it wasn't catching.

The journal was empty. Nothing interesting came.

It would have been easy to write a note – I could have picked a random topic from my journal and spun something out of it. But I don't write anymore if nothing comes. I don't want it to become an empty exercise.

So I did nothing.

And the whole day went on like that. Sluggishly.

I still did what I had to do. But creation stayed locked away until late afternoon.

When my son is home, the timing isn't the same. When I try to stick to my usual routine, it doesn't work.

Normally, I start my journal after an hour of meditation and exercise. I'm present. It flows.

When my son is here, I'm 100% with him. Which is a form of presence too, but not the same one.

I'm available for him, at his service. Which makes it easy to move on to obligations (being available for my clients, for accounting). But not to create.

I think my mistake is trying to switch from one to the other too quickly.

In the end, meditation isn't what you do to start the day.

It's what you do to become more present.

So tomorrow, I'm going to try to take a moment after dropping my son off at day camp.

Because I think it's a bit like fasting:

When you're just starting out, the body has no idea what's happening. The liver, the pancreas, the brain, every organ needs a long while to get the machine going.

You're hungry. You feel weak.

But when you fast regularly, everything happens much faster. It's almost invisible.

I think it's the same with freedom.

At first, it used to take me hours, sometimes days, to move from a state of generalized anxiety and urgency to a calm more suited to action. Now, it's often very quick.

But this morning, I didn't even give myself the chance. I didn't allow any transition time.

And every time, I realize that's the most important part.

When doubt or anxiety arises, don't speed up.

Meditate. Come back to presence.

And the next action comes on its own.

If you'd told me about this a few years ago, I would have called you crazy.

But now... it's almost normal.

It happened in stages, and it started a few years ago with this realization:

I'm always digesting.

That's what hit me one evening while reading an article. My digestive system is always full.

Eating was the first thing I did in the morning, often the last thing I did at night, and I could easily picture my organs getting a little fed up.

Especially since our ancestors apparently didn't eat as much as we do. And I could also easily picture how this idea of "three meals a day" might have been invented by industries that cared about something other than our health.

I tried intermittent fasting. Just to see.

A bit like when I'd stopped eating meat: the point wasn't to stop, it was to see what it felt like. After all, you can't really say you've chosen a way of life if you've never tried the other one. So let's try.

And it was... extremely easy.

Much easier than expected.

I had dinner early, around 7pm, then, aside from my morning coffees, I didn't eat anything solid until noon the next day.

About 16 hours of fasting.

And no, I wasn't tired.

Before the lockdown, I even did Brazilian jiu-jitsu in the morning. On an empty stomach. I was terrible, yes, but not weak.

And if I was really hungry some mornings, I'd eat. But it happened less and less.

Then recently, I moved up a level.

I kept reading things about the benefits of fasting now and then. One fast a week, or two a month.

Especially since I eat pretty badly – even if I've made progress.

I'd realized I belonged to the large family of insulin-resistant people: too much sugar, too many carbs, glucose spikes, waking up at night, high blood pressure...

It was worth exploring alternatives.

So one day, I tried a 24-hour fast. Just to see.

And it was pretty hard. Not torture, but I was cold, hungry. I couldn't think about anything else.

Three weeks later, I tried again. Easy.

Then, just to see, I tried two days in a row. One meal every 24 hours.

And on the second day, I barely noticed anything.

As I write this, it's 9:30 in the morning and I haven't eaten since lunch yesterday.

And I'm not hungry. My mind is clear – clearer than after a meal.

Often, yes, I could eat. Honestly: I could always eat, since my whole life has revolved around food. But it's not a struggle.

It's actually much easier than before. Hunger isn't scary anymore. I never feel weak.

The hardest part at first is giving up the ritual of the meal.

When you're used to eating three times a day, you realize how much life revolves around food. Grocery shopping, cooking, resting after eating. Then thinking about the next meal.

What time do I eat? It depends.

In the afternoon, usually. That way, on days when I have social lunches or dinners, it only shifts the meal by a few hours one way or the other. Easy, again.

It also means I pay much more attention to the balance of my meals. Fiber, protein, fat. Meals with everything. They don't need to be huge. But not skimpy either.

That's probably the real revolution: I've learned that hunger often comes from eating poorly. So I've learned to eat better. Every meal now ticks all the boxes.

Here's the paradox: I eat less but I'm better fed.

And yes, I feel fitter. I sleep better. I wake up earlier, with less anxiety. I have more clarity during the day.

Overall, it has transformed my relationship with food and hunger.

As if a fear had been switched off.

"We have to eat! We have to eat! What are we going to eat? What if I don't have enough? What if I'm hungry? Ahhhh!"

Now, if I'm hungry, I'm hungry. It's a much less urgent craving than before. It lasts a while. Then it passes.

(To be clear: I'm talking about a small hunger. The kind that, before, would have made me snack. If at some point I were really hungry or felt weak, of course I'd eat! But it hasn't happened yet.)

To be continued.

Following yesterday's question about the use of AI on this site, most responses agreed with me:

Better off without.

One response went the other way, and it was interesting:

Even if your content had been entirely AI-generated (or perceived as such), what would that really change? Nothing for the reader, I think: it would remain just as relevant and interesting...
– neijul_

Fair enough.

From the reader's or visitor's perspective, the only thing that matters is the quality of what they read or see.

Why should it matter how (or by whom) it was made?

It's almost a legacy from show business and film: you're not supposed to know what goes on backstage.

Does the magician really kill the bird for his trick? Did the actor really do the stunt himself? Did they actually destroy a building, or was it a model?

When I was young, none of that mattered to me. I only cared about the result.

For that matter, my four-year-old couldn't care less who draws Bluey or who wrote his favorite book. It's the story that gets him. The characters.

So are we discriminating against AI?

Should we accept that it's just another tool creators use?

Something still bothers me.

But maybe because I'm an old fart. The kind who wouldn't have appreciated the end of silent films or the rise of the internet. ("Back in my day...")

I feel like human involvement in creation matters, even when I can't see it.

For example: if I found out that "Friends", the show I grew up with, had been entirely AI-generated, that the characters never existed, that it was all done inside a computer... I'd be disappointed.

Same thing: if I read a compelling article and then found out it had been generated by an LLM...

Part of me identifies with the creators I love. I imagine meeting the actor from the show, or the writer of the article, someday.

When someone makes something that speaks to me, I tell myself there's someone out there in the world who understands my problems and found a way to do something with them.

I'm no longer alone.

But if I find out it was made by a computer...

I'm alone again.

This wasn't planned, but it's exactly the subject of the episode "1000 Years of Solitude" from my web series Panic in Space (out May 1st!).

A guy realizes his best friend online is... you can guess.

And it changes everything.

I'm torn.

A lot on my plate today.

So instead of today's note, I was thinking of posting "the dialogue of the week."

A few years ago, I started writing fictional dialogues that did pretty well. I dug them up and was planning to repost them here to continue the series, but...

I had second thoughts.

You see, the character portraits were made with Midjourney.

Should I redo them by hand?

At first, I thought: "Who cares. It's just an illustration, the dialogue is what matters."

But recently, I read a fairly sharp comment from an illustrator who said, roughly:

If the illustrations in your text are made by AI, I'll assume you used AI to write the text too.

Which isn't without merit.

And since all the notes are written by hand, I didn't want any AI elements to cast doubt in the reader's mind.

Let's be clear: I use AI.

I use it to proofread the notes (spelling, grammar) and then translate them into English. I also use it to build custom tools for me (invoicing, client management, etc.).

But as you know, I've found AI to be useless to me for writing or for the "real" intellectual work (building a narrative strategy for my clients).

So my dilemma is this:

In reality, this site is already almost 100% AI-free. Adding Midjourney portraits, even small ones, introduces doubt.

Especially since I plan to add photos, drawings, poems... none of which involve AI at all.

Hence the idea of taking the plunge: creating this "100% AI-free" label.

Reassuring readers on the home page that no content was made with AI. With a clickable link explaining any use in more detail: proofreading, translation.

Which doesn't mean I'm against people who use AI. It's just that, for now, I don't. So I might as well make the small extra effort to set the record straight.

It would be more work, because I'd have to draw the portraits for my dialogues myself. (Drawing is fine. It's the coloring!)

But I think it would be worth it.

What do you think?

Abraham Lincoln once said:

"If I had nine hours to chop down a tree, I would spend the first six sharpening my axe."

It's the same in the morning.

Sometimes, anxieties catch me as I wake up.

"Ugh! I have to do this! And that! And I forgot I was late on this other thing!"

It used to mean one thing: hurry up. Get out of bed and get to work, slacker!

Now, the rule is this:

I stay in bed until I'm perfectly calm again.

Until I'm happy to get up, glad to go "surf with the chaos", I'm not allowed to put a toe out of bed (or a finger on the computer).

The key ideas behind this practice:

• Urgency is often artificial Not only were my urgent morning worries of three years ago not that urgent, but looking at my life today, I can see it was actually heading in the wrong direction.
• Nothing is that serious What if I died today, or next week? Would it matter that I did all of this? And do I even remember that I'm going to die one day and that everything will vanish? To me, that's not distressing, it's liberating.
• You'll do everything better with clarity Whatever I decide to do, if I do it reactively (to fight off the anxiety), I'll do it far worse than if I act from a place of peace.
• Anxiety is a necessary message In fact, I shouldn't take any action against anxiety. If I live it through to the end, it will fade. And it will leave a mark somewhere inside me that will be taken into account at the right moment.
• My real value is freedom, not punctuality The world would have survived if the printing press had been invented three days, or even three years, later. Important things don't hinge on a few days. Empty obligations, often, do.

But above all: the time I take in the morning to start off right pays me back a hundredfold over the day. I spot the priorities easily. I don't let fake problems stress me out. I find the providential ideas that solve several issues at once.

Consider this: if you're in a bad mood, a single fake problem can take up your whole day.

So yes, in the morning, take a little time to sharpen your axe.

On the shoot of Migrul, I was way behind.

It was a marathon film, written and shot in a few days during the Off Courts festival.

We were shooting the next day – a single day – and everything was missing.

In particular: an important wig for my character. Costume pieces. And the materials to build a fake train window.

So that afternoon, I'd planned to drive to Caen and back to pick it all up.

An hour there, an hour back, with no idea which shops to target.

And rush back for the rehearsals with the actors, which we hadn't even started.

Running late, then. I should have left right away.

Except that before lunch, rather than keep grinding through a to-do list that wouldn't stop growing, I made the following call:

I'm going to take 20 minutes for a spoon nap.

A spoon nap is when you doze off for a moment holding a spoon. If you fall asleep too deeply, the spoon drops and wakes you up.

Supposedly invented by Dalí, it's meant to help you step back and make better connections between ideas.

For example, there were supposedly studies where subjects had to solve complex puzzles with or without a spoon nap. And apparently, the nap helped enormously.

So I gave it a try. First time.

What I quickly realized: it's really a kind of meditation (something I already do every day) disguised as a micro-nap, without the New Age vibe.

The difference is that I'm used to meditating right after waking up, not in the middle of a rush, not when I'm about to hit the road to solve a hundred problems.

But I played along.

I lay down, relaxed. As often happens, images came up, ideas, a calmer awareness.

Then within ten minutes, one by one, all my problems solved themselves.

The wig? I'll use a mop, it'll be funnier.

The train window? I'll use the curtains from my bedroom, they'll be perfect.

The costumes? I just remembered I have the ones from my previous shoot in a cellar – they'll work fine.

When I got up, everything was sorted.

The trek to the other end of the world was no longer needed.

The solutions I'd found were better than the ones I had in mind before.

I took a lesson from that experience:

When I feel resistance to an action, something I don't want to do, it often means I shouldn't do it.

There's another solution, more personal, more aligned, more creative, within reach.

That I don't see because I'm not present enough.

So presence isn't just some beatnik idea about picking flowers and chanting Hare Krishna.

It's also what lets you align your actions and become more productive.

For shooting vampire films, say.

But probably for everything else too.

At first, I only worked with companies.

First in video production, then in public speaking, then over the past few years, in narrative strategy.

Except that recently... I had friends who were struggling.

Who couldn't sell themselves. In very different fields, far from innovation.

To help them out, I offered them the coaching I normally reserve for experts.

For free. Because they're friends.

But only the part where we talk: I don't produce the strategic deliverable like I do for companies.

For two hours, they tell me their story.

We let two weeks go by, then for one hour, we have a working session to unblock their process.

Then a month later, we look at where things stand.

The result: it really, really helped them.

Then I started getting contacted by strangers who were looking for coaching.

I told them I was doing something that looked like professional coaching. That it was new.

This time I charged.

And since it kept helping them, I created a dedicated offer.

I try to keep the rates accessible, well below my corporate rates.

The goal is to unblock, to set people on the right track. So that afterwards, they don't need me anymore.

Sometimes, we realize people actually do need the strategic deliverable. They're at a point in their development where they genuinely need a communication strategy. In that case, we move up to the next offer.

But in the vast majority of cases, talking is enough.

These are talented people who just have a process problem.

They're blocked by beliefs about communication that keep them stuck. They don't want to "turn into a salesperson".

So we find a way for them to communicate that they're comfortable with.

Like I did for myself, really.

We all want to be more confident.

It's the model we're shown in movies: the hero who's never caught off guard, who always knows what to say.

Less so for women, admittedly. Clichés often present vulnerability as a feminine charm.

But what is confidence really for?

Why is looking sure of yourself supposed to be better?

To convince? To sell?

Probably.

I've noticed that people prefer to listen to (and therefore follow) those who seem sure of themselves. Even when they're talking nonsense.

If you have a big decision to make, financial or medical, you'll tend to listen to the person who sounds certain, categorical.

As if their certainty could offset your worry.

They couldn't be that sure of themselves if it were all smoke and mirrors, could they?

Well, yes. That's exactly the point.

Because salespeople of all stripes – and I'm including politicians – have figured out this mechanism and exploit it to their advantage.

And since we see them succeed, we tell ourselves we should do the same.

Except that false confidence is like a cardboard house: looks great from the outside, but when you try to live in it... not so much.

At the first storm, it all collapses.

So what good is confidence if it can't weather a storm? Isn't that exactly what it's for?

That's the subject of a feature screenplay I wrote a few years ago:

In The Stagemaster, you discover that the strongest character isn't the great, intimidating director, nor the scheming butler.

It's a shy, frightened little woman who spends her time apologizing. And who ends up carrying everyone on her shoulders.

I genuinely believe that real strength is vulnerability.

The more you let things reach you, the more you learn.

Faking it only impresses those who are faking it too.

No note today.

I had too much to do this morning and didn't find the time.

Should I write it this afternoon?

Not really in the mood. Other things to do.

Should I force myself?

You know what I think about that.

Then I thought about it and realized there are actually two reasons to force yourself:

• Inner reasons Because you secretly want to, because you find it fun.
• Outer reasons So you don't disappoint people.

And since I was clearly doing this for outer reasons (now that I have readers, I don't want to let them down), I reached the following conclusion:

No note today.

Every now and then, that's how it'll be.

And as often happens, once I gave myself permission not to do it...

The desire came back.

I found it funny that this inner/outer obligation idea ended up illustrated by today's note itself.

So now I'm writing for inner reasons. With joy.

That's often how I get through the things that bore me:

When I feel resistance, I don't force myself.

Then at some point, momentum arrives.

The task becomes easy, the result much better.

Momentum that would never have come if I had forced myself in the first place.

What we think and what we do shouldn't be taken at face value.

Just because it comes from us doesn't mean we agree with it or that it serves us.

It's one of the first things meditation teaches you:

I don't choose my thoughts. They arise.

And then:

I don't choose my actions. Impulses come up, and I choose to follow them or not.

Or sometimes, I build the action purely intellectually and choose to carry it out.

And who makes all those choices? My thoughts – which I don't choose.

I'm convinced that much of our daily anxiety comes from an unconscious desire to gather all of this under a single umbrella.

We can't stand the idea of being a mix of things.

We want to hold on to the picture in which, at the top of our inner pyramid, sits thought – the part that would really be us – running everything else.

And we spend our days meticulously erasing every piece of evidence to the contrary.

I am not a patchwork! I am Jean-Pierre! 😭

Many studies have shown that the brain doesn't actually work that way.

A huge number of decisions are made well before the prefrontal cortex, the seat of conceptual intelligence, gets involved.

As a result, logic serves more to rationalize after the fact than to choose.

We work hard to explain why we did that.

If needed, we invent stories. About ourselves. About the world. To justify some action. Stories we end up defending tooth and nail, and which, when challenged, become a new source of anxiety.

Anything rather than admit we might not be 100% consistent.

Letting go is recognizing this mechanism.

It's accepting that we're a tangle of currents we don't always control.

It's understanding that we can watch what happens inside with the same interest and curiosity as what happens outside.

The thought that arises is as beautiful and unexpected as the bird taking flight.

The action we take is no less mysterious than our neighbor's.

We watch ourselves the way we'd watch the sea or a storm: fascinated by a mix of complexity and beauty that's beyond us.

No more difference between an inside we'd control and an outside we'd fall victim to.

Just the world dancing.

And we're part of it.

Many activities, including professional ones, become easier when you realize there's nothing to do.

Nothing. You just have to be there.

I first came across this idea in Rob Burbea's book "Seeing That Frees".

He was a meditation teacher at an institute. When someone came to him, he listened, answered questions, offered clarifications.

The rest of the time, he said, he walked. In a beautiful place.

And while he walked, he could see things in two ways. Either "I'm working". Or "I'm walking in a beautiful place".

In other words, between interactions, he was no longer working. He was doing what he would have done naturally.

And even during those interactions, he was also doing what he would have done naturally.

Meditation was at the heart of his life, of his concerns, and if a stranger had come up to him in the street to ask a question, he would have answered with joy.

It's just that, in this case, he was being paid. It was his job.

This way of seeing things had a huge impact on me.

Personally, first.

We sometimes struggle to approach people, to react to a situation.

It's because we're looking for what to do.

So very often, I repeat to myself: "there's nothing to do".

For example: I no longer approach a group, a person or a situation in order to do something.

I approach to be present. To listen. To be in the same space.

Then, after a while, I can't help but act. It comes out of me. It's obvious.

And in that moment, I act in a way I could never have imagined beforehand, from a distance.

Action arises from presence.

Whereas anxiety arises because we want to know what to do in advance.

"What on earth am I going to say?" "How could I be useful?" "Why would they want me?"

You have to take the first step knowing that you don't know.

The rest follows.

And when nothing comes, that's fine too.

This idea also transformed me professionally.

Now, most of my income comes from actions I would do even if I weren't being paid.

That's my idea of alignment.

My coaching offers are built on my natural reaction to the people I meet.

The words coming out of my mouth are the ones I'd say to anyone in the same situation.

At no point do I force myself. At no point do I feel like I'm working.

Even my videos for finding prospects are easy to make.

A caveat: I'm not saying this alignment happened overnight. It took work. (And I still have a way to go!)

But at the heart of it all, there's this idea you find in creative work, in productivity, even in acting:

There's nothing to do.

To act is to react.

Nothing religious about it. It just worked out that way.

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YES, it's exclusive content.

NO, I don't think you get any other newsletter like this.

YES, you should try it. Worst case, you unsubscribe after.
("That's exactly what my heroin dealer told me 😭")

I know. Bisou. See you Monday.

PS: It's in French only for now! But an English newsletter is coming soon.

I keep getting asked whether I do a podcast, meetups, or consultations.

This morning, for example, at the café where I work, someone told me:

Your videos are great but I want to respond. Often I don't follow everything, I'd like to ask questions, react, and I'm frustrated that it only goes one way.

It sparked a mini-debate (a very fun one) at the café.

Which brought me back to several ideas I've been having lately:

Creating connection

I've been telling myself for a long time that this is the answer.

To politics, to the world falling apart.

I feel like we have very little power over the course of the world and that the only thing we can do is create connection. Locally. With our neighbors, our neighborhood. Getting to know people. Accepting those who don't think like us.

Sticking together to face the tsunamis ahead.

So this idea of creating "events" where we get together speaks to me.

But what kind?

Workshops

Last year, I ran an improv workshop.

It was very funny, but it wasn't just that.

The goal wasn't only to make people laugh but to explore spontaneity, letting go, play.

Seeking pure action, without preparation.

Together.

I'm thinking I'd like to do something like that again. But where? Under what conditions?

Podcast and videos

Last year, I recorded several (long) conversations with creators I admire.

I'd show up at their place unannounced, without telling them I was going to record, and then we'd talk about creative work for an hour or two.

I still haven't done anything with those recordings.

Partly because I don't see what comes next. I'm not even sure I have the time to do this regularly.

But same question: what format? To what end?

Newsletter

Many of you have signed up for the newsletter and I'm glad.

But I haven't sent anything... yet.

What would you like? The daily note? A monthly selection? Something else?

What do you think?

If you have ideas / opinions / suggestions, feel free to send them through the "Ask a question about this note" form.

Have a great weekend!

To help professionals express their value, I start with what I call an "immersive interview."

For two hours, the person tells me their story. More often than not, we start with the personal to make sense of the professional.

And I've noticed something:

The career you chose, and the difficulties you face in advancing, are most likely tied to your relationship with your parents.

First, let me be clear: I'm not a psychologist. I have no training in the field and no intention of becoming one.

Still, I didn't need any training to notice this pattern, which shows up again and again and seems to be the unconscious source of many professional obstacles.

Every time, I flag it as the first item, in a section I call "this isn't my area, but here's what I've noticed and what you might want to explore with someone else."

The observation:

You may have chosen your career to please your parents or prove something to them.

If so, the obstacles keeping you from reaching the next level may have nothing to do with your profession.

In other words: working harder in your field won't move you forward.

Willpower and grit won't change a thing.

In fact, they'll take you further from the heart of the problem.

To move forward, you have to go back to the source.

What am I really trying to achieve?

If my father or mother were still alive, what professional triumph would I want them to witness?

Or if they were gone tomorrow, what moment in my career would I regret they never saw?

Does the part of me that seeks to exist in their eyes play a bigger role in my decisions than I realize?

Because often, the problem isn't figuring out how to get what you want.

It's understanding why it matters so much.

In the why lies the how.

And so the solution.

It's something I told myself one day when I was not at all doing what I should have been doing.

I was at a café, writing.

Even though I had "real" work to finish.

I felt guilty.

And that's when I told myself: "No: I am doing exactly what I should be doing."

First, because there's no point denying the truth: I was at the café. Not at the office. No use wishing for an alternative reality that doesn't exist.

But mostly because I don't know the future.

Is doing this work I don't want to do really the best path for me?

Or is it a conditioned reflex, drilled in at school? You have to push through. Work. Force yourself to do what you don't want to do.

Otherwise, you feel the disapproving gaze of teachers, family, society weighing on you.

Now that things are going better, I realize the thinking I did at the café was leading me in a much better direction – professionally and personally – than the work that bored me.

I summed up this idea in a line I added to the note I read every morning:

The right action, the true one, taken at the right moment, matters more than weeks or months of work.

The goal isn't quantity. Nor is it to hurt yourself.

The goal is to seize the right opportunity when it comes.

And for that, you have to be there.

You have to be attentive, listening, present.

Which doesn't mean – I'll say it again – that I've removed effort from my life.

Quite the opposite. I wake up earlier. I work longer hours.

Even the tasks that bore me – accounting, housework, admin – get done on time and more easily than before.

I'd even say I still very much believe in the value of effort.

But in the sense of a gift.

You give your effort to yourself, to others, to the world.

Because, in a way, you love them.

But not out of obligation.

Never out of obligation.

This is how I'd sum up the anxiety that sometimes drives me:

The fear of losing.

I get the feeling that some events in life are like a game, a competition.

You have to "succeed", "win", "pass" or at least "not lose".

You feel watched. Without knowing by whom.

There's a judge somewhere, a referee. Maybe also people you might disappoint if things didn't work out.

So you plan ahead. You prepare. You do everything to measure up.

Problem: you don't know the rules.

You don't even know what "winning" would look like.

So you focus on the only thing left: not losing. Avoiding traps.

Except with that focus, obviously, everything becomes a trap.

You start seeing obstacles that don't exist, trying to dodge mines that were never there.

And when everything goes well, you think that's the trap: you must have missed the problem.

It's a perfectly sensible worldview:

There's no game without obstacles, no contest without trials, no competition without competitors.

So if it really is a game, the enemies are hiding.

You have to find them.

And when you're focused on that search, you end up finding them. You make them up if needed.

In doing so, you miss what's actually going on: there was never a competition.

There was never a game.

It only exists in your head.

Or else, it's the original game:

The one children play, with no winner and no loser, played only to celebrate the joy of being together.

It's hard to believe, when you first wake up.

Eyes barely open, the flood of obligations is already back.

There's this. And there's that. And there's that problem that needs handling. That appointment you can't miss. And so on.

Like a computer booting up its problems.exe software.

The whole day feels like one long execution.

We don't have a choice, do we?

There's no alternative?

There is.

It's possible to wake up in the morning feeling light.

To start from nothing and build from what comes, from what you want to do, from what brings joy.

Not only is it possible, it's the only way to be truly productive. To actually make a difference.

In any field.

This isn't just for artists and slackers.

It's not the privilege of people with no money or ambition.

It's the mark of an aligned life.

That doesn't mean a life without effort.

There are always things to do, obstacles to overcome. But everything feels easier, lighter. Doable.

But to reach that life, you have to know it exists.

That it's possible.

That you can get there.

Yes: even you.

If you know me a little, you know I often say that "what matters is never intellectual."

Big decisions shouldn't be built on reasoning.

Logic is the same for everyone.

It can be biased, distorted, misapplied.

It doesn't account for all of who you are, or the full picture of the situation.

It depends entirely on the variables you chose to consider as inputs, with no indication whatsoever of whether those choices were the right ones.

It doesn't lean enough on emotion or feeling, which are often too hard to put into words, yet are, in the end, the only real judges of the outcome.

Just look at how two perfectly valid lines of reasoning can lead to two completely different decisions. Which one is right?

Answer: neither.

Because big decisions should never be built on intellect.

This isn't a universally accepted idea – to say the least – and I often find myself, in conversation, having to explain or defend it. With some success, I'll admit.

But there is no field where it holds truer than in creative work.

Creating is never intellectual.

Some parts of it do require you to switch your brain on. You have to execute, apply, work within a set of constraints.

There, yes: you think. You calculate. You adjust.

But the source itself is never, ever reasoning.

It's a harvest.

You catch what comes. Without choosing. Without judging.

You play hot and cold with instinct.

You build a first prototype. Every variable checks out. Every constraint is met.

But the little inner voice says "no." Without explaining. Without justification.

So you erase and start over.

That's my definition of an artist: someone who listens to their inner voice in spite of reason.

We all have that voice. It's present and active in each of us.

The artist is the one who chooses to obey it.

Yes, it's something you can work on, but it isn't a talent.

It's a choice.

Unfortunately (or fortunately), AI is useless to me for writing.

Well, not entirely: I use it to fix typos, translate into English, suggest a synonym when I'm stuck. (And even then: I still have my thesaurus.)

But when it comes to producing an idea or a text, I'm surprised every time by how useless it is.

It's a blender. It mixes everything together. Produces mush, then compresses it into neat little squares to make it look like structured thought.

If you're reading quickly about a subject you don't know, you can be fooled.

It can also be useful for producing informational text on an existing body of knowledge. In that case, the sheer volume of information it holds allows it to structure, argue, teach.

And of course, it's extremely useful for building your own tools. I no longer buy software: I make the scripts I need, tailored to how I work.

But for writing something new... Nothing works.

Strong ideas get flattened.

Sharp phrasing gets smoothed into something generic and bland.

The style is either needlessly ornate (too many words, too many adjectives, too much of everything) or too dry.

Of course, I tried custom instructions. Iteratively. Based on samples.

The result is worse: text and instructions get tangled into a mess from which nothing comes out intact.

Because ultimately, it's not a prompt problem, it's a structural one. The LLM thinks "flat": there's no topography of thought, no layers of reasoning at different levels of importance.

Everything sits at the same level.

The latest brain fart carries as much weight as the founding axiom placed at the beginning. Key points, the joints of the argument, emotional nodes carry no more weight than asides. To the AI, everything is instruction.

I suppose that's good news for my readers and clients: my notes and my reports are all written by hand.

Not for ethical reasons. Not to save the planet.

Because I have no choice.

I'm kidding, obviously.

The whole point of notes is writing them myself. Not for the reader – for me. I need to put ideas on paper to clear my head, so AI has no role in that.

As for the documents I deliver to clients: they are extremely spartan. No layout, no long sentences: just the ideas.

Maybe that's the future of human work, when you think about it.

These days, the packaging, the examples, the filler ("the mush") can be produced by machines.

So what humans bring is direction. The few words that set the course. The pitfalls. The route.

And style. The unique, personal way of naming the world.

The rest is zeros and ones.

We often look for ways to avoid suffering.

Spirituality is built on the idea that we should accept it.

Suffering is inevitable.

The strategies we put in place to ignore it, delay it, push it away, hide it... not only fail but, over time, create even more suffering.

The good news: all we have to do is accept the suffering of the present moment.

Even when everything seems to suggest it will never end, even when our brain tries to convince us it's here to stay, our only job is to accept the suffering that's showing up right here, right now.

Next year's pain, tomorrow's pain, or even the pain one minute from now... is not our problem.

This is also an important distinction in Eastern philosophy: in a lifetime, pain is inevitable, while suffering is manufactured.

The plans we make to avoid one are the cause of the other.

Moral of the story: let's start by dealing with the present.

We'll handle the future when it gets here.

I regularly rediscover the benefits and formidable effectiveness of doing things extremely slowly.

For example:

I recently dealt with someone particularly unpleasant.

Instead of being reactive and responding immediately... I took all the time in the world.

I decided that my reaction to this interaction would be the template for handling people like that in the future. The prototype.

So I held back, letting myself feel each emotion, weighing the pros and cons of every response.

And I handled it like a champ.

I didn't lose my temper, and I got everything I wanted.

This idea of a "prototype" comes up a lot in my daily life.

I thought about it while watching a video of a dog trainer explaining to owners that you should never repeat a command.

Once you've said "sit!", you wait. As long as it takes.

Then reward the dog only when it obeys – even if it takes several minutes. Otherwise, you're training it to ignore the first few commands and only comply once you get angry.

Now I apply this method everywhere.

When facing a new task, I go as slowly as possible.

The goal isn't to make it work right away, but to get exactly the result I want, however long it takes.

I'm setting up a mechanism. Only precision matters.

And after the first success, do I try to speed up?

Not at all.

You never need to worry about going fast.

All you ever need is to do it well.

With repetition, speed comes on its own.