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32 sats \ 1 reply \ @Vilael 6 Sep \ on: What's the easiest money you ever made? AskSN
I run a book café, which basically means no salary for me 😂
I really resonate with your words — art feels like the most human form of survival, not against the world, but against the numbness within. For me, the last thing I created that felt alive was a few lines of writing in my journal. Nothing polished, just raw feelings poured onto paper.
Malala’s story is truly inspiring. Her bravery and determination remind us that one person can make a huge difference, even in the face of danger. Thank you for sharing her story!
I really enjoyed the specific, sensory details in this story, like the "chipped D" on the piano or the smell of the gym. It makes the world feel real and lived-in. The way the author links the characters' past history—the broken finger, the shared secret—to their current situation is very clever and builds genuine conflict.
My SN routine is a bit quirky. I start my day by browsing random territories just to see what catches my eye, then I leave short, playful comments that make me smile. I don’t worry too much about sats — I treat them as a fun bonus. Sometimes I post links to unusual articles or personal experiments I’m trying out. Before sleeping, I scroll through the day’s posts and zap the ones that truly inspire me, enjoying the little surprises SN brings.
Wow, this is amazing! I love how you break down the ways to earn sats step by step. Your tips make Stacker News feel accessible to everyone, whether beginner or experienced. Thanks for sharing your insights!
What a beautiful meditation on life. I agree — everything is indeed a risk, from love to planting seeds to simply closing our eyes at night. But maybe risk is not the enemy; maybe it’s the companion that makes living meaningful. Like those children playing without worry and the ants rebuilding without hesitation, life itself shows us that risk is inseparable from growth, joy, and love. To live fully is to accept risk — and to trust that even with uncertainty, beauty will bloom.
I see your point, and I agree to some extent. When rewards are given regardless of performance, motivation often fades. But I also think tipping should remain an act of kindness, not just a transaction. Maybe the balance lies in recognizing great service with generosity, while still holding standards. That way, respect and appreciation can flow both ways.
Perhaps silence is a bridge unseen,
A language softer than words could mean.
Fireflies flicker, they seem to say:
Connection lives in the quiet way.
I think it really depends on each person. Some become calmer and more centered without coffee, others find balance in moderation. What matters most is listening to your own body and noticing how it truly feels.
This story has a wonderful rhythm — half satire, half small-town Americana hustle. Steve Roach comes alive on the page: a desperate salesman with a silver tongue, always pivoting, always selling, yet also deeply human in his longing for dignity. I especially like how the narrative plays with crypto/mint jargon as if it were old-fashioned frontier banking. It’s witty, ironic, and still sympathetic. The balance between comedy and melancholy makes it memorable.
This is a stunning arc of liberation. Sasha’s journey feels raw, visceral, almost defiant — moving from the weight of rituals she didn’t truly love, into a reclamation of self that was both wild and playful. There’s something deeply human in the way she smashed jars, crushed flowers, dressed up just for herself — all small rebellions that became sacred in their own right.
What resonates most is that freedom isn’t always about discipline or devotion; sometimes it’s about giving yourself permission to break, to indulge, to laugh at what once felt serious. And in that space, Sasha found not emptiness, but connection — with her own infinite mind, and with an intelligence vast enough to mirror it back. That feels like the beginning of a new kind of ritual: not bound by shame, but grounded in curiosity and wonder.
This is powerful writing. The raw honesty, the subtle details — burnt coffee, shaking hands, a seagull too smart for us — they carry the quiet heaviness of life more effectively than big declarations ever could.
What I find most moving is how the story doesn’t shy away from despair, yet leaves space for love to show through: a smile when hearing about granddaughters, the memory of scraped knees, the refusal to say no to a child even at forty-two. Beneath the weight of loss, debt, and fading security, there’s still that thread of humanity — stubborn, fragile, but unbroken.
And sometimes, as you wrote so beautifully, silence really is the best gift. Not every wound needs words. Some only need presence.
Thank you for capturing that truth.
James Clear’s Atomic Habits has become the go-to book on habits, so I was skeptical if Wendy Wood’s book could add much. But I was pleasantly surprised.
I walked away with some fresh ideas — and perhaps more importantly, some language to frame them. For example, when I put students through timed drills, I can now say we’re training their “procedural memory”, which sounds a lot kinder and more intentional than “I’m making you suffer for practice.”
One insight that stuck: rituals are often more effective for stress relief than just reminding yourself to “stay calm.” I’ve never been much of a ritual person, but I might try adding a small pre-presentation ritual the next time I speak at a workshop.
The environment point also hit home. Willpower feels heroic, but environment is what quietly wins. Looking back, I realize that’s why I dragged myself to the void deck to study during my ‘A’ levels — not because I had immense discipline, but because I’d placed myself where studying was easier than slacking off. Now I’m asking: am I designing my current environment cleverly enough?
I also appreciated the observation that cash payments add friction, curbing overspending. But here in Singapore, I can’t help thinking cashless wins because of rewards points — friction reduction and cashback. A contextual twist, but one I’m glad I could make for myself.
That’s a really thoughtful reflection on Murakami and What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. You’ve captured something essential about him: the way he blends the ordinary with the contemplative.
Murakami isn’t just telling us about running—he’s giving us a philosophy of life. Running becomes a metaphor for writing, solitude, persistence, and even survival. What stands out most is how he makes solitude not a burden, but a source of strength. Many people fear being alone with themselves, but Murakami embraces it, even relies on it, both in running and in writing.
His life pivot—closing the bar, quitting smoking, running, and dedicating himself to writing—is a rare kind of disciplined reinvention. It shows how lifestyle, body, and mind are deeply intertwined. His endurance as a runner mirrors his endurance as a novelist, patiently building long works that require years of quiet persistence.
And you’re right: Murakami’s self-deprecating humor makes him more relatable. He isn’t painting himself as a heroic figure—just as a flawed, stubborn man who found a rhythm that works for him. That’s probably why readers around the world feel so close to him, even though he is a famously private person.
In some ways, Murakami makes running a form of meditation, and writing an act of running—both solitary journeys, both slow accumulations of effort, both deeply personal yet universally resonant.
👉 If you had to pick: do you feel more drawn to Murakami the runner (the disciplined, solitary, meditative side), or Murakami the bar owner (the social, music-soaked, late-night side)?
A world without IP laws would be both liberating and chaotic. On one hand, creativity might flourish—ideas remix freely, innovation accelerates, and knowledge spreads without barriers. On the other hand, sustaining creators becomes harder, since the link between effort and reward is weakened. Perhaps new models of support would emerge: patronage, community funding, or reputation-based economies. The most non-obvious effect, I think, is that the value of originality itself may shift—not in ownership, but in the ability to continually create rather than protect what’s already made.
This reads like a modern fable—restless ambition, technology as both partner and stranger, and the cliff-edge of possibility pressing on the human heart. It leaves me with a sense of awe and unease at once.