The Bullet Journal Method: Track Your Past, Order Your Present, Plan Your Future. Ryder Carroll

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The Bullet Journal Method: Track Your Past, Order Your Present, Plan Your Future - Ryder Carroll

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       The Daily Log

       The Monthly Log

       The Future Log

       The Index

       Migration

       The Letter

       Set up

       PART III—THE PRACTICE

       Beginning

       Reflection

       Meaning

       Goals

       Small Steps

       Time

       Gratitude

       Control

       Radiance

       Endurance

       Deconstruction

       Inertia

       Imperfection

       PART IV—THE ART

       Custom Collections

       Design

       Planning

       Lists

       Schedules

       Trackers

       Customization

       Community

       PART V—THE END

       The Correct Way to Bullet Journal

       Parting Words

       Frequently Asked Questions

       Thank You

       Notes

       Content

       About the Author

       About the Publisher

      T.O.C. vs. Index: In the Bullet Journal we combine the table of contents and a traditional index to keep the content in your notebook organized and easily accessible. You can read more about this on this page.

      Let us postpone nothing. Let us balance life’s account every day. . . . One who daily puts the finishing touches to his life is never in want of time.

      —SENECA, Moral Letters to Lucilius

       I

       THE PREPARATION

       INTRODUCTION

      The mystery box arrived unannounced. Stranger still, there was my mother’s unmistakable block script adorning the address label. Maybe a surprise gift, for no particular occasion or reason? Unlikely.

      Opening the box revealed a mess of old notebooks. Perplexed, I fished out a nuclear orange one covered in graffiti. Its pages brimmed with rough illustrations of robots, monsters, battle scenes, and wildly misspelled words. Different kinds of . . . a chill went down my spine. These were mine!

      I took a deep breath and dove in. This was more than a trip down memory lane. It was like reentering the husk of an all-but-forgotten self. As I leafed through another notebook, a folded sheet fell from its pages. Curious, I unfolded it to find a grotesque rendering of a very angry man. He was yelling so hard that his eyes bulged and his tongue flapped out of his mouth. Two words were written on the page. One small word, shyly tucked into a corner, revealed the identity of the apoplectic man: an old teacher of mine. The other large jagged word, the one revealing the target of his rage, was my name.

      My problems started early in elementary school with the terrible grades, the red-faced teachers, the resigned tutors. My performance was so alarming that I spent

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