Like everyone else, I’m angry in a heated conflict, but unless that anger can intimidate and stun, I try and keep it under wraps.  In fact, sometimes I smile at my opponent and pretend to be their friend.

Because sometimes, certain people can use your insults to motivate them, so I deny them my anger—they might possibly use it as an asset against me.  My goal is not to dominate, it’s to achieve my objective and nothing more.

And though I am vengeful, I firmly believe results are the best revenge—let them speak for themselves, and let others get righteous or indignant over their inability to achieve them.

(I think this is sound):  all my thinking/strategizing about future possibilities/past occurrences should guide me toward one thing:  to decide what to do in the present moment.

Even if it means doing “nothing.”

Much has been made of the slow, steady approach, and much has been made of the impassioned sprint.  From what I’ve seen, both are essential.  If there’s any confusion or ambiguity concerning which to use, the astute problem-solver will consult that age-old compass which simplifies so much of life into a readily apparent course:

Effectiveness.

Effective medicine is often bitter.  The sweetness is in the aftermath.

I once knew a writer who held back his best pieces, even when he had the opportunity to present them before a Pulitzer award winner.  As the years passed, he actually held back most of his pieces.

Hopefully, this “holding back” mentality will work for him, and in the end, he’ll knock it out of the park and force me to eat crow.  But I’d rather go with the opposite approach.  I’d rather bare my soul time and again, do my best time and again, and let my weaknesses wither away under the harsh light of scrutiny.  It may hurt in the short term, but in the long term, this will give me an accurate idea of what I need to fix, and will only make me stronger. 

I believe that getting better at writing is akin to exercise; the ceiling for “your best” starts to raise on a consistent basis, and you soar to greater and greater heights.  The idea of the “perfect piece” drops away, and then writing simply becomes an exercise in free-flowing harmony.

The only effective arguments against discipline and strategy are consistent results.

Which, over time, are the offspring of discipline and strategy. 

So yeah—there’s not really a long-term argument against either of those.

I cater to the animal part of me by striving to ascend the dominance hierarchy (apparently, we’re biologically/psychologically wired to experience fulfillment by making progress in our endeavors), but when it comes time to sleep or kick back with my friends, I use my human cognition to remember that everything will fade soon enough.

The best way to think of reality, I believe, is as a game.  I’m ready to play it to the hilt, but at the same time, I have to remember to enjoy myself and let it all go.  Because as horrible or as glorious as things may seem, I’m just a four-limbed speck on a tiny ball of mud, hurtling through infinity at mind-boggling speeds.

The times when I know better—or DO better—seem to be when I firmly grasp the reality that I don’t know much at all and work with what’s in front of me, continually assessing the evidence, ensuring that I follow all the clues and align my perception with the environment.

That seems to work much better than trying to force the environment into line with my dogma.

It often seems necessary to water down conclusions (those that explain past behaviors and also predict future ones) with tact, flowery words, and sometimes lies.

But in regards to myself, this seems unproductive and dangerous.  Beating myself up is also unproductive, but it always seems effective to look in the mirror and work with the evidence in front of me.

I banged my head against the wall for a long while, trying to figure out whether it was “old” or “new” that worked better.  Eventually, I realized I was asking the wrong question; I should have been wondering how to apply time-proven principles to modern contexts. 

Someone who can do that isn’t wedded to doing things “just because,” regardless of whether the “just because” results from the newest trend or the oldest dogma.