Writing requires a strange mix of sensitivity (to detect possibility, and to be able to honestly critique your own material) and brutishness (to sit down day after day and plink out words, and to not get hung up on every obstacle/criticism).  Perhaps there’s some deep metaphor/analogue in there, but I’m simply grateful that I can write, because that balance of sensitivity/brutishness is hard as hell to acquire.  

(I’ve heard this described as “the sensitivity of a butterfly, combined with the hide of a rhinoceros.”)

Fighting is cool—everyone should be able to do it—but it’s really only a sub-set of a greater strategy/skill:  problem-solving.

There are plenty of examples where success has failed to secure happiness.  I think PURPOSE is more important.  Specifically, a purpose that makes the inevitable suffering of life worth bearing.  Then the question becomes:  how do I create purpose?  That’s where all those unsexy basics—discipline, attention to detail, being honest with yourself—become relevant.  I believe all those basics help clear the perception by mitigating cravings and dispelling outdated beliefs, which in turn paves the way for the unburdened mind to intuit a worthwhile purpose.

I believe being able to summon intensity/commitment without relying on the crutch of an ideology/cause is akin to a superpower.  Necessity will reliably force us to act or perish, while proactive deeds—WITHOUT the incentive of immediate gratification—allow us to take full advantage of our humanity.  Discipline and critical thinking are the keys to this capability, and in the greater sense, I believe both those traits are the keys to personal freedom.

I’ve found it’s possible to generate energy/purpose through a serious and grim mindset…but I believe there are better ways.  Not only that, but I believe that taking myself too seriously negates the possibility of connecting with that laughing, magical absurdity that lies at the heart of existence.  Sure—sometimes I gotta look super-serious for others’ sake…but I try to always be laughing on the inside.

You’ll make mistakes and so will your enemies.  I believe that to benefit from these mistakes, one should refrain from vilifying oneself AND their enemies—even when it’s your job to hurt them—because vilification interferes with the ability to perceive nuance.  

And once you can navigate nuance, you become more capable, more formidable, and you will have no enemies; you will only have teachers.

Ideology makes great armor, but it’s heavy as Hell.  Rather than spend a ton of energy trying to hold each clunky piece of it vainly in place, I’d rather let it slough off, suffer the sting of contrary evidence, then build a lighter, more protective ensemble with that same evidence.  (I believe this leads to being clad in some super sweet, ninja-looking gear).  I’d rather wear that than lug around some old, rusty claptrap.  

All I gotta do is admit when I’m wrong…and do something about it.

In my opinion, perspectives/philosophies are simply tools that fits certain circumstances.  Each one can be used to help or harm, but the idea that everyone must see reality from one singular perspective seems to invite ruin, no matter how “good” that perspective or philosophy may outwardly seem.  

(And yeah—in writing, it helps to see why a certain  mode of action makes perfect sense to an “evil” character)

I like to call a failure a failure—without denial, and without glorification.  If I feel it might be constructive, I’ll indulge in a short (five minutes seems appropriate) period where I berate myself, but from what I’ve seen, viewing a failure as some romantic anecdote where I demonstrated toughness, or some catastrophic loss where all is lost, ignores the potential gift that hides within it.  

I believe failures are opportunities to expose shortcomings—whether they originate from lack of capability or just plain old ignorance—which arm me with knowledge I can use on my next endeavor.

When I first started writing, I was enticed by the idea of making money—not being rich, necessarily, but living off my books and making an amount comparable to a mid-tier salary.  Then, as the stories took hold in my mind and I grew out of the need for an outline, I became taken by some inexplicable force.  It made a lie out of the supposed boredom that should come from long hours of tending to a keyboard.

So now when I write, I consider it my daily dip into my personal well of mental magic.