Temper

Temper is not what you think.

 Actually, it is probably exactly what you think, but it is also many other things you may not know. I’ll not lay all of the meanings of the word Temper out here, that’s what dictionaries are for, go find one, preferably a gigantic musty doorstopper with gilt edges and onionskin pages that make that unique page turning sound that video game tutorials always attempt to emulate. It is not the same. Trust me, and do yourself a favour, go turn some pages and lose yourself in the experience; temper your mind in the process.

 I went away for a little while there. Temporarily lost in the experience. I can smell it. A ten pound dictionary is a vibe. They’re getting rare, you know, good quality books. I think it’s a real shame. I do understand why, though. They’re heavy, and it’s hard to make time to read them, isn’t it?

It’s tempting to cleave to that excuse, but it’s bullshit. Excuses are reasons that cannot be validated by reason. Don’t make them.

 I’m working to improve my quality of life, tempering my daily habits with consistent time management. There is a lot of time in a day once you stop fucking around. If your life is a tempest of random actions interspersed with periods of dead-eyed indolence, then yeah, the days go by with minimal involvement of your part, but if you can temper some time management habits into your daily routine such as planning, scheduling, and reviewing, with consistency, the extra hours can really start to pile up.

 I have been struggling with convincing myself of the value of all the little short term accomplishments that are so vital to the achievement of a larger vision. It’s so easy for me, an avid daydreamer, to see myself as a writer, for instance. I’m doing it right now, poof, large desk, a view of glory, typing skills, and wordsmithing like L. Ron Hubbard, when what I require, and actually want is the audacity of Hunter S. Thompson, the creative weight of Steven Erikson, and the vision of Isaac Isamov. But it’s not as if they were fucking born with it is it? When guys like Ray Bradbury and Steven King talk about their early writing process, it’s all hunching over ashtrays in a hallway, hammering away on a typewriter to crank out another magazine article so they can pay last month’s rent. There’s no glamour. It’s hard, and it’s lonely, and there is no guarantee of success. All you can ever know is that the road goes somewhere, and if you don’t walk it, you won’t.