an article re: Pomodoro Technique
Self-discipline, as human virtues go, is a pretty bloody annoying one. It has a pinched, goody-two-shoes, pleasure-denying air about it; it is the voice of the moralising teacher, or of the rightwing commentator who prescribes it as a remedy for every social ill but whose private life, one suspects, is a quagmire of neurosis and self-hate. Put it this way: you don’t look forward to a big party at the weekend because you’ve been told all the self-disciplined people are going to be there. And yet – this is the annoying part – it’s arguably by far the most important quality to cultivate. With enough of it, most desirable things (fulfilling relationships or work, happy moods, lots of money) are attainable; without it, none is. Even a committed hedonistic life requires plenty of self-discipline: you need it even to book the flight to Bali, to obtain those recreational drugs or to arrange the circumstances for wild sexual encounters. Otherwise inertia will out and you’ll end up on the couch, half-dressed, watching reruns of Antiques Roadshow and eating baked beans. I speak, as ever, from experience.