Roots Of Procrastination

Leo Babauta's recent piece Four Antidotes To Procrastination caught my eye but, oh the irony, I put off reading it. Having read it now, I like how he admits to "procrastinating a bit more than normal, and of course it doesn't feel great." He gives good reasons why he procrastinates: fatigue, overload, uncertainty. He wants "an antidote (or two) to our procrastination, because it usually means we're not doing the meaningful work we want to do in the world. It's worth figuring out." 

In the margin, I wrote "procrastination is a sign of unhappiness. I want to investigate it so as to address what is really wrong." Babauta's piece suggests solutions to procrastination, but I'm pulled to try understanding the underlying problem of which procrastination is merely a symptom. 

Last week I very little good writing. I watched a lot of television and felt myself slipping toward depression. I wanted to work on my daily blog posts and a big writing project to which I've recently returned, but instead flipped channels, scrolled through social media, and skimmed the news. I procrastinated going to my desk to write, but procrastination, while a problem, wasn't the root problem keeping me from "doing the meaningful work." It was a symptom of something deeper. 

My issues began with getting too little sleep. I get up mornings at 4:45 but was up after ten most nights. Some people can get by on that little sleep, but not me. Lacking sleep I begin thinking of whole lists of things I have to do and spiral into anxiety. I procrastinate because I feel  I can't do the things I want to do. And all of that stems from feeling unworthy, my fundamental issue. 

Dealing with that feeling of unworthiness seems impossible, so I end up in front of television, phone, or computer. But when the wind changes, I do a few things that make a difference: I get rest, stop making lists, do one small thing, clear space, and remember the difference between work and a job. 

Rest comes first. I'm tired and wanted to go for a run, but my job drained me and it's about all I can do to sit here and type this. I'll be in bed reading by eight and asleep before nine. I'll be more ready to go tomorrow. 

Ditching the list is good. I worry that I'll forget something, but if it's important, it will get done. There are always a couple dozen things that feel like priorities, but I can do only one and I do better without the anxiety the list gives me. I'm typing this and that's enough. I don't know what's next. That can wait. Right now there's just this one thing. 

Clearing space on the desk mirrors clearing it in my mind. Imagine a desk covered with laptop, three folders, two stapled articles, a dozen pages of notes and writings, a letter from a friend, an empty coffee cup, the stapler, two library books, phone, wallet, keys, a pen, and a writer's notebook. On the shelf next are the contents of a couple more folders, some bills, and more books. That's my brain sometimes and it leaves me anxious and distracted. Clearing means picking something up and finding the right place for it until I have just the tools for one job: a notebook, laptop, and one article while in my head there is just one task on which to focus. Distractions creep in, but I'm getting better at gently clearing them away. The clear desk and mind help settle and center me. 

Then it's a matter of differentiating between work and a job. Work is choice, jobs are obligations, but it's mostly up to how I choose to approach the task. If I'm doing it because I ought to, it's a job and I'm likely to procrastinate. If I choose to do it as work, even scooping the cat litter can be rewarding and worthy of my focus though I'm not sure I can explain how. It's easier to see it with choosing to write this. There's no money or fame in it, but it's good work. My job tired me terribly today. This work is energizing. 

Procrastination isn't the enemy. Procrastination is a symptom of me fighting something, most likely the feeling I'm unworthy. Right now I'm not sure I'm worthy of publishing this. Who am I to say much of anything? Well, if nothing else, I'm someone with a clear mind (and desk) and a focus on understanding that procrastination comes from a deeper place. That might be worth sharing. 

Now, I'm ready to clear the desk and my mind of this and find more work I want to be doing. There's always the cat litter. 
 

Small Changes Over Time

I designed a piece of lined paper five years ago. I needed paper at school, had all sorts of copy paper used on only one side, and had been writing on them with a page of lines underneath, the faint shadow sort of guiding me. In Google Docs I created a sheet of lined paper, printed a test sheet, and copied it a hundred times on used copy paper. It was good.

Within two weeks I found problems with my design. Back in Google Docs I made changes, printed a page, and copied this onto more pages. I kept this design for a few months, then refined it some more. Every three months or so, as I used up the last of the copies, I refined the design. I've been using the design from May 2017 which was fine until Saturday morning when I noticed again that the date and page number lines were obscured by the clip on my clipboard. I moved those lines down, printed a test page, found that I needed space below those lines too, added iut, printed another test page and am satisfied. 

About two dozen refinements over five years have resulted in writing paper that suits my needs. Each time I think I've gotten things right and I have for that point in time. Times change. 

Refinement, small changes over time, evolving with my needs, means never being done. Each refinement responds to some new need. 

I've long believed in getting things right and giving the final answer, but being open to refinement beats the hell out of that. It encourages awareness, risk taking, and the understanding that though improvement will come in time, what I have created so far is good. 

Hasn't writing taught me this? I suppose it's something I'm still trying to learn. Funny that writing paper rather than the act of writing has been my better teacher in this. 

I have a page of my original lined paper, hundreds of pages of the design I've been using, and a page with my newest refinements. Each change has been small, but small change over time has led me to an excellent design that will get better. 

Maybe I ought to apply this to more than just the paper on which I write.

The Writing Life: Letters

I've just finished typing a letter to my friend Jerry. We've been corresponding for over a year on paper folded into envelopes that we stamp and send through the mail. I read an article about gratitude and, as is our habit, wrote my letter on the backs of the pages of it. I'll post it tomorrow on my way to work. 

I recommend the practice of writing letters to better learn the craft of writing. 

Writing directly to someone develops a sense of audience and reminds me that writing isn't just about me. When I write to Jerry, I think of him, picture him reading with his head held in one hand, a trace of a smile on his lips and in his eyes. I write for him and my letter is an act of giving. That doesn't mean it's selfless. Hell no. I get as much out of writing as  he does reading because I know my ideas will be read. And after writing to him, I write more like someone will read what I'm saying. I find myself trying to make them smile or nod and hoping they will write back. 

So why not just email Jerry? Letters are cumbersome, inconvenient, expensive, and slow.  

Email is too quick. I want things such as this to be cumbersome, inconvenient, expensive, and slow. 

It took time to print the article and roll each page into my typewriter. Jerry handwrites  because he's sensible enough not to own typewriters. The cumbersome printing and then writing is time away from television, news, Facebook, Twitter, and so on. Where's the loss?Most time I "save" through email is time I waste elsewhere. 

The inconvenience makes it special. Writing a letter requires focus on my ideas and on the person to whom I'm writing. Inconvenience such as that is too good to waste. 

Letters cost the price of a stamp and envelope, something I can offer and which makes it more valuable to receive than email, most of which is less than worthless because it's so cheap. We often spend to get value. 

The best part about writing the letter is the speed at which it moves. There's no immediate feedback other than maybe a paper cut when I lick the envelope. I let the writing go as a gift to Jerry rather than as some way for me to receive approbation. Jerry won't get the letter before Wednesday and may wait to read it and wait some more before writing back. Time passes. What a lovely novelty. 

I still write email, but not as much as I used to and most falls into two kinds. One, the quick response, businesslike and clipped, mostly saying yes or no. Two, letter-like messages I take time to craft and in which I'm thinking about the person at the other end. Letters are still better for that second kind of writing. 

Letter writing _feels_ better in part because it's a more writerly way of communicating and being in the world. Letters make me a better writer. They might even make me a better person. They certainly make me a better friend. 

Who is your next letter going to? 

Doppler

Maybe I’m still in bed. Inside a dull dream. A man sits before a page. Holds a pen. Has an idea that death is a physical thing. A child growing inside him, dull and lazy. The death inside his wife is something metastasizing, a word he fails to understand, barely knows how to spell. In his father death was a sudden short of the circuitry. An electrical explosion. He tries not to imagine the deaths inside his children, but a maggot wriggles. If this is a dream, I want to wake but it won’t let me sleep. I close my eyes but cannot lie still. There is a chill. And a smell of something burning. Outside, strange flying things buzz and call. Lights flash. A siren blares, it’s tone deepening as it moves away. I recall the name for it: the Doppler effect. A sure way to know if something is coming for me or moving away. I listen hard. The man with the pen is unsure which way things are moving. Death doesn’t make even the slightest sound. Not anything either of us can hear anyway.