From 1911 to 1924, a Missouri farm wife named Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote a regular column for the Missouri Ruralist. In addition to running a farm in the Ozarks, she met her deadlines as a columnist for thirteen years.
The story she most wanted to tell, though, was about growing up on the prairie. It was a story that had no deadline. Eventually, around 1930, in her sixties, Wilder sat down with pencils and filled a stack of six cheap writing pads by hand.
Two years later, Little House in the Big Woods, the first of the Little House books, was published.
On Wednesday this week, I overslept and did the morning math, subtracting the hours I didn’t have from the day I had planned. Beyond my day job’s meetings and requirements, I had hoped to find time for exercise, a social event, music practice, and an hour to work on my writing.
By the end of the day, I had done everything except the writing. It was the one thing I owed no one, and it stepped aside like a polite guest in a crowded room. Yet again.
As I wondered what to write about this week, I realized I could address this obvious-in-hindsight lesson. The things we care about most are usually the first to go when the day gets squeezed, especially when they have no deadline, no one waiting, and no one to notice when they slip.
The important always loses to the urgent, unless we are deliberate.
If I had to name three not-to-skip items on my list, writing would be one of them. Yet when the day got tight, other people’s priorities took precedence, and mine went on the chopping block.
I’d like to blame my lack of willpower or poor planning, but researchers have a kinder name for it. In 2018, Meng Zhu, Yang Yang, and Christopher Hsee published a paper on what they called the mere urgency effect. Across five experiments, people chose tasks that only seemed urgent over important tasks that paid more. In some experiments, the deadline was an illusion, yet it still worked.
Client calls and social commitments feel urgent. They have a start time, other people, and a location (or a Zoom link). There’s pressure, thanks to a low-grade fear of being the person who doesn’t show up on time or, worse, forgets to show up altogether.
Personal dream projects, on the other hand, don’t have that scaffolding. When it’s just me, a blinking cursor, and a deadline I made up, it’s easy not to care enough about showing up.
Habits don’t ask for permission
What’s interesting when I reflect on the week is that I managed to get the exercise and music practices done.
I think it’s because they’ve stopped being decisions. When I wrote about habit-streaks, I had closed all three rings on my Apple Watch for 365 days in a row. Somewhere along the way, closing the rings became something I did, like eating and sleeping, rather than something I had to choose.
The runs happen regularly because my body has learned to crave those endorphins and protests wildly when it doesn’t get it’s due. Music practice happens because of the fear of messing up in front of the teacher and classmates. Though these activities aren’t as urgent as a client call, they are still protected because they have become automatic over the years.
My writing hasn’t quite gotten there yet. Each session, I still have to open the file, remember where I left off, and stare at the words that are, at best, what a fourth-grader would produce. On days I have plenty of patience and am well fed, that’s okay. But on a day when I’m squeezed for time and energy, anything that takes effort gets cut first.
The important work is hard
There’s also a less flattering reason why the important loses to the urgent.
Regardless of how the client call goes, it ends at 2:30. Similarly, runs have finish lines. Creative pursuits like writing, on the other hand, have no apparent finish line. I can keep starting at the words for eternity and wonder why they aren’t as good as I’d hoped. When I’m tired and already behind, doing hard things isn’t enticing. In fact, doing anything else is preferable. That’s why I can label the garage decluttering project as glamorous.
In my post on busyness, I wrote that we delay what we ought to do to a future time when we would, in theory, be less busy. Sadly, it may never happen. I now realize how much of that delay was self-protection.
What I’m trying instead
I don’t have a fix, and I’m suspicious of anyone who does. But here’s what I’m going to try.
First, I’ll schedule the writing, even if it means sitting in front of a blinking cursor for sixty minutes, and do it before the more fun things on the to-do list call to me.
Second, I want the writing to become automatic: at the same time every day, in the same chair, maybe even with the file open the night before. By doing so, I hope starting again will take less courage.
Finally, on the days that go sideways (aka many days), scheduling means my hard project gets at least ten minutes instead of zero. Ten minutes a day may take a long time to finish a book, but it’ll help keep the momentum going.
In short, here’s the Post-it that goes on my screen: Pick a time before the urgent stuff starts and put your pet project on the calendar. Set it up the night before. On bad days, give it ten minutes.
Laura Ingalls Wilder was in her sixties when she made time for her story. At ten minutes a day, it might take me just as long, but at least I can honestly say I’m making progress. The urgent will find its way in anyway.
Never put off till to-morrow what you can do day after tomorrow just as well. Mark Twain, The Late Benjamin Franklin (1870)