XIII. A Program of Work

XIII

A PROGRAMOF WORK

MOST of us live in the Street of By-and-By. We honestly intend to do certain things, and for some strange reason we keep on intending to do them. There is nothing specially difficult about them. They demand no gritting of teeth, no heroic sacrifice. They are simply not as pleasant as certain other things. They do not have to be done until a certain time, or perhaps there is no particular time at all at which they have to be done. They can be done just as well tomorrow as today. So we put them off till tomorrow—that tragic tomorrow that never comes. We become members of what one writer has called the “Going To” family. We enlist in the Army of the Procrastinators.

The worst of it is, that many of us do not look upon the doing of these numberless small tasks as anything requiring will-power at all, simply because they do not come in the teeth-gritting class. We intend to do them, and we are apt to think that our intention of doing them makes them as good as done. We are like the habitual cigarette smoker who tells you he could quit at any time—the thing has no hold on him—only he doesn’t want to quit. When we find that many of these little tasks are going by default, many of us, instead of blaming ourselves indulge in a great deal of self-pity at our lack of time. But a few of us catch glimpses of the truth; we suspect that we are not as efficient as we might be; we may even suspect that our procrastination has something to do with lack of will-power. These two suspicions are correct.

Aside from any moral benefit, it would be an untold blessing in itself if we could get these things done—if we had, for instance, a private secretary who would work for the mere honor of it and would not have even to receive instructions. I refer to such tasks as writing personal letters to friends; working off letters that you “owe” to people; paying bills; sending in your coupons to collect interest on a bond; taking a pairs of shoes around to be half-soled, or calling for a pair you left there; sorting out the old papers in your desk; bringing neatness out of chaos. ... I need not elaborate further. You have probably been already reminded unpleasantly of some concrete tasks.

These tasks are not performed by intentions to perform them. The first requisite is to set a definite time for them, and to allow nothing to make you postpone that time. Instead of saying, “I will have to write Fred; I really must write Fred; it’s a shame how long I’ve been putting it off,” you will say, “I will write Fred next Tuesday,” or I will write to Fred no later than next Tuesday.” And you will keep a desk calendar or some other form of reminder, and your promise to yourself you will regard as sacred.

Now it may not make a great deal of difference to Fred whether he gets your letter next Tuesday or whether he does not get it until two weeks from next Tuesday. But it will make a great deal of difference to you. You will be disciplining yourself morally. You will be building up a will. Beware of curling your lip because these tasks are individually insignificant. The most imposing edifices that humanity has constructed (if I must be eloquent) have been built only by little brick on little brick. Moreover, you will find that these little tasks are getting themselves done. You will live a completer life, free from the ever-present preoccupation of tasks unfinished. And you will experience the peculiarly delightful gratification that comes from a sense of efficiency.

Note that there is nothing rigid or brittle about such a program. You may not want to write Fred immediately after you get his letter, for you may not want the correspondence to be too frequent. But by marking a certain definite time you can do what you had not previously done.

A program of work may be laid out for the year, for the week, for the day or for the hour; or one program may be contained within the other. You should lay out your longest range program first, for that will define the direction and scope of your efforts. The nature of this long program will depend upon your ultimate purposes in life. Your aim may simply be general culture, but even in this instance you will realize that haphazard reading is of little value, and you will draw up a list of books to be “covered” that year. Or you may decide that specialization would be more beneficial, and you may say to yourself: “for the following year I will devote my evenings to the study of money and banking,” or you may decide to make it the history of English literature, or the appreciation of painting and a critical knowledge of the great masters.

Having thus defined your efforts for the year, so that you know exactly the goal to which you are heading, you may come directly to a plan for the week. You may decide that two or three hours should be given to your study or improvement on Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday evenings; or you may, if you think you have the will-power, allow for something “turning up” on one of those nights, and simply set aside any four evenings a week. I insert the phrase “if you think you have the will-power” because this more elastic plan does, paradoxically, require more will-power than the more rigid program. On Monday and Tuesday something is likely to turn up—you may be tempted to go to a moving picture, some friend may suggest bridge—and knowing that your program does not tie you down to Monday or Tuesday, you may accede; but you will find yourself paying for it heavily at the end of the week; and four evenings in succession, especially if they include Saturday evening, may strain your will-power to the breaking point. Moreover, in making engagements ahead you are likely to over-commit yourself.

“I suppose I could learn it just as well at home as by going to night-school,” you have often heard people say, “but I find that I can’t study at home.” Here is proof that home-study requires more will-power than going to night-school; yet night-school is far more rigid, both in its evenings a week and in its hours during those evenings, than home-study could possibly be. It is precisely because of this rigidity that night-school is easier to attend.

But a further element must also be admitted. It is much easier to say to a friend: “ I’m sorry’ I’d like to go. But I have to go to night-school,” than it is to say, “I’m sorry; but I have to—stay home and study.” Your friend is likely to be skeptical. For some reason he may be unable to see that an obligation to yourself is quite as sacred as an obligation to others. And once he finds that your program is elastic, your case is doomed. Study, if you must, on evenings when others would like to have you go out, but not when he would. This is his attitude; and it is going to take all your resources of tact to meet it. Moreover, the truth must be told; we are ashamed of having our friends discover that we are seeking self-improvement. That is why we shrink for confessing our real reasons.

Your first tendency, doubtless, especially in drawing up any program of work or of little things to do in a single night, will be to plan too much. You will find yourself greatly underestimating the time it takes you to perform a particular task, or greatly overestimating the number of tasks you can perform. A program is valuable if for no other reason than that it brings out, as nothing else could, how you have been frittering away your time before you started to formulate programs. Even if you do not live up to your schedule, you will probably get more work done than you would have without one. But it is bad policy habitually to over plan. You may arrive at the point where you will not even expect to live up to your scheme. It is much easier for the discipline of will-power to plan modestly and to carry out your schedule than to plan greatly and fail. The first builds self-confidence; the second destroys it.