My favourite anecdote about the novelist Anthony Trollope—no less noteworthy, I like to think, for also being my only anecdote about Anthony Trollope—concerns his writing habits. Each morning, before leaving for his job at the post office, he wrote for three hours. (“Three hours a day,” he reckoned, “will produce as much as a man ought to write.”) So far, so disciplined. But here’s the kicker: if he finished a novel midway through a three-hour period, he just started writing the next one.
It’s easy to see this as indicative of workaholism, or of a dull, unimaginative, grinder’s attitude; critics have certainly disdained Trollope for producing too many words and not enough art. But there’s something useful to be learned here, too—not from Trollope’s relentlessness, but from his focus on process rather than outcome. His goal, it appears (though of course we can only guess), wasn’t “finish great book”, or even “get paid”. It was “put in three hours”. What resulted from all those three-hour chunks, he seems to have recognised, was beyond his control, and not worth worrying about.
Admittedly, there’s something about this that rankles. Working on an assembly line is boring, and the postindustrial era promises an escape from soul-crushing routinisation.
The marathon runner who’s reached a state of “flow” isn’t visualising the finish line, but looking through a narrower lens, focusing on one stride, then another, then another. This isn’t merely a matter of breaking a big project into chunks, which is an adjustment of scale; it’s a total shift in perspective. The young Jerry Seinfeld’s scriptwriting technique involved marking an X on a calendar for every day he sat and typed. His goal was an unbroken chain of Xs. If he’d aimed instead to write brilliant jokes, he’d have been distracted and intimidated.
We can’t control outcomes in any sphere of life. All you can do—and therefore the only responsibility you have—is to put in the time and effort. The actual result, in a profound sense, is none of your business. Take this one step further and it becomes positively meditative: a matter, in the words of the Vietnamese writer Thich Nhat Hanh, of “doing the dishes just to do the dishes”, not to achieve clean dishes.
Oliver Burkeman writing in his column will change your life for The Guardian.