Sunday Is Weird

Our not-so-beloved downstairs neighbours are moving out today, in the midst of the Brisbane lockdown. It’s a bizarre riot of sound compared to a very quiet Saturday, during which the cat slept on the laptop table for several hours and I engaged in a prolonged doomscroll following Australia’s current virus news, American post-election fall-out, and the rest of the world just basically figuring 2021 will roll on just like 2020.

Brain Jar Press has new books to announce, but I held off figuring that last week was a bit too busy to compete for attention. This proved a smart choice, given the way our book sales (rightly) tanked as all eyes turned towards the news.

But it’s also an inauspicious way to start my first week as a full-time publisher. There’s no real possibility of hitting the ground running this week, no easy tasks that could move the needle on sales and inch towards the kind of benchmarks I need to start hitting for the next eight months.

Time to construct a new to-do list, methinks, ’cause it’s all going to be hard stuff for the next little while.

The Egg-Splat of Screen Time in 2020

I’ve used RescueTime to track my computer and phone usage for a few years now, and it continues to be a surprisingly underrated tool in my kit. Today they sent in my year in review for 2020, showing me how I spent my screen time throughout last year, and it was really interesting to note some of the ways the data is different to previous years. Case in point, the little egg-splat they produce that visually represents your time by month and category.

I’m used to these being an irregular shape, but the April-through-May bulge is one of those aberrations that tells me just how different 2020 was to a regular year. There’s a massive blow-out in “general utilities” time, which proves to be the endless hours spent learning to use Zoon and teaching online when the university closed the campus. It’s accompanied by a bulge in my purple “research” hours, which is basically how RescueTime logs “hours spent reading blogs and ebooks.”

At the same time, I also find myself looking at the big block of “design & composition” green in late May, trying to figure out why I’ve logged so much productive time without having anything to show for it. The answer, digging into those months, is a combination of a freelance gig that would not die and a massive surge in PhD writing as I tried to put half-finished parts to bed before taking a leave of absence in July. Both were huge jobs that basically dropped off my radar the moment they were done, and thus feel largely invisible to me as I look back at the things I did with 2020.

And this, at its core, is one of the reasons I find RescueTime valuable: it makes the invisible visible. It renders what actually happens at the computer as data, which often doesn’t match my assumptions. This end-of-year stuff is valuable, but my favourite use of it is checking the log at the end of the day. Often, when I’ve got the feeling that I’ve worked so hard for very little progress on a project, RescueTime will quietly inform me that has more to do with spending all my time doing other things. I’ll have spent 45 minutes of a four-hour block of time actually staring at the work document, and the rest of the time clicking around the internet or answering email.

Which often means I can sit down and give the project a little extra time and turn a day where I’m unsatisfied with my progress into one where I’m pretty damn happy, instead of railing against how hard things are (although, occasionally, an extra hour just confirms I’m trying to do something pretty damn hard, but that’s a useful data point in and of itself).

There is a lot more the software can do, especially on a paid plan, but I get a huge amount of value from the free option. It’s worth checking out if you enjoy the idea of tracking data.

Small

I spent the dying days of 2020 making lists of habits I’d like to establish (or, in most cases, re-establish in the wake of 2020’s unpredictable daily routines). Stuff like I’d like to start blogging everyday, and maybe turn the blog into a monthly zine or chapbook’s worth of content or post a free short story to every month or release 52 chapbooks over the course of the year.

All of them fell victim to my inability to pull the trigger on a year-long commitment, and thus risk the body-blows to my ego. Because they were all ego projects, to some extent or another. Attempts to stay in contact with my self-perception as someone who writes as my plans for 2021 looked increasingly focused on editorial tasks.

365 days is a daunting timespan, just as 100,000 words is a daunting amount of words to write if you’ve never written a novel. There’s always the danger that ambition outstrips ability, that motivation fades once the immediate need that drove you to the activity is satiated and you’re left with a whole lot of work thats’ no longer filling the same emotional void that drove you to the project in the first place.

It’s easier to start small and focused: blog for seven days straight. Post a single story for free.

Then stop and re-assess: has it brought me closer to the goal I was trying to achieve? Is it worth continuing in this line?

A whole year is just twelve months, and each month is just a handful of 7 day streaks in a row. If you get caught up in the 365, you lose track of how easy those seven days could be without the looming expectations hanging over you.

(Although I’m still tempted by the 52 chapbooks idea. I may yet pull the trigger on that one).