Ruthless

on time management

A friend of mine recently lost a friend/mentor of hers to cancer. He was perfectly fine walking about the world, doing all the human things that we humans do - making breakfast, filling up his car, texting friends, looking for his glasses, sitting in traffic, laughing - when out of absolutely nowhere he got the diagnosis. Within a matter of weeks he was dead. No more breakfasts, no more texting, no more laughter. That part of his story was over. His loved ones were left behind to spend the remainder of their days cleaning up the thousands of heart shards this tornado busted apart.

One of the pieces of wisdom he left for my friend, who then in turn gave to me, was the following: “be ruthless with your time.” He was referring to time spent with one’s art, one’s writing specifically. Be ruthless with your time. Ever since I heard this, I can’t seem to shake it. The image conjured up is one of me holding up a battle-worn shield in one arm and a deadly blood-splattered sword in the other. I’m perched high upon a horse whose mane shines in the sunlight. In this image I’m bellowing out a battle cry, a warning and directive, stand back lest you taste the wrath of my sword and meet your end. A ruthless crusader on my own behalf.

While I can’t speak for all artists, I can certainly say for myself that the biggest distraction from writing is literally every single thing that isn’t writing. There are the usual suspects - phones, Instagram, television, podcasts. Then there’s sneaky ones like sleeping in late, bullshit work adjacent tasks, cleaning the house, staring into space. Then there are the most covert distractions - anxiety, depression, aimlessness, doubt. In the harsh light of day I must admit that people too, even people I love, can separate me from my artmaking. If I’m not careful I can find myself at the end of the week having parceled out my time to everything and everyone other than me. Other than my writing and creating. And I’m a single man with no dependents other than a dog who sleeps 18 hours a day. I can only image what an uphill battle it might be in almost any other circumstance.

Time, it is said, is our only real source of capital. It’s the lone thing any of us actually “have.” We don’t all have money or privilege or favorable conditions or health. However every one of us gets a certain allotment of time, in varying and unknowable quantities, on this planet. And whether we want it or not, we have a contract with the rules of time. We get to do with it as we choose and it will continue to pass.

Relentlessly.

Unceasingly.

Ruthlessly.

It’s empowering, this wise mentor telling us to be ruthless with our time. The circumstances of my artmaking, and thus my life, are therefore placed solely and squarely in my own hands. The world, capitalism, the attention economy, and every bit of stimulation therein does its damnedest to pull my precious time, the only thing I’ve really got, away from me. The defender against those forces is me and me alone. Time will only continue its steady forward march.

I am certainly not perfect at this. I’m not one of those diligent writers who sit down at the same time every day and works nonstop for a predetermined number of hours. To be honest, I’m not sure how many of those writers actually exist. They’re a unicorn in the vast sea of types of writers. But I have learned, and continue to learn, that ruthlessness with my time means saying no. It’s saying no to whatever impulse tells me not to write. It’s saying no to social media and my phone. It’s saying no to strangers and friends and family. On a good week I do this about 18% of the time.

This week has not been a particularly ruthless week. It’s been very ruthful actually, as it’s now Friday and I haven’t contributed a word to my manuscript. I’ve gifted away my time to things, some worthy and some not-so-worthy, leaving little behind for writing, little for myself. Some weeks are like that I suppose. The necessary balance to find is how to be ruthless, sword-wielding and all, without being unforgiving when we inevitably falter. I guess I can take comfort in knowing I’ve had some ruthless weeks over these last few months because my manuscript currently stands at 45,000 words. So maybe 18% ruthless is enough?

I like this idea of being ruthless with our time. It’s such a strong lens to move through the world with. If we are ruthless, if we say no to that which isn’t what we want, then we will invariably fill the time with goodness. We will fill it with meaning and intention. We will have full cups and full spirits. Perhaps if we do that enough, even 18% of the time, then maybe we can look back and know we created a life well-lived. Maybe we’ll look back at a body of work, whether it be writing or a career or a cadre of friends or a family, and know that it was built because we fought off those things that stood in the way. Maybe if we’re ruthless enough, consistently enough, then the mundane things of life, the sitting in traffic, the searching for glasses, the texts between friends, the simple advice doled out, will become beautiful reminders of how precious this whole thing really is.