On Assumptions of Unproductiveness
It’s been a long week, in a way. It was supposed to be the week I started with my writing project, and figured out the best system for me to be productive. Sure, that second part may be a tad idealistic for me, but I was generally looking forward to this beginning. I still am. The reason I have not quite yet graduated into actually starting is simple. I got sick. A viral fever became the latest addition to this year’s medical Rolodex for me, the most eventful year of mine to date, it appears. But when summoning the requisite energy to roll over in bed suddenly felt impossible, I knew I’d have to put the writing to one side for some time.
The thing I probably detest most about being productive is starting. The moments just before seem all the more sweeter and enticing in their inconsequential ways, but it is very much the difference between dipping a timid toe in the water and submerging myself entirely. Total commitment is the only thing that stops me from stopping myself. None of this I thought when I was actually sick, though, but as I was recovering, and realising what that would actually entail. Falling ill almost seemed like my body’s last attempt to keep me safe from the scary dangerous world of – *clutches pearls* - working.
A note on being sick, though for a second. Everyone, including me, discusses bouts such as I had as singular events. Like that time I was sick in June. Or when someone else was sick that one time. You get the idea. This is something I thought about while my brain was busy cooking in the fever. How to the ailing individual, it never really feels like one experience. It’s a series of moments of weakness, of discomfort, of pain. Of regretting not appreciating the times my nose didn’t leak with abandon or missing the simple days when I didn’t feel unbearably hot and cold at the same time. The way in which we track progress is so unique. Mine, I realised, was when I was finally sick of sleeping.
Back to the writing and work, though. What that title of mine means is quite simple. In the days since my illness, when I’ve felt better, there has been no sudden rush to work or do anything resembling it. I wake up and operate under the assumption that I’ll be unproductive, perhaps telling myself it will only be for a short while, without really having any proof or justification for that lie. The message floating around my mind appears to be an emphasis on the idea that being unproductive and spending my time unwisely is simply what I do. I don’t like that. I don’t like that, in so many ways, I am working against my better interests, and the reason for it I realised is nothing more significant than a bemused shrug. I cannot wait to be writing a lot and at scale. Normally, being proved wrong irritates me beyond reason, but now I crave it. I’m not unproductive – I’m better.