The life of a writer is project-based. Finish one assignment then on to the next, often juggling multiple jobs and occasionally having none at all.
I find such fallow periods difficult. I feel uneasy when there is nothing urgent to do, as if something is off. Usually, I fill the empty space with errands and obligations I missed while deep in a project. I put air in the car tyres; I help Mum with her shopping; I stand in a queue at a depot to collect a parcel I was definitely at home to receive. And I respond to messages from friends that went ignored (“Sorry for the late reply,” I write. “It will definitely happen again.”)
Perhaps that’s why, when I recently complained to my sister about tiredness, she urged me to get some rest. “I’m resting right now,” I protested, outlining the fallow day’s itinerary (laundry; creating a spreadsheet of holiday costs). “That’s not rest, it’s admin,” she said. “Surely you see that?”
But I suffer from the modern affliction of not knowing how to rest. Activities that contribute to an overall life goal (be it a fitter body, or work progression) are irresistible to me. Instead, I look for hacks to fit it all in (speed-reading apps, lunchtime workouts, an alarm that goes off if you sit for too long).
So I’m teaching myself to rest. I’m creating systems for it to occur: airplane mode when grounded, and the power of a long, hot bath. I have a way to go before ample rest is built into my life, but I’ll get there. After all, I read once that a field left fallow produces more at the next harvest than it would otherwise; in other words, relax now and reap greater rewards later. If that’s not a productivity hack, I don’t know what is.
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