It Only Took 9 Minutes

I’m sharing this lesson I learned almost a year ago. I figured that some of you could use the motivation (and I’m procrastinating writing an upcoming newsletter about how I accosted Ethan Hawke on the front stoop of his Brooklyn apartment.) Anyway, the lesson I learned last spring was this: It Only Took 9 Minutes.

I finally did something I’d been deferring indefinitely.

It wasn’t a one-time task, like getting some documents notarized. I’m still procrastinating on that one. Oh wow, I just realized that in March 2025, I will hit two years on that missed deadline. And I even have a part-time assistant, for fuck’s sake! She can take care of getting those stupid papers notarized for me. But I’m even putting off the simple act of handing her the papers. Look, I can delay anything. I’m the best at it.

I know I haven’t gotten to the point yet, and I’m probably padding this newsletter because, honestly, my inspirational tale is brief. It’s simply this: I wanted to incorporate writing into my morning routine, but I’d convinced myself that drafting a few pages would take an hour. So, I never included it in my morning routine, opting instead to languish in bed, drinking coffee, and coloring in my adult coloring books. When I finally decided to just try writing a few pages of stream-of-consciousness one morning, I wrote a little over 750 words, and it only took me 9 minutes. I had so much time left over to do whatever the hell I wanted, that I became overwhelmed and had to go back to sleep.

Is this a story of “Just Do It”? Is this a tale of classic ADHD procrastination, where we expend more energy postponing something than the task itself would actually require? Or is this about ADHD time blindness—where we genuinely lack a sense of how long things take or how I truly don’t know the reality of “five minutes?” No. I think this is a long-winded yarn about finding the motivation to act once I figured out a way to enjoy doing the thing — and relinquishing a neurotic mental tug-of-war.

Sometimes You Have To Argue With Yourself

First, the tug-of-war. It revolved around The What of it all. WHAT should I write every morning? Some sort of journal entry chronicling my feelings? The beginnings of a screenplay? Essays I could eventually publish or read to an audience? I couldn’t decide. But I knew one thing: I had to select just one. And then one day, I asked myself, Why do I have to pick just one thing to commit to writing every morning?

What ignited a fire under my ass to do things differently was hearing myself answer that question. “Um, I have to pick one because it’s not a routine if I don’t write the same thing every morning? Like, sure, writing every morning is doing the same thing every morning, but possibly writing different things every morning is not really a routine. And, um, if it’s going to be more journal-centric writing, shouldn’t I do that in a notebook with a pen? It’s scientifically proven that writing by hand connects us more deeply to our feelings, and technically a pencil is even better for that than a pen. If I’m going to do more career-focused creative writing, that should definitely be done on my laptop. But see, now I’ve got a notebook and a laptop, and I just want it all in one place. Except, how can I create a place that’s both a journal and a place for creative/career writing? I can’t merge the two! That’s a chaotic amalgamation the world has never seen. It would be like building a nuclear bomb in my bedroom.”

I pictured myself saying this to myself as I said it, aloud. I stared at her/me. She/me was making me anxious with these flimsy justifications and irrational fears. I snapped.

WHO CARES!?

Just write! How about starting there?! You’ve had such a wild few years, and you wrote NONE of it down! Wouldn’t you kill right now to have 900-ish days’ worth of documentation chronicling your experiences, even if it’s a pile of disorganized journal entries, fictionalized prose, and snippets of dialogue? “Um, I don’t know, how disorganized is it?”

Oh, Shut Up Jen!

Within minutes of lovingly telling myself off the way only a true friend can, I stumbled upon this website called 750 Words. I am not affiliated with them in any way. I do not profit from mentioning this site. I just wanted to bring it up because the way this site functions delights my brain. And as a peri-menopausal AuDHD woman, the chemicals that keep a brain operational seem to always be on an extended coffee break. I’m held together by prescription creams and pills to maintain basic functionality. I need things that bring my brain joy. What I like about this site is that it stores your work. As you write, the words appear on the page as though you’re typing on a typewriter, and in that great typewriter font. There’s confetti when I reach 750 words, and I never knew this about myself:

I AM MOTIVATED BY CONFETTI 🎉

AND once I’m done for the day, I get analytics for my writing. It reveals the mood I was in and the words I used most frequently. It’s SO FUN.

Here are some screenshots of my stats:

And I realized it doesn’t matter what I write. I just want to maintain my streak to appease the little fairy that pops up on the screen. I cannot disappoint her. I’ve surpassed 100,000 words—even if some of the words are just: “Get those fucking papers notarized.” I still journal separately with pen and paper to ensure I’m fully connecting to my emotions when it counts.

I Refuse To Read The Artist’s Way

And yes, I’m aware of the whole “Morning Pages” concept from The Artist’s Way. Let me tell you something about The Artist’s Way: I get irritated when non-artists tell me to read it, and I get equally irritated when artists tell me to read it. You won’t win. My oppositional defiance is strong. I dislike the title of that book. It feels too hippie-ish for me (even though I own crystals and believe in them).

I also dislike the term “Morning Pages.” Ugh. Nothing makes me want to keep my head firmly on my pillow more. It sounds so, HAVE TO. I envision a frazzled woman in mid-life, clutching her coffee cup with a strained smile plastered on her face, already winded after being awake for ten minutes, “Time for my Morning Pages!!!!!” It stresses me the fuck out.

And that’s okay. Maybe you’d hate 750 Words, but Morning Pages might resonate with you. That’s what I’m getting at. Whatever we commit to—and how we commit to it—must make our brains happy. Sometimes figuring it out requires time and a bizarre out-loud conversation with ourselves.

That’s my story. It wasn’t just that I thought I couldn’t make time for something I wanted to do—it was also that I wasn’t sure what I was doing or why. In my arrogant opinion, so little of what we fail to accomplish has anything to do with actual time management. I think that not knowing what we’re actually striving for—or how we feel about it—is the core obstacle behind everything we avoid.

What have you been putting off and did reading this help you at all? Oh, and can any of you notarize these goddamn papers?