Procrastination, or the art of doing the wrong things at one specifically wrong time, has become a bugbear of our productivity-obsessed era. Wasting resources? Everybody’s doing it! But wasting time? God forbid. Schemes to keep ourselves in efficiency mode—the rebranding of rest into self-care, and of hobbies into side hustles—have made procrastinating a tic that people are desperate to dispel; “life hacks” now govern life. As the anti-productivity champion Oliver Burkeman once put it, “Today’s cacophony of anti-procrastination advice seems rather sinister: a subtle way of inducing conformity, to get you to do what you ‘should’ be doing.” By that measure, the procrastinator is doing something revolutionary: using their time without aim. Take to the barricades, soldiers, and when you get there, do absolutely nothing!
The novel has been sniffily maligned throughout its history as a particularly potent vehicle for wasting time—unless, of course, it improves the reader in some way. (See: the 19th-century trend of silly female characters contracting brain rot from reading, which Jane Austen hilariously skewered with Northanger Abbey’s Catherine Morland.) Which makes Rosalind Brown’s tight, sly debut, Practice, a welcome gift for those who dither about their dithering. It presents procrastination as a vital, life-affirming antidote to the cult of self-discipline, while also giving the reader a delicious text with which to while away her leisure time.
In Practice, Annabel, a second-year Oxford student, wakes long before sunrise on a misty Sunday morning “at the worn-out end of January.” The day holds only one task—to write a paper on Shakespeare’s sonnets—but Annabel is a routinized being and must act accordingly: “The things she does, she does properly.” So first she makes herself tea (coffee will rattle her stomach) and leaves the radiator turned off to keep the room “cold and dim and full of quiet.” She settles in with a plan: a morning spent reading and note-taking, a lunch of raw veggies, a solo yoga session in the afternoon, writing, a perfectly timed post-dinner bowel movement. A day, in short, that is brimming with possibilities for producing an optimized self. Except that self keeps getting in its own way: Her mind and body, those dueling forces that alternately grab at our attention, repeatedly turn her away from Shakespeare. Very little writing actually takes place in Practice; Annabel’s vaunted self-discipline encounters barrier after barrier. She wants to “thicken her own concentration,” but instead she takes walks, pees, fidgets, ambles down the unkept byways of her mind. She procrastinates like a champ.
Brown’s novel elevates procrastination into an essential act, arguing that those pockets of time between stretches of productivity are where living and creating actually happen. Which makes procrastination one of the last bastions of the creative mind, a way to silently fight a hundred tiny rebellions a day. Screwing around, on the job and otherwise, isn’t just revenge against capitalism; it’s part of the work of living. And what better format for examining this anarchy than the novel, a form that is created by underpaid wandering minds?
Practice is technically a campus novel, but it makes far more sense as a complement to the recent spate of workplace fiction that wonders what exactly we’re all doing with our precious waking weekly hours. Some Millennial novelists, born in an era of prosperity and then launched into adulthood just as the usual signposts of success slid out of reach, have fixated on the workplace as a source of our discontent. Many of us were told in childhood that we can do anything we want, that “if you love what you do, you’ll never work a day in your life.” Work was supposed to be a promised land of fulfillment, a place where your aptitudes would flourish and—bonus—you’d get paid. But no job could live up to such a high standard. It doesn’t help that a torrent of systemic issues—inadequate health care, drastic rent hikes, underfunding of the arts—have left members of this generation feeling like they’re dedicating 40-plus hours a week to treading water.
Recent literature has been flush with examples. In Helen Phillips’s The Beautiful Bureaucrat, a 20-something spends her workdays entering inexplicable series of numbers into “The Database” at a labyrinthine office. The job itself turns out to be vital to humanity, but compensation, explication, and basic human dignity aren’t on offer. Halle Butler’s The New Me features a 30-year-old working as a temp at a design firm, the kind of place populated by ash-blondes in “incomprehensible furry vests.” Her try-hard personality keeps her from climbing the office social ladder, which in turn leaves her pathetically shuffling papers and slipping further into loneliness, both at work and in her personal life. The young narrator of Hilary Leichter’s barely surreal Temporary takes gigs as a mannequin, a human barnacle, a ghost, and a murderer—but all she really wants is what she and the other temps call “the steadiness,” an existence in which work and life feel benignly predictable. According to these novels, the contemporary workplace turns us into machines, chops our intellect into disparate bits, and hands our precious attention over to the C-suite.
What’s missing in each of these characters’ lives is the space for rumination, the necessary lapses our brains need to live creatively, no matter our careers. Brown exquisitely spells out how procrastination is intrinsic to the imaginative process. Despite her professed allegiance to a schedule, Annabel interrupts her own routine early and often. Just after waking, she opens a window and then immediately wishes she could experience the feeling of opening it again: “She wants to know exactly how the cold blue light feels when it begins to appear, she doesn’t want to miss a single detail of the slow dawn, the reluctant winter morning.” While settled at her desk under a cape-like blue blanket, she spends as much time considering how to spend her time as she does actually spending it. She imagines her old tutor advising her to “look away from the text and out the window if you have to, try and pause your mind on the one thing.” Sure, she jots down occasional adjectives to describe Shakespeare and the mystery lover he courts in the sonnets, but most of Annabel’s focus is in the moment, in the rabbit hole of lightly connected memories and notions her brain accesses when it’s drifting off piste. Rather than turn her ideas into a work product, she listens to a robin sing, thinks through an unconsummated relationship from the past year, and fondly recollects her time studying Virginia Woolf—a writer who herself dwelled in the interstices of passing time.
Like Woolf, Brown understands that life is lived in the in-between moments, and that buckling down to produce a piece of art does not necessarily have the intended effect. (Anyone who has sat at a desk, desperate for the words to come, can affirm.) It’s no surprise, then, that Annabel admires Woolf, whose churning novels of the mind revolve around ordinary activities that are often waylaid by characters’ fancies and distractions. Mrs. Dalloway’s party planning ends up on the back burner as she considers alternate versions of her life; the Ramsay family fails to reach the tower at Godrevy in To the Lighthouse because their musings intervene; the children of The Waves spend as much time dallying as they do putting on their play. Similarly, Practice places Annabel’s decision making—what to write about the sonnets, whether her much-older boyfriend should visit her at college—on the same footing as her daydreams.
What Annabel senses, and Brown beautifully drives home, is that it’s the strange mental collisions between the thinking mind and the wandering mind that yield the most interesting results. These are the moments when artistry sneaks in unbidden; Annabel understands that if art is created out of life, the latter has to have space to happen. She copies out a line from the poetry critic Helen Vendler: “A critical ‘reading’ is the end product of an internalisation so complete that the word reading is not the right word for what happens when a text is on your mind. The text is part of what has made you who you are.” The creative life isn’t about doling a self out into different portions—it’s about sitting in the stew that a whole life makes and offering your perspective on it.
Annabel’s day turns extraordinary, albeit in small ways. She breaks a treasured brown mug, the one thing she’d rescue in a fire; this slash through her routine almost makes her cry. She finally decides whether to invite her boyfriend for a weekend, and maybe invite him deeper into her life. A tragedy in the bedroom next door jerks her toward the understanding that all lives are as complicated as her own. She also ends the day with no more than some notes and a few words on Shakespeare’s poems: “slick — bitter — nimble.” Who is to say if she’s been productive or not?
The art of procrastination requires confrontation—with our inefficiencies, with the allure of easy pleasure, with the fact that time will someday end for us. But we can melt into it. We can let ourselves float in the in-between. Perhaps with a meaningful, self-aware novel.
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