Jessica McFarland

I think starting is the hardest part of any project.  And it’s even worse if that project is divided into a bunch of little projects.  Because even though a bunch of little projects may seem more do-able than one massive project, each one has to be started.

It can be such a drag, and I have developed all these little ways to put it off for as long as possible.  ”Oh, I won’t have enough time to work on it now (even if I have 2 hours free), I’ll have more time later.”  ”Oh, I’ll just have a snack and then do it.”  ”Well, I’ll see if anything’s on TV first…”

And the longer I put it off, the worse it gets.  Suddenly a project that might have taken 3 hours seems to take a week, because I’ve spent six days figuring out how and when to start it.  Six days of head-thinking time, dreading, agonising, and eventually the whole thing seems completely impossible.

But I have created things.  I’ve even finished things.  So I must have found a work-around.  And here it is:

Remember that starting is at least half the battle.

Simple?  Yes.  Effective?  Definitely.  Because how long does it take to start something?  To transition between not doing and doing, metaphysically, is instantaneous.  A split second; not even.  And then that’s it, all one has to do is to continue.

So if the starting is actually instantaneous, 5 minutes is plenty of time. 5 minutes is enough time to start an infinite number of projects, metaphysically at least.  (I wouldn’t recommend trying it.)  And how hard is it to find 5 minutes?  You’ve probably spent 5 minutes surfing the internet today.

So here’s my 3-step process for starting a project.  Any project.

1. Set aside 5 minutes (or 10 if you’re feeling really enthusiastic).  Make them as soon as possible.  Better yet, make them the five minutes you would have spent thinking about all the work you have to do.
2. Start something. Do the smallest possible thing that signifies that it’s begun.  Open a file.  Write a couple of notes, or a sentence.  Open one book.
3. Congratulate yourself. After all, you’ve done the hardest part already.

If it feels right, keep going.  If you really can’t stomach the thought of doing any more work, take a break.  When you come back to it later, it probably won’t seem so difficult, especially when you consider that you’re already half-done.

One is staring at me, right now.  I don’t know what to fill it with.  All my fears, all my insecurities, all my worries that I’m not a good enough composer or fluent enough writer to make any creative act worth doing, they’re all brought up by this empty white text box on my computer screen.

And it’s always the same: a blank document, a blank page, a blank staff, an empty stage.  How do I fill it?  Am I even good enough to fill it?  Why me?

Why you?  Why not you?  Everyone’s got something to say, and you can’t say anyone else’s something, so you might as well say yours.  Anything.  Don’t think.  Just write.  Fill the page.  Fill another.  Ignore the voices that tell you you aren’t good enough.  You’re at war with the empty space.  Sound your battle horn and determine that the powers of goodness will win.  Those voices in your head, they don’t exist.  They’re a figment of your imagination: force them to go away.  That composition teacher who said you didn’t know how to develop your ideas, that music teacher that hated your voice; just put your hands over your ears and shout, “LA LA LA I CAN’T HEAR YOU!!!”

What do you know?  That page isn’t blank anymore.  It may not be a masterpiece (though it may be–who decides?), but it isn’t a void.  Nature abhors a vacuum.  Do nature a favour and fill it up.