I’m Fantasising About Wasting Time
Sizzling’ hot sex? A multi-million pound lottery win? Neither do it for me. I'm just dreaming about wasting a little time.
I come to you from a word count hole. Admittedly, I’ve been in it for most of the year, so it’s not a brand-new situation, but the heat is certainly on. While there’s light at the end of the tunnel, and within the next few weeks, I’ll have co-written three books since New Year’s Day, there is no escape from the daily target. Deadlines approach hour by hour. Writing and editing 10,000 words a day sets the brain on a whole new plane. I imagine this must be what taking speed feels like, pacing through neural connections before you’ve even had a conscious thought, constantly one step ahead of your own mental intentions. It’s like it writes itself, while exacting a physical payment from your flesh in exchange.
I have written something every single day so far this year and that discipline has reaped its rewards. There’s no doubt that I’m at the peak of my prowess as a ghostwriter and for that I should objectively feel both fulfilled and proud. But I don’t really. More dead behind the eyes. It’s not rocket science—we all know that overdoing it depresses the nervous system and makes it harder to connect to the positives. In saying all of this, I don’t feel depressed in general. My life is good and varied and full of love, and I like to squeeze the juice from everything, including my own brain, so I have no complaints nor regrets. It’s not like I’m not also doing other things, including things which are ostensibly geared to self-care. I get my nails done every three weeks; I go to the hair salon once every two months. I’ve been away with my husband and friends this year, I’ve had lots of lovely times, and I was mentally present for some of them.
I am actually starting to think the problem isn’t just the constant spitting out of words, but the fact that every little thing I do on a daily basis is considered and weighed up for its value. It is all for something. I never just pop to get my hair done, it is done as part of a critical path so I don’t look like Worzel Gummidge at a paid event or a shoot I might be doing. Ditto the nails. Yoga keeps me mentally on the straight and narrow and aids fitness and weight maintenance. It’s a three for one. While of course it’s not the only reason, spending time with my friends helps maintain a community around my life as a parent, while time with my husband contributes to the maintenance of our marriage. I am finding the juggle really isn’t just about the kids anymore (though of course they intensify the scheduling), rather that it’s all an exercise in efficiency. It’s all for something.
What do your fantasies look like? A private island getaway? A lottery win? A new career or partner? Sizzlin’ hot sex? None of those turn the dial for me. Where I’m currently escaping to is an entire day of wasted time. Over different periods of my life, I’ve daydreamt about living differently. When I was once barricaded in a windowless fashion cupboard, I used to imagine myself wearing all the glamorous clothes hanging on the rails besides me, walking into chi chi restaurants and feeling like I belonged. When I was a new mum, I became fixated on the idea that I would never be available for happy hour again. As I’d walk past people enjoying their two for one rosé deals, while pushing a buggy laden with a babe and the weekly shop, my heart would burst with envy. To be fair, I’ve still got several years until I’ll ever be footloose at 5pm again, but for whatever reason I’ve come to terms with the exclusionary time slot for cheap drinks. I no longer yearn for them in the same way.
Instead, I make-believe that at 12pm on a random Tuesday, I will step out of my task rotation and make my way to the mini-Ikea on Hammersmith Broadway. I will browse aimlessly, enjoying the nostalgia of Ektorp sofas and price up Hemnes replacements for storage. I’ll buy nothing. I’ll then cross the road and do the same at T.K. Maxx, trying on designer bargains which I’ll never buy and deciding that I actually don’t need a Le Creuset ramekin set. There will be no rush or hustle. I’d then go to a casual restaurant, let’s call it Flat Iron and eat my steak in careful mouthfuls in silence, reading nothing. There will be no meaningful conversation or thought-provoking article to be cerebrally dissected. I won’t watch the clock to see how behind I’ve got. In fact, I won’t have a phone or a watch. TIME WON’T EVEN EXIST. No school pick up. No zoom call. No what shall we have for dinner. No 10,000-word target. A whole load of empty-handed abso-fucking-lutely-nothing.
We are so often encouraged to stop wasting time. To focus, to use it more wisely, more effectively. Time wasters are vilified. Time is precious after all! ‘Stop wasting my goddam time!’ we think whenever someone speaks too slowly, or pulls out of a parking space ahead of you, or lingers in the supermarket queue chatting with the cashier behind the tills. If we are encouraged to waste time, it is for the benefit of future creative production. Boredom breeds innovation! Perhaps the pay-off will be further in the future, but it’s still going to be for something. Of course, lots of us waste time on our phones, but most often there is some kind of purpose, even if it’s to be validated, entertained or simply to be nosy. Here I’m talking about doing pointless things for no reason.
I don’t particularly want to be bored. I don’t need to creatively regenerate myself, in that respect things are all good. I just want to be engaged in something useless, or at least something which might seem useless to others.
If I could access my internal voice with a little more clarity, I’d guess this feeling is also a reflection of a career summit being mounted. I am not one to luxuriate in the comfort zone and I’ll admit I’m not immune to worries about the impact of A.I. on this side of my career. I don’t know if I want my next six months to look like the past six months. I’m not sure if I want to be working the way I am today in 2026—though perhaps technology may rob me of that option anyway.
Instead, I am thinking more and more about tangible, manual work. The kind of tasks that appeal to me right now are the chipping away over months kind. Peeling back layers of paint, sanding down the sediments of history. Then rebuilding with respect for heritage and archaic skill. I’m looking for the opposite of quick fix, days and weeks without defined deadlines to achieve something which probably wasn’t worth the hours spent on it to anyone else but me. Perhaps it will be a Sisyphean struggle with no end and likely people will tell me that I’m wasting my time. Perhaps I could have paid someone else to do it or used a machine to hasten its completion. That’s not what I’m seeking—my intention is to de-optimise my labour. To do something which could be done quicker more slowly. I’m looking to inject some major inefficiency into my life.
Twentieth century mathematician and philosopher Bertrand Russell told us, ‘The time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time,’ a theory echoed by John Lennon who said, ‘If you enjoyed the time you wasted, then it wasn't wasted time.’ Six more weeks or so of squeezing my brain and then I promise, I’m going to down my mental tools and render myself useless. I honestly can’t wait.