Unearned Laurels

 For more than a decade, I've maintained a little black notebook in which I record the names of all the books I've read. For extra dopamine reward, I even add a little circled star next to each one—to congratulate myself on having finished it. 

I notice in the first pages of the notebook however—from back in 2012 or so—there are a lot fewer stars. This is because, back then, I would write down the name of the book before I had finished it. 

In other words: it was only after I learned not to announce my intention to read a book beforehand that I actually managed to finish all the books on the list. 

My sister was telling me last night that the internet has a handy psychological explanation for this. In "bro/life hack/productivity culture," as she put it, "they talk about how you should never announce your goals ahead of time."

Why not?

"Because you get the same dopamine hit—or enough of it—just from saying you are going to do something, as from doing it. And so, you lose the motivation to actually go and do it." 

And I realized that not only was this unfortunately true—but that William Hazlitt had stumbled upon the same insight—centuries before there was any such thing as a "productivity bro" dispensing life hacks. 

In one of his essays from Table-talk, Hazlitt writes of the sort of person—the born procrastinator—who "no sooner meditates some desultory project, than he takes credit to himself for the execution, and is delighted to wear his unearned laurels while the thing is barely talked of."

That was me, writing in my little notebook in 2012. "I plan to finish this book, so I get to write its name down."

Then, having congratulated myself thoroughly on my good intentions—the book itself would often remain unread. 

And so I succumbed to that perilous temptation Rossetti described—the curse of the procrastinator: 

...woe to thee if once thou yield 

Unto the act of doing nought!

How callous seems beyond revoke

The clock with its last listless stroke!

How much too late at length!—to trace

The hour on its forewarning face,

The thing thou hast not dared to do!…

So now I know. I have learned my lesson. I will not only withhold the little star, but even the very name of the book I intend to read, from the blank page of the black notebook, until the whole thing is complete.