Chips off the Old Benchley I find myself trying to find this every now and then.

Chips off the Old Benchley

How to Get Things Done
Robert Benchley

Chips off the Old Benchley
(c) 1949

A great many people have come up to me and asked me how I manage to get so
much work done and still keep looking so dissipated. Hundreds of thousands
of people throughout the country are wondering how I have time to do all my
painting, engineering, writing and philanthropic work when, according to the
rotogravure sections and society notes, I spend all my time riding to
hounds, going to fancy-dress balls disguised as Louis XIV, or spelling out
GREETINGS TO CALIFORNIA in formation with three thousand Los Angeles school
children. "All work and all play," they say.

The secret of my incredible energy and efficiency in getting work done is a
simple one. I have based it very deliberately on a well-known psychological
principle and have refined it so that it is now almost too refined. I shall
have to begin coarsening it up again pretty soon.

The psychological principle is this: anyone can do any amount of work,
provided it isn't the work he is supposed to be doing at that moment.

Let us see how this works out in practice. Let us say that I have five
things which have to be done before the end of the week: (1) a basketful of
letters to be answered, some of them dating from October, 1928 (2) some
bookshelves to be put up and arranged with books (3) a hair-cut to get (4) a
pile of scientific magazines to go through and clip (I am collecting all
references to tropical fish that I can find, with the idea of someday buying
myself one) and (5) an article to write for this paper.

Now. With these five tasks staring me in the face on Monday morning, it is
little wonder that I go right back to bed as soon as I have had breakfast,
in order to store up health and strength for the almost superhuman
expenditure of energy that is to come.  Mens sana in corpore sano is my
motto.

As I lie in bed on Monday morning storing up strength, I make out a
schedule. "What do I have to do first?"  I ask myself. Well, those letters
really should be answered and the pile of scientific magazines should be
clipped. And here is where my secret process comes in. Instead of putting
them first on the list, I put them last. I say: "First you must write that
article for the newspaper." I sometimes go so far in this self-deception as
to make out a list in pencil, with "No. 1. Newspaper article" underlined in
red. (The underlining in red is rather difficult, as there is never a red
pencil on the table beside the bed, unless I have taken one to bed with me
on Sunday night.)

I then seat myself at my desk with my typewriter before me and sharpen five
pencils. (The sharp pencils are for poking holes in the desk-blotter, and a
pencil has to be pretty sharp to do that. I find that I can't get more than
six holes out of one pencil.) Following this I say to myself "Now, old man!
Get at this article!"

Gradually the scheme begins to work. My eye catches the pile of magazines,
which I have artfully placed on a near-by table beforehand. I write my name
and address at the top of the sheet of paper in the typewriter and then sink
back. The magazines being within reach, I look to see if anyone is watching
me and get one off the top of the pile.  Hello, what's this! In the very
first one is an article by Dr. William Beebe, illustrated by horrifying
photographs! Pushing my chair away from my desk, I am soon hard at work
clipping.

One of the interesting things about the Argyopelius, or "Silver Hatchet"
fish, I find, is that it has eyes in its wrists. I would have been
sufficiently surprised just to find out that a fish had wrists, but to learn
that it has eyes in them is a discovery so astounding that I am hardly able
to cut out the picture.

Thus, before the afternoon is half over, I have gone through the scientific
magazines and have a neat pile of clippings (including one of a Viper Fish
which I wish you could see. You would die laughing). Then it is back to the
grind of the newspaper article.

This time I get as far as the title, which I write down with considerable
satisfaction until I find that I have misspelled one word terribly, so that
the whole sheet of paper has to come out and a fresh one be inserted. As I
am doing this, my eye catches the basket of letters.

Now, if there is one thing that I hate to do (and there is, you may be sure)
it is to write letters. But somehow, with the magazine article before me
waiting to be done, I am seized with an epistolary fervor, and I slyly sneak
the first of the unanswered letters out of the basket. I figure out in my
mind that I will get more into the swing of writing the article if I
practice on a few letters.

This first one, anyway, I really must answer. True, it is from a friend in
Antwerp asking me to look him up when I am in Europe in the summer of 1929,
so he can't actually be watching the incoming boats for an answer, but I owe
something to politeness after all. So instead of putting a fresh sheet of
copy-paper into the typewriter, I slip in one of my handsome bits of
personal stationery and dash off a note to my friend in Antwerp. Then, being
well in the letter-writing mood, I clean up the entire batch.

I feel a little guilty about the article, but the pile of freshly stamped
envelopes and the bundle of clippings on tropical fish do much to salve my
conscience.  Tomorrow I will do the article, and no fooling this time.

When tomorrow comes I am up with one of the older and more sluggish larks. A
fresh sheet of copy-paper in the machine, and my name and address neatly
printed at the top, and all before eleven A.M.! "A human dynamo" is the name
I think up for myself. I have decided to write something about
snake-charming and am already more than satisfied with the title "These
Snake-Charming People." But, in order to write about snake-charming, one has
to know a little about its history, and where should one go to find history
but to a book? Maybe in that pile of books in the corner is one on
snake-charming!

So, with a perfectly clear conscience, I leave my desk for a few minutes and
begin glancing over the titles.  Of course, it is difficult to find any
book, much less one on snake-charming, in a pile which has been standing in
the corner for weeks. What really is needed is for them to be on a shelf
where their titles will be visible at a glance. And there is the shelf,
standing beside the pile of books! It seems almost like a divine command:
"If you want to finish that article, first put up the shelf and arrange the
books on it!" Nothing could be clearer or more logical.

In order to put up the shelf, the laws of physics have decreed that there
must be nails, a hammer and some sort of brackets. You can't just wet a
shelf with your tongue and stick it up. And, as there are no nails or
brackets in the house, the next thing to do is to put on my hat and go out
to buy them.  Much as it disturbs me to put off the actual start of the
article, I feel that I am doing only what is in the line of duty. As I put
on my hat, I realize to my chagrin that I need a hair-cut badly. I can kill
two birds with one stone, and stop in at the barber's on the way back. I
will feel all the more like writing after a turn in the fresh air.  Any
doctor would tell me that.

So in a few hours I return, spick and span and smelling of lilac, bearing
nails, brackets, the evening papers and some crackers and peanut
butter. Then it's ho! for a quick snack and a glance through the papers
(there might be something in them which would alter what I was going to
write about snake-charming) and in no time at all the shelf is up, slightly
crooked but up, and the books are arranged in a neat row. There does not
happen to be one on snake-charming, but there is a very interesting one
containing some Hogarth prints which will bear closer inspection.

And so, you see, in two days I have done four of the things I had to do,
simply by making believe that it was the fifth that I must do. And the next
day, I fix up something else, like taking down the bookshelf and putting it
somewhere else, that I have to do, and then I get the fifth one done.

The only trouble is that, at this rate, I will soon run out of things to do,
and will be forced to get at my newspaper articles the first thing Monday
morning.