shakespearemom

I may be the most anal person in the world when it comes to lists. I get it from my mother, who could not tackle any major project without a list (shopping lists, packing lists when we went on trips, etc.). Yet I have taken it to a whole new level. A few years ago, I began keeping a “list book,” an old blank-paged cloth-covered book, and each day I write out all the things I would like to accomplish that day.

Sound organized? Some have seen the book inadvertently (I keep it with me nearly everywhere I go), and they are immediately impressed. “You are so organized!” they exclaim, but each time I feel embarrassed. Others seem to be able to get all sorts of things done without all these lists. Yet if I don’t write something on the list, it simply doesn’t happen. I even write down meals, although my kids would never let me forget those.

I believe the lists do help, in a variety of ways. First of all, they give me a sense of accomplishment. Without them, I’d tell myself I went the whole day without doing anything. But crossing something off the list shows me I at least did something (even if it was only the three meals that day). Lists also help me not forget to do important things (deposit checks, pay bills, pack special stuff in my daughter’s backpack for school). I find I panic less at night if I can write down stuff for the next day (so I don’t worry about whether I’ll remember it).

Most importantly–and you probably figured this was coming–these lists help me write. I used to set really specific goals for writing: “write five pages,” or “complete chapter seven.” But if I didn’t get that specific goal done, I couldn’t cross it off, and that left me feeling as if I had done nothing (no one ever said I was that logical).

So now I just write out “Write!” And most days I get that done. Sometimes it’s only a few paragraphs, or a sentence. Other days it’s ten pages. A few times I’ve written five chapters. But no matter what I do, I’m still able to cross that item off, and I know I’m just a little closer to my ultimate goal–the “big list” item. If I keep working, someday I will become the writer I dream of being.

So I’ll keep writing the lists. My husband had grown used to it, and most of my friends have, too. Who knows, some day my great grandchildren will look through my lists and see how little I expected out of a day–or how much. I wonder what those lists say about me? Perhaps I’ll never know.

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