We tell ourselves stories in order
to live, said Joan Didion in The
White Album, or something of
that sort, though, as she herself
confessed, these stories are often more fabrication
than fact. The narratives we cling to, especially
about ourselves, are rarely the untarnished truth.
In other words, even the grand architect of art
acknowledged that our self-mythologising can
be a bit, shall we say, flexible.
This admission is pertinent when considering
the modern phenomenon of productivity
performance. The act of doing has become
less about actual achievement and more about
appearing busy, as if the mere spectacle of
activity confers something desirable – perhaps
it’s status or value, but always comes with the
elusive badge of success. It is an epidemic that
affects us all, even you, the individual boasting
that the essay is “basically finished, just need
to do the citations.” The “I’m almost done”
chant has become a ritualistic performance, a
signalling device in the theatre of academic and
professional life.
Why this compulsion to perform productivity?
Because, in a world addicted to instantaneous
gratification, slow-burning achievement is about
as appealing as a cuppa without the tea bag. The
delayed rewards of hard graft lack the immediate
dopamine hit of boasting about how many words
were typed this morning or how many Zoom calls
survived before lunch (because lunch, naturally,
is for wimps).
Beneath this lies a fundamental human need
to be seen, acknowledged, and recognised.
Without recognition, we risk becoming invisible
to others and ourselves. The performance of
productivity becomes a means to fill this void, a
way of signalling “I am here, I am valuable”. Like
a child seeking approval from a parent we parade
our ‘busyness’ in hopes of external validation.
This public recitation does two things: first, it
convinces others that you are on the right track,
and second, it reassures you, or at least tries
to, that you have not been entirely useless. The
truth, alas, is less flattering. This performance is
not merely harmless signalling; it fuels an endless
comparison cycle, a slow poison to self-esteem
and social cohesion.
Consider the world of tech start-ups, where
productivity performance has reached operatic
heights. The stereotypical ‘tech bro’ – with an
espresso in one hand and a spreadsheet in the
other – dazzles with the illusion of mastery. Slack
messages ping incessantly, and buzzwords flow
like champagne at a launch party. But beneath
this frantic ballet lies a familiar truth: not
everyone is, in fact, on a rocket ship to greatness.
Some are simply spinning their wheels, desperate
to look like they are.
It is crucial to remember that not everyone’s
goals are the same. The would-be writer agonising
over their first draft in the Bodleian, the future
diplomat practising their suave handshake
before the Oxford Union debate, the budding
politician memorising parliamentary procedure
– each follows a path unique to their aspirations.
The folly lies in using someone else’s pace as a
yardstick for your own worth, or attempting to
outperform a mythical baseline of busyness to
prove your value.
Ironically, this compulsion to keep busy often
leads to the opposite of productivity. Attempts
to impress observers often results in mediocre
output and mounting stress. Productivity guru
Tim Ferriss once remarked that “being busy is
not the same as being productive,” a sentiment
we continually ignore. We perform productivity
for an often imaginary audience. It is the unseen
college peer, the faceless supervisor, the ghostly
tutor whose approval we crave yet rarely obtain.
We craft our narratives, not necessarily to deceive
others, but to convince ourselves that our story is
worth telling.
Of course, there is an upside. By articulating
progress, even if exaggerated, we sometimes
kickstart actual productivity. The very act of
telling the story may nudge us forward, much
like a tutor’s scolding compels a reluctant student
to finally open a book. But the danger lies in
letting the performance become the point rather
than the doing.
So, the next time you’re in the company of the
chronic productivity performer, or worse, find
yourself mouthing the tired mantra of busyness,
take a step back, and reflect on Didion’s wisdom.
What matters is not the performance but the
authenticity of the journey, however slow and
unglamorous.
Lunch is not for wimps – but for the wise.
