So, we
have been talking about distraction. It is one of the two D's in The 2-D Solution. It is the easier of the two D's, and that is why we
prefer to use it.
All this
got me to thinking about an article I read, about this time, last
year. The article was by Tony Schwartz and it was titled “Addicted
to Distraction.” Here is the article in its entirety:
One
evening early this summer, I opened a book and found myself reading
the same paragraph over and over, a half dozen times before
concluding that it was hopeless to continue. I simply couldn’t
marshal the necessary focus.
I was
horrified. All my life, reading books has been a deep and consistent
source of pleasure, learning and solace. Now the books I regularly
purchased were piling up ever higher on my bedside table, staring at
me in silent rebuke.
Instead
of reading them, I was spending too many hours online, checking the
traffic numbers for my company’s website, shopping for more
colorful socks on Gilt and Rue La La, even though I had more than I
needed, and even guiltily clicking through pictures with irresistible
headlines such as “Awkward Child Stars Who Grew Up to Be
Attractive.”
During
the workday, I checked my email more times than I cared to
acknowledge, and spent far too much time hungrily searching for
tidbits of new information about the presidential campaign, with the
election then still more than a year away.
“The
net is designed to be an interruption system, a machine geared to
dividing attention,” Nicholas Carr explains in his book “The
Shallows: What the Internet Is Doing to Our Brains.” “We
willingly accept the loss of concentration and focus, the division of
our attention and the fragmentation of our thoughts, in return for
the wealth of compelling or at least diverting information we
receive.”
Addiction
is the relentless pull to a substance or an activity that becomes so
compulsive it ultimately interferes with everyday life. By that
definition, nearly everyone I know is addicted in some measure to the
Internet. It has arguably replaced work itself as our most socially
sanctioned addiction.
According
to one recent survey, the average white-collar worker spends about
six hours a day on email. That doesn’t count time online spent
shopping, searching or keeping up with social media.
The
brain’s craving for novelty, constant stimulation and immediate
gratification creates something called a “compulsion loop.” Like
lab rats and drug addicts, we need more and more to get the same
effect.
Endless
access to new information also easily overloads our working memory.
When we reach cognitive overload, our ability to transfer learning to
long-term memory significantly deteriorates. It’s as if our brain
has become a full cup of water and anything more poured into it
starts to spill out.
I've
known all of this for a long time. I started writing about it 20
years ago. I teach it to clients every day. I just never really
believed it could become so true of me.
Denial
is any addict’s first defense. No obstacle to recovery is greater
than the infinite capacity to rationalize our compulsive behaviors.
After years of feeling I was managing myself reasonably well, I fell
last winter into an intense period of travel while also trying to
manage a growing consulting business. In early summer, it suddenly
dawned on me that I wasn’t managing myself well at all, and I
didn’t feel good about it.
Beyond
spending too much time on the Internet and a diminishing attention
span, I wasn’t eating the right foods. I drank way too much diet
soda. I was having a second cocktail at night too frequently. I was
no longer exercising every day, as I had nearly all my life.
In
response, I created an irrationally ambitious plan. For the next 30
days, I would attempt to right these behaviors, and several others,
all at once. It was a fit of grandiosity. I recommend precisely the
opposite approach every day to clients. But I rationalized that no
one is more committed to self-improvement than I am. These behaviors
are all related. I can do it.
The
problem is that we humans have a very limited reservoir of will and
discipline. We’re far more likely to succeed by trying to change
one behavior at a time, ideally at the same time each day, so that it
becomes a habit, requiring less and less energy to sustain.
I did
have some success over those 30 days. Despite great temptation, I
stopped drinking diet soda and alcohol altogether. (Three months
later I’m still off diet soda.) I also gave up sugar and
carbohydrates like chips and pasta. I went back to exercising
regularly.
I failed
completely in just one behavior: cutting back my time on the
Internet.
My
initial commitment was to limit my online life to checking email just
three times a day: When I woke up, at lunchtime and before I went
home at the end of the day. On the first day, I succeeded until
midmorning, and then completely broke down. I was like a sugar addict
trying to resist a cupcake while working in a bakery.
What
broke my resolve that first morning was the feeling that I absolutely
had to send someone an email about an urgent issue. If I just wrote
it and pushed “Send,” I told myself, then I wasn’t really going
online.
What I
failed to take into account was that new emails would download into
my inbox while I wrote my own. None of them required an immediate
reply, and yet I found it impossible to resist peeking at the first
new message that carried an enticing subject line. And the second.
And the third.
In a
matter of moments, I was back in a self-reinforcing cycle. By the
next day, I had given up trying to cut back my digital life. I turned
instead to the simpler task of resisting diet soda, alcohol and
sugar.
Even so,
I was determined to revisit my Internet challenge. Several weeks
after my 30-day experiment ended, I left town for a monthlong
vacation. Here was an opportunity to focus my limited willpower on a
single goal: liberating myself from the Internet in an attempt to
regain control of my attention.
I had
already taken the first step in my recovery: admitting my
powerlessness to disconnect. Now it was time to detox. I interpreted
the traditional second step — belief that a higher power could help
restore my sanity — in a more secular way. The higher power became
my 30-year-old daughter, who disconnected my phone and laptop from
both my email and the Web. Unburdened by much technological
knowledge, I had no idea how to reconnect either one.
I did
leave myself reachable by text. In retrospect, I was holding on to a
digital life raft. Only a handful of people in my life communicate
with me by text. Because I was on vacation, they were largely members
of my family, and the texts were mostly about where to meet up at
various points during the day.
During
those first few days, I did suffer withdrawal pangs, most of all the
hunger to call up Google and search for an answer to some question
that arose. But with each passing day offline, I felt more relaxed,
less anxious, more able to focus and less hungry for the next shot of
instant but short-lived stimulation. What happened to my brain is
exactly what I hoped would happen: It began to quiet down.
I had
brought more than a dozen books of varying difficulty and length on
my vacation. I started with short nonfiction, and then moved to
longer nonfiction as I began to feel calmer and my focus got
stronger. I eventually worked my way up to “The Emperor of All
Maladies,” Siddhartha Mukherjee’s brilliant but sometimes complex
biography of cancer, which had sat on my bookshelf for nearly five
years.
As the
weeks passed, I was able to let go of my need for more facts as a
source of gratification. I shifted instead to novels, ending my
vacation by binge-reading Jonathan Franzen’s 500-some-page novel,
“Purity,” sometimes for hours at a time.
I am
back at work now, and of course I am back online. The Internet isn’t
going away, and it will continue to consume a lot of my attention. My
aim now is to find the best possible balance between time online and
time off.
I do
feel more in control. I’m less reactive and more intentional about
where I put my attention. When I’m online, I try to resist surfing
myself into a stupor. As often as possible, I try to ask myself, “Is
this really what I want to be doing?” If the answer is no, the next
question is, “What could I be doing that would feel more
productive, or satisfying, or relaxing?”
I also
make it my business now to take on more fully absorbing activities as
part of my days. Above all, I’ve kept up reading books, not just
because I love them, but also as a continuing attention-building
practice.
I've
retained my longtime ritual of deciding the night before on the most
important thing I can accomplish the next morning. That’s my first
work activity most days, for 60 to 90 minutes without interruption.
Afterward, I take a 10- to 15-minute break to quiet my mind and renew
my energy.
If I
have other work during the day that requires sustained focus, I go
completely offline for designated periods, repeating my morning
ritual. In the evening, when I go up to my bedroom, I nearly always
leave my digital devices downstairs.
Finally,
I feel committed now to taking at least one digital-free vacation a
year. I have the rare freedom to take several weeks off at a time,
but I have learned that even one week offline can be deeply
restorative.
Occasionally,
I find myself returning to a haunting image from the last day of my
vacation. I was sitting in a restaurant with my family when a man in
his early 40s came in and sat down with his daughter, perhaps 4 or 5
years old and adorable.
Almost
immediately, the man turned his attention to his phone. Meanwhile,
his daughter was a whirlwind of energy and restlessness, standing up
on her seat, walking around the table, waving and making faces to get
her father’s attention.
Except
for brief moments, she didn’t succeed and after a while, she glumly
gave up. The silence felt deafening.