How Benjamin Franklin's daily schedule can make you more productive
How do great people get so much done? If you're Ben Franklin, you lay out a detailed schedule.
- Ben Franklin's success was driven not just by his genius and work ethic, but also by his schedule.
- Planning your day like Franklin can help you achieve more.
- Franklin also valued recreation and set up time for that.
Ben Franklin was an industrious man. In his 84 years, he found time to be a scientist, publisher, author, revolutionary, freemason, postmaster, governor, ambassador, political theorist, inventor, musician, and the leading citizen of Philadelphia.
While much of this can be attributed to his brilliance, talent without application is of little value. Nobody knew this better than Franklin, who inspired the book on the Protestant work ethic. To help organize his busy life and better live up to the virtue of order, he created a framework to structure his daily schedule around. It is included in his autobiography.
The first thing you might notice is that he woke up each day at 5. It seems like he really believed that “early to bed and early to rise" business. He then spent three hours getting ready for the day.
One part of this was to ask himself, “What good shall I do this day?" Not only did this refer to what work he needed to do and what he hoped to accomplish, but also to how he would live up to his virtue of the week.
He then turned to his morning rituals, which he listed as “rise, wash, and address Powerfull Goodness! Contrive day's business, and take the resolution of the day: prosecute the present study, and breakfast."
What does all this mean? It's too old-timey to understand.
“Powerfull Goodness!" was his term for God, so that bit means prayer. “Contrive day's business, and take the resolution of the day" means that he then drew up his daily schedule and determined how to carry out that good he dedicated himself to earlier that morning.
“Prosecute the present study" refers to his habit of dedicating time to studying something often unrelated to the rest of the work he had to do that day, like learning a new language.
The next part of his day was simply labeled “work." Lasting from 8 to 5, this section was split into three parts. The first section was a four-hour block. He then gave himself two hours for lunch, during which he would also “read, or overlook [his] accounts." Another four-hour work block followed this.
After quitting at five, the last five hours of his day were earmarked for time to “put things in their places. Supper. Music or diversion, or conversation. Examination of the day." This is where he would have placed his myriad social engagements and various hobbies. This also means that many of his achievements fell under the category of “diversion" for him.
He was also sure to ask himself “what good have I done to-day?" in reflection. He would make a note in his journal recording if he had succeeded or failed at living up to his virtue that day.
He then went to bed at 10 and tried to get seven hours of sleep.
Did he always follow this?
Like anybody else, Franklin often had good reasons for deviating from his schedule. In his autobiography, he lamented that his work as a newspaper publisher often required him to see other people when it best suited them, fouling up his system. He explained that:
“My scheme of Order gave me the most trouble; and I found that, tho' it might be practicable where a man's business was such as to leave him the disposition of his time, that of a journeyman printer, for instance, it was not possible to be exactly observed by a master, who must mix with the world, and often receive people of business at their own hours."
Of course, he felt that he was better for the attempt. He explains later on the same page:
"In truth, I found myself incorrigible with respect to Order; and now I am grown old, and my memory bad, I feel very sensibly the want of it. But, on the whole, tho' I never arrived at the perfection I had been so ambitious of obtaining, but fell far short of it, yet I was, by the endeavour, a better and a happier man than I otherwise should have been if I had not attempted it."
Would keeping a schedule help me?
Studies show that people who are more disciplined are happier and get more done. Keeping a schedule is an excellent way to keep yourself on task. While making a schedule and sticking to it might not turn you into Ben Franklin, he would agree that the attempt at improvement is what really matters.
What can I learn from this?
The divisions in his work blocks show that he differentiated between work that required his utmost attention and work that could be done over lunch and saw fit to schedule accordingly. He dedicated time to work each day no matter what the work would be. This diligence undoubtedly helped him get the insane amount of things he accomplished done.
His labeling of the evening as a time for diversions or conversation shows that he understood the value of recreation. He also began each day with an intention and ended it by asking if he had done everything he needed to do.
Ben Franklin was a brilliant man, but brilliance without direction won't get very far. While his attempts to structure his days were often foiled, he thought that the effort made him a better person. His schedule is best suited to life two hundred years ago, but the ideas behind it are timeless and can help everybody better organize their lives.
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Quoth the parrot — "Nevermore."
By his mid-30s, Edgar Allan Poe was not only weary by the hardships of poverty, but also regularly intoxicated — by more than just macabre visions. Despite this, the Gothic writer lucidly insisted that there was still a method to his madness when it came to devising poems.
In an essay titled "The Philosophy of Composition," published in 1846 in Graham's Magazine, Poe divulged how his creative process worked, particularly in regard to his most famous poem: "No one point in [The Raven's] composition is rerferrible either to accident or intuition… the work proceeded step by step, to its completion with the precision and rigid consequence of a mathematical problem."
That said, contrary to the popular idea that Edgar Allan Poe penned his poems in single bursts of inspiration, The Raven did not pour out from his quivering quill in one fell swoop. Rather it came about through a calculative process—one that included making some pretty notable changes, even to its avian subject.
As an example of how his mind worked, Poe describes in his essay that originally the bird that flew across the dreary scene immortalized in the poem was actually… a parrot.
Poe had pondered ways he could have his one word refrain, "nevermore," continuously repeated throughout the poem. With that aim, he instantly thought of a parrot because it was a creature capable of uttering words. However, as quickly as Poe had found his feathered literary device, he became concerned with the bird's form on top of its important function.
And as it turns out, the parrot, a pretty resplendent bird, did not perch so well in Poe's mind because it didn't fit the mood he was going for—melancholy, "the most legitimate of all the poetical tones." In solving this dilemma in terms of imagery, he made adjustments to its plumage, altogether transforming the parrot — bestowing it with a black raiment.
"Very naturally, a parrot, in the first instance, suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a Raven, as equally capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the intended tone," Poe explained in his piece in Graham's. "I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven — the bird of ill omen — monotonously repeating the one word, 'Nevermore,' at the conclusion of each stanza, in a poem of melancholy tone…"
It was with these aesthetic calculations that Poe ousted the colorful bird that first flew into his mind, and welcomed the darker one that fluttered in:
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore…
The details of the poem — including the bird's appearance — needed to all blend together, like a recipe, to bring out the somber concept he was trying to convey: the descent into madness of a bereaved lover, a man lamenting the loss of a beautiful woman named Lenore. With that in mind, quoth the parrot — "nevermore" just doesn't have the same grave effect.
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If you'd like to read more about Edgar Allan Poe, click here to review how his contemporaries tried to defame him in an attempt to thwart his success.
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