Rise early, work hard, succeed? Dream on

I DREAM of getting up early. Sometimes, as I lie in bed, listening to the afternoon play, I think: "It would be fine to be up at six o'clock in the morning." I've done it before. I used to get up at 4:30am six days a week when I was a man of letters. But being a postman is not for the faint-hearted, nor for those aspiring much beyond poverty.

At times when I've found myself accidentally up and about at 6am, I've thoroughly enjoyed the experience. I like the streets before they are populated by my fellow citizens. The lack of traffic lulls the senses into a state of quiet security. Birds chirrup, the sky is baby blue, and there's a feeling of calm before life comes along and spoils everything.

In early morning, the mind works well, tumbling with ideas and a kind of innocent optimism that, in later hours, seems alien and bizarre. Ideas come from the subconscious mind, and getting up early ensures the subconcious is more on top of the conscious mind, throwing up themes and imaginary landscapes from God or God knows where. They say all writers are mere ciphers for some greater force which can't be bothered to do all the typing. I don't know if that's true, but you have to wonder who or what is bunging this stuff into your brain.

Without self-discipline it all goes to waste. Our world is less prone to self-discipline than any other in history. There are too many distractions, not just from society with its pointless meetings, gossip and never-ending news, but from the technology that now lies at the heart of things. Take writing. First, it was just pen and paper. Then it was a typewriter. Fine. Paper just absorbed ink. Typewriters just typed. There was nothing more to them. Now, look at your laptop. Beyond the word-processor function, there are e-mails, the internet, games, half-started projects, newsfeeds, alerts, and a general feeling of being connected to the world. In days of yore, the scribbler had to disconnect from the world to start work. Now, he or she must plug into it.

Then there's motivation. Wisdom today is the realisation that every aspect of life is controlled by loonies, and this dulls the incentive to work or create. Experience fades enthusiasm. Possibility no longer seems possible. Too many defeats, rejections and dealings with the irrational slowly turn strides into stumbles, until one sits down dejected.

But there's virtue in work for its own sake. If it's a calling, it fulfils a purpose and feels satisfying and right. So what if society is run by nutjobs? Let them go hang. One may work for one's own satisfaction. But this still requires self-discipline, particularly for any projects outwith one's income-earning job.

The mind, alas, is a lazy sod. It does not want you to create or exercise or diet. Its primary function is to provide excuses and pretend that watching television or sitting in a drunken stupor is a valid way to spend one's entire, irritatingly short existence.

In the gap between doing nothing and getting on with something, an ironic phenomenon has taken up residence. That phenomenon is the self-help book. In my own case, instead of just being self-disciplined, I decide I have to read self-help books first about how to do it. By the time these are finished, the moment has passed, and I pass on to some other fad: Hop Your Way To Happiness; Feel The Beer And Do It Anyway; the Carrot Enema Way To Relaxation. Before self-help books we helped ourselves. We just got on with it. It's not that these worthy tomes don't achieve anything: handing over the money; taking the book home and thinking of its promise; even reading it, if you haven't lost interest by the time you've got it out of the bag. All of these can have a therapeutic effect. But as for the point of the project, forget it.

Recently, I found myself reading about the Spartans, a self-disciplined people who remain horribly fascinating to this day. Were they still around, George Bush would include them in the axis of evil. As usual, he would be correct. But, by Pollux, the Spartans were disciplined. Alas, this involved living on nothing but honey for a month and bathing in ice-cold water. This made a chap tough as old sandals, but did little to encourage poetry. Socrates thought the Spartans just pretended to be blockheads. Whatever they were, they weren't very nice. And niceness is the most important thing in the world.

It would be nice to get up early. But it's nicer to sleep in till 8am or 9am. Nicer to dream than to do. Nicer, one suspects, to contemplate success than achieve it.