The last ten

The method in this book has three parts, and the first happens before you leave. The last ten minutes of the working day are when the passenger decides whether to get in the car. Most of us spend them finishing something, or trying to, and leave mid-task with the loop open and the door swinging. The last ten is about closing the door on purpose.

Stop early. Ten minutes before you'd leave, stop working. Not finish, stop. Whatever's half done stays half done, and that's the point, because half done is what you'd carry otherwise. If you're mid-task, note where you are in one line. The earlier book One thing at a time called this a parking note and it works here for the same reason. A task with its place marked doesn't need holding.

Write the last line. On paper, or somewhere you'll see in the morning and not tonight. Two things. What's open, as a short list, no detail. And the first job, the one thing you'll do first tomorrow, named specifically enough that you could start it without thinking. Not "the audit". "Reconcile the March tab against the bank export." The list takes the open loops out of your head and puts them somewhere they'll keep. The first job answers the question the passenger would otherwise ask you at the roundabout, which is what happens next. Syrek's employees ruminated about unfinished tasks because unfinished tasks stay in mind. A task with its next step written down is, as far as your head is concerned, less unfinished.

One good thing. Joyce Bono and colleagues ran a three-week study in which people spent a short time at the end of each workday reflecting on something that had gone well. The reflection reduced evening stress and improved health measures over the study. The abstract doesn't say how long it took, and I wouldn't make it long. One line. Something that went right today. It's not for cheerfulness. It's because the fret only remembers the meeting, and the last line should leave you with a truer picture of the day than the fret will give you in the car.

Look at the inbox once and close it. Anything that needs an answer tomorrow goes on the list. Then it's shut. Chapter 11 said why, and the point of doing it now is that you've checked, so the evening look has nothing to offer you.

Leave. The last ten ends with you standing up. If you're at home, it ends with the laptop closed and put somewhere that isn't the kitchen. It shouldn't take more than ten minutes and it can take five. The whole thing is a way of telling the passenger that the day has an end, and that what's open has a place, and that the place isn't you.