Academia is very good at measuring effort. It is less good at measuring progress. We count hours worked. We note how early we arrived. We compare diaries full of meetings. We answer emails late at night and feel industrious and needed. We speak of “a solid eight-hour day” as if duration itself were the achievement.

But research does not advance because we were present. It advances because something moved. This is the quiet but crucial distinction between inputs and outputs.

Inputs are:

Hours logged to research

Emails answered

Meetings attended

Administrative tasks completed

Outputs are:

Words written

Ideas clarified

Arguments strengthened

Figures drafted

Decisions made

Inputs feel virtuous. Outputs feel vulnerable. Inputs can be counted, but outputs must be judged. And in truth outputs never feel enough – we are our worst critics and most of us feel inadequate a lot of the time, me included.

But outputs are what accumulate into papers, grants, books and intellectual contribution. And this is where the mythology of the research time block enters.

“Just block out research time,” the mantra goes.

It is common advice — and often sensible advice. Protect the morning. Guard two hours and mark it as non-negotiable. Close the door; shut out the world. Time blocks are useful. They signal seriousness and create boundaries. They protect space in environments that fragment attention. But here is the danger: we begin to equate the block itself with progress.

Two hours blocked becomes two hours achieved — even if little moved forward. The block becomes an input. What matters, however, is the output and the momentum of the research journey. If we focus on the block, we find it difficult to do work outside the block, yet those stolen moments keep momentum going.

It is perfectly possible to sit in a beautifully protected two-hour research block and produce nothing of consequence. It is equally possible to steal twenty focused minutes between commitments and move a paper significantly forward. Or to come up with the perfect interpretation on a winter’s walk. Quality of time beats quantity of time. A concentrated twenty-minute burst that restructures an argument may be more valuable than an entire morning of distracted presence.

Time blocks are scaffolding, not magic. They protect opportunity; they do not guarantee creativity. As one of you said in last week’s session: mood matters. Research thinking does not switch on and off according to the calendar. Ideas incubate while walking between meetings. Arguments form while supervising a student and connections appear while teaching. I find that some of my most productive moments come when I am using my wife, research collaborator and colleague as a sounding board. My “talking brain” can suddenly hit on an idea. Is this research time – yes. Is it at my keyboard no, more often than not it over a coffee in the local coffee shop.

If we believe research only happens inside designated blocks, we create unnecessary pressure. When the block arrives and the mood is wrong, or the problem still unclear, frustration follows. We conclude the block “failed.”

But perhaps the block did not fail. Perhaps we misunderstood its purpose. The block is not the work. The work is what moves and every step is momentum and momentum is what counts.

Some of you ask: “How do I defend the time I block out for research?”

My response is different: “How do you make the time you have count?”

And a more helpful question at the end of a week is not: “How many hours did I spend on research?”

But: “What moved forward?”

The excuse route sounds like this: “I didn’t have time.”

The focused — and more empowering — route sounds different: “This is what I achieved.”

Cold realism matters here. There are weeks when I have worked hard — genuinely hard — and yet little advanced. Busyness masked the absence of output. When I am writing a book for example, progress can feel painfully slow. I may be working on several chapters simultaneously, with nothing finished and everything open. The task feels overwhelming. I become irritable and every interruption — professional or personal — feels like sabotage. That is precisely the moment to complete something. Anything. Finish a section. Close a chapter draft. Resolve a figure. Send a paragraph to a colleague. The visible tick of a milestone restores a sense of momentum. Progress across multiple fronts is still progress — but it does not always feel like progress. I cannot work “sausage-like,” finishing one neat product before beginning the next. I tend to have multiple projects competing for attention. I enjoy that diversity. It allows me to match task to mood and time available. But even in that diversity, completion matters. Momentum is emotional as much as intellectual.

And this is where vocation enters again. If research were merely a career requirement — a performance metric or promotion criterion — perhaps busyness would be enough. Hours logged might satisfy the system. But for many of us, research is not just career. It is vocation. It is how we express curiosity. It is how we create. It is how we contribute.

When nothing moves, something deeper than the CV feels stuck. The frustration is not simply professional — it is existential. We feel blocked because our creative identity is blocked. That is why outputs matter. Not because of REF scores. Not because of annual reviews. But because movement affirms who we are.

Momentum sustains vocation. Time blocks protect space. Mood influences depth. Output determines progress and momentum sustains identity.

The calendar is not the measure of success. Movement is. And for those of us who see research not as a job but as a calling, protecting movement is not indulgence. It is preservation.

Procrastination and Momentum

 

Does the early bird really catch the worm?

For years I assumed so. Most management gurus certainly think so. Start early. Act immediately. Move fast. Don’t delay.

But a while ago, when preparing a lecture on time management, I began to question this assumption. I had just read Adam Grant’s Originals (2016) — a book I regularly recommend. In it, Grant makes a provocative argument: procrastination has its place[1]. He describes unpublished research by one of his students. Groups were asked to develop business plans for a new campus shop. One group began immediately. The other was instructed to delay starting — effectively procrastinating by playing video games before beginning the task.

The procrastinators produced more creative ideas.

Grant’s explanation is subtle but important. While “procrastinating,” the students were still thinking about the task — subconsciously turning it over. Immediate action can lock in conventional thinking. Deliberate delay allows ideas to incubate. Late movers sometimes outperform first movers because they are not simply reacting; they are reflecting.

But — and this is crucial — the successful procrastinators did not leave it too late. They delayed the start. They did not delay the finish. That is a very different thing from the avoidance most of us associate with procrastination.

Strategic Delay or Avoidance?

This is not the message most of us want to give to students struggling with deadlines. Nor has Grant’s argument gone unchallenged. Critics rightly point out that delay can quickly slide into panic[2]. What Grant describes might be better termed strategic delay — or perhaps more accurately, incubation.

Incubation means:

• Taking time to consider options before committing.
• Allowing ideas to settle and combine.
• Learning from others who start first.
• Waiting for additional information.
• Reflecting before acting.

The risk is obvious: less time remains for execution. The closer one gets to the deadline, the more pressure builds — and pressure spills over into other commitments. So perhaps the balanced position is this:

• Planning an early start is wise.
• Allowing space for reflective delay can improve originality.
• But something must be happening during the delay.

If nothing is happening — no thought, no mental engagement — it is not incubation. It is avoidance.

Research Does Not Only Happen in Blocks

This connects to a wider issue in academic life: the mythology of the research time block. If we believe research can only happen under perfect conditions — long uninterrupted stretches, free from teaching, admin, or interruption — then research occurs in fits and starts.

I often hear variations of:

“That’s a big piece of work. I’ll start it after teaching finishes.”

“I need the summer.”

“I need a clear week.”

But the free time we imagine rarely materialises in the way we hope. The task remains undone. Meanwhile, it gathers emotional weight — guilt, anxiety, avoidance. Yet research is not only what happens when we sit at the keyboard. If you are thinking about the task between meetings, while walking across campus, in the shower, during other academic work — you are making progress. That is incubation and that is movement. And movement matters.

Momentum Over Perfection

Imagine pushing a heavy truck. The hardest part is getting it moving. Once momentum builds, the force required to keep it rolling decreases. But stop it — and you must begin again from zero. Research is similar.

Stopping and starting — waiting for the perfect block — can be more costly than stealing small moments consistently. A rough paragraph written in twenty minutes. A sketch of an outline. A reworked figure caption. An email to a co-author.

Small pushes keep the intellectual engine turning. Momentum builds confidence. Momentum reduces fear. Momentum makes you more resilient to interruption.

Waiting for perfect conditions often kills momentum. And without momentum, research becomes emotionally heavier each day.

 

Time Blocks: Helpful, But Not Sufficient

Blocking research time is valuable. It signals seriousness. It protects space. It creates boundaries. But blocks are scaffolding, not magic.

Research thinking often happens outside the block. Incubation happens in the margins. And sometimes a frantic few minutes of focused thought can move a project further than a carefully scheduled but poorly aligned two-hour session.

The danger lies in believing:

“Research only happens when I have proper time.”

It doesn’t. Research happens when the mind remains engaged — and when we are willing to act on that engagement, however briefly.

The Balance

Perhaps the truth is this:

Start early — but allow reflection.

Delay deliberately — but not indefinitely.

Book time — but don’t worship the block.

Incubate ideas — but deliver before the deadline.

And above all: Keep the truck moving. Momentum is often more powerful than perfection.

[1] See also: https://www.nytimes.com/2016/01/17/opinion/sunday/why-i-taught-myself-to-procrastinate.html

[2] https://procrastinus.com/2016/04/07/the-original-myth-procrastination-as-a-source-of-creativity/ and also https://www.psychologytoday.com/gb/blog/dont-delay/201601/procrastination-virtue-creativity-why-its-false

(C) Matthew Bennett, 2026.