Allen (in his backyard in Ojai, California) says his goal is to be free from thinking about anything he has to do. *

Photo: Robyn Twomey * The invention of the minute hand is often attributed to the great Swiss clock maker Joost Bürgi, whose work in the late 16th century coincided with a burst of technical innovation in clock making that would eventually bring whole new opportunities for guilt and shame. Along with all your other problems, you could now be late.

"There's a big owie out there," says David Allen, who specializes in curing the psychic pain caused by the pressure of time. Allen's work has become the touchstone of the life-hacking movement, a loosely knit network of psychological self-experimenters who share tips about how small changes in human behavior can bring big rewards in happiness. Allen's book Getting Things Done: The Art of Stress-Free Productivity has steadily climbed the best-seller lists since its release in 2001, but the best evidence of its influence is not the 600,000 copies in print but rather the endless network of spinoffs, how-to guides, software versions, and online commentaries by readers who interpret, criticize, and extend his theories.

Allen's approach is not inspirational. Instead, it is detailed and dry. But within his advice about how to label a file folder or how many minutes to allot to an incoming email there is a spiritual promise. He says there is a state of blessed calm available to those who have taken careful measure of their habits and made all the changes suggested by reason. Nirvana comes by routine steps, as an algorithm drives a machine.

Allen is not a dramatic presenter. A fit, sandy-haired, soft-spoken man who only recently traded his glasses for contacts, he can be funny and wry, but his normal mode is discursive. "Our inspirational factor is a wink," he explains one night over dinner in a small restaurant in Chicago. "We say, ‘Buy a labeler for your files and you will transform your life,' wink."

Allen is in Chicago to give one of his daylong seminars, for which several hundred people will pay nearly $600 each for help putting GTD, as his method is known, into practice. Many readers of Getting Things Done apply one or two of the book's tricks, like the process Allen recommends for emptying an overstuffed email inbox, and then they stall. Some of them come to seminars like this. Allen himself is unsure if it helps. He realizes that his system can be difficult and that he's often accused of going overboard with elaborate schemes. He responds with a shrug. "Look, the workings of an automatic transmission are more complicated than a manual transmission," he says. "To simplify a complex event, you need a complex system."

While the instructions in Getting Things Done are baroque, the underlying ideas can be summarized in an axiom and three rules:

THE AXIOM

Humans have a problem with stuff. Allen defines stuff as anything we want or need to do. A tax form has the same status as a marriage proposal; a book to write is no different than a grocery list. It's all stuff.

THE RULES

1. Collect and describe all the stuff. Everything must be inventoried without distinction or prejudice. Errands, emails, a problem with a friend: It all must be noted for processing. Small objects, such as an invitation or a receipt, go into a pile. Everything else can be represented with a few words on a piece of paper ("find keys," "change jobs"). Once the stuff is collected, processing begins. Anything that requires two minutes or less is handled on the spot. The remainder is governed by the second rule.

2. All stuff must be handled in a precise way. Allen offers dozens of clever tricks for classifying, labeling, and retrieving stuff. Expert users of GTD never leave old emails cluttering their inbox, for instance. Nor do they have to rifle through a bunch of paper to see if there's anything crucial they've left undone. Emails to be answered are in a separate folder from emails that merely have to be read; there's a file for every colleague and friend; stuff that must be done has been identified and placed on one of several kinds of to-do lists. Allen calls his to-do lists next-action lists, which are subject to the third rule.

3. Items on next-action lists should be described as concretely as possible. Breaking down stuff into physical actions, Allen says, is the key to getting things done.

The system Allen describes can be made of anything: ink on paper, data in a computer, magnets on a board. The important thing is not the materials but the way the parts connect. In essence, Getting Things Done: The Art of Stress-Free Productivity is a flowchart for stuff, and the book's most important page contains no paragraphs. It is just a diagram, with more than 20 nodes and arrows showing how to process our thoughts.

The very complexity of Allen's method — its relentless, small-scale cleverness — is doubtless one of the things that recommends it to the many technical people among his fans. But there's something else at work. Allen is remaking the self-help tradition for the information age. The contrast with earlier schemes is instructive. The two most influential self-organization gurus of the 1980s and 1990s were Stephen R. Covey and Hyrum W. Smith. Covey is the author of The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People; Smith is the founder of the company that created the Franklin Day Planner. (The two men merged their companies in 1997.) While Covey and Smith each offer many practical tips, they both start with philosophical reflection.

"Begin with the end in mind," writes Covey in 7 Habits, advising us to craft a mission statement that captures the fundamental purpose of our life. Smith, in The 10 Natural Laws of Successful Time and Life Management, reminds us that Ben Franklin "first identified his governing values, then he made a concerted effort to live his life, day in, day out, according to these values." This emphasis on values, and more generally on the spiritual meaning of life, is the common thread through the genre, back to the original American self-help entrepreneur.

Allen has almost nothing to say on these topics. He likes to describe his system as a "bottom up" approach, by which he means that life's values emerge from its tiniest component actions, rather than a top-down approach that starts with deep thought. He compares the person working at a desk with a person walking through the forest. There is a surfeit of things that one could possibly pay attention to, and the primary task is to pick out, from the surrounding environment, those signals that require processing. "Any email could be either a snake in the grass or a berry," he says. "Which is it?" To resolve this question by reference to one's highest purpose would be inefficient. When it comes to processing incoming signals, Allen recommends sorting by the most immediate criteria: How long will it take, what is your location, what devices do you have at hand, what other people are present? These direct, contextual cues do not demand any profound insight. Tasks can be assessed extremely rapidly and executed without friction. Where earlier gurus tried to help their followers make their deep personal commitments explicit and easily accessible to memory, Allen is selling a kind of technology-enabled forgetting. The life-hackers like it because it stimulates their ingenuity. They have optimized versions for the iPhone, for Entourage, and for sets of manila folders. Once self-management has been broken down into a set of routines, it can be implemented in any number of high tech or low tech systems.

Allen says his goal is to be free from worrying about anything he has to do. His techniques allow him the pleasure of having, much of the time, nothing on his mind. "People are afraid of the void, afraid of negative space," he says. "But having nothing on your mind is one of the most awesome experiences."

The only thing Allen was allowed to have in his possession at Napa State Hospital was a spoon. "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was pretty accurate," he says of the time he spent as a mental patient, "and Napa was one of the good hospitals."

Allen arrived in California in 1968 to start a PhD program in American history at UC Berkeley. At 22, he was adventurous, well-traveled, a bit immature. He got married shortly after enrolling, and he remembers himself as rather too hungry for approval. "I had a motorcycle, but not the coolest one," he says. "I took drugs, but I wasn't the most outrageous. I got along with everybody."

These were dangerous years for young men unsure of their authenticity, and one day at a party Allen sat down next to a charismatic liar named Michael Bookbinder. He'd been a Formula One racer and also a paratrooper. He played flamenco guitar and knew karate. His costume included silk shirts with huge collars and puffy sleeves "in the manner of a gay buccaneer," as an acquaintance later recalled. He wore pancake makeup. He was a heroin user.

Bookbinder and Allen became close. Bookbinder taught him karate, and soon Allen was using heroin, too. He left his marriage, abandoned his academic training, and eventually found himself out on the street, practically penniless, "crucified psychically," as he would later put it, "absolutely at the bottom physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually." Worried about the radical change in his behavior, some of Allen's friends had him committed in 1971. At the mental hospital, Allen received stark lessons in simulated obedience. He learned to hide his psychiatric medication under his tongue instead of refusing it or spitting it out, and he studied what the medical staff seemed to want of him, so that they would pronounce him cured. "I made a decision to institute a high state of cooperation with the world again," he says.

After a brief period of hospitalization, he was released. Teaching karate to earn money, Allen struggled to pull his life together. One day, a student told him of receiving assistance from a spiritual master who balanced her aura. Allen sought him out. "In 10 seconds I knew he had something to teach," Allen says. "And in 35 years I haven't yet gotten to the end of it."

The man who put him on a new path was then at the inflection point in a long and varied spiritual enterprise. Roger Hinkins was born during the Depression in a poor mining town in central Utah. By the early '70s he had been introduced to Eckankar by its founder, Paul Twitchell, learned esoteric philosophy from a correspondence course, changed his name to Sri John-Roger, started a series of spiritual seminars, and given up his work as a high school teacher to found a church called the Movement of Spiritual Inner Awareness. The movement's theology holds that John-Roger is the Mystical Traveler, a benevolent consciousness guiding mankind, who in the past has appeared as Jesus, St. Francis of Assisi, and Abraham Lincoln, among others. Some of the devotees lived in a Los Angeles mansion called the Purple Rose Ashram of the New Age. Allen was, and still is, a minister in the church.

When Allen met him, John-Roger earned money by selling transcripts of the Mystical Traveler's teachings, known as Soul Awareness Discourses. But in 1977, as a general reaction against the more colorful elements of the counterculture set in, he explored new directions. With a devotee named Russell Bishop, John-Roger launched the Insight Seminars, a largely secular program that soon found its way into major US corporations. Insight was not alone in bringing New Age philosophy into corporate training during the next decade. By the mid-'80s many corporate employees were being sent to classes and seminars taught by quasi-religious self-improvement groups like Lifespring, Transformational Technologies, and other branches of what was known, collectively, as the human potential movement. David Allen became an Insight trainer, and by 1983 he was consulting at Lockheed, where he began to filter the powerful techniques of the personal-growth movement through the pragmatic grid of corporate human resources.

Allen gets things done in his personal headquarters, a modest office in the guesthouse behind his home.

Photo: Robyn TwomeyThat the inventor of their favorite system of personal organization has a decades-long devotion to New Age thinking causes fits of squeamishness among GTD fans. "If indeed GTD was conceived, implemented, and marketed with the intentions of drawing people into the MSIA cult," wrote one member of the popular productivity forum, 43folders.com, "how do we, as conscientious individuals, avoid becoming prey within the trap?" Allen explains that while he won't hide his beliefs, he doesn't want his personal faith confused with the message he has for people today. "The Marriott family supports the Mormon Church," he points out, but nobody refuses to sleep in their hotels.

Of course, a hotel is not an installed thought process, which is the way Allen describes GTD. Given that users of his system entwine GTD with their daily habits, it's only natural that they would wonder about its antecedents. GTD is pitched to rationalists. Such people tend to be cautious when considering schemes to change their life.

But in truth, Allen is not running a cult-recruitment program, nor is he merely putting a secular gloss on New Age tradition. He is reworking this tradition, increasing its utility as he narrows its scope. In Getting Things Done, the overreaching claims of cultlike programs disappear, leaving mainly the ingenious mental tricks. In many branches of the New Age and human potential movements, for instance, students are taught to relieve themselves of unwelcome thoughts. In Werner Erhard's est and in its descendant, Landmark Forum, mental noise is "a racket." Scientology says that the static in our heads is caused by "engrams." In GTD the problem is stuff.

At his seminar, Allen asks the audience to try to capture all their stuff by writing a list, and at the end of a few minutes he tells us to look at the list and think about the way it makes us feel. He guesses that our feelings include a mixture of grief and relief. The relief, he suggests, comes from the simple fact of making the list. But where does the grief come from? "These items represent agreements you haven't kept with yourself," Allen says. "What happens when you break an agreement with yourself is that your self-esteem plummets."

Allen recommends that we take regular comprehensive inventory of our intentions, which he calls open loops. Any open loop requiring more than one action is a project, and projects, naturally, go on a list. The project list is not a reminder of values or deeply held beliefs. Rather, it is an exhaustive external repository meant to capture every single thing that you may want to do. The project list must contain everything, otherwise unlisted items will return to our minds at unwelcome moments and cause suffering. A New Age cliché holds that every intention generates a chain of spiritual effects we ignore at our peril. This is karma. In GTD, karma makes the last stage of its journey from a Hindu theory of cosmic justice to a rational tool in the American self-help kit. Karma is now just an open loop.

One of the very best tricks Allen recommends involves reworking one of the New Age movement's most dubious ideas: the theory we can control destiny with our mind. From Phineas Quimby, the 19th-century mind-cure doctor, down through a powerful line of magical optimists including Mary Baker Eddy, Norman Vincent Peale, and the producers of The Secret, an inflated sense of the power of thought is characteristic. Werner Erhard's followers would tell people at est seminars that they had thought themselves into cancer.

Allen's practical suggestions on how to turn thoughts into reality sharply distinguish him from his predecessors. His advice is so simple as to appear simpleminded. He insists that nothing should ever appear on a to-do list that is not a specific, concrete action expressed at the most practical level of detail. Do not write "set up a meeting," for instance. Instead, write "call to set up a meeting." "If you just say you are going to set up the meeting," he says, "then that leaves a question open: How are you going to do it? Are you going to call? Are you going to email? It's like having a monkey on your back that won't shut up." Allen's voice shifts into a more taunting register. "How are you going to do it? How are you going to do it? Somebody shut up the monkey!"

The difference between issuing an invitation by email and issuing it over the phone seems perversely minuscule. But in practice, as Allen points out, the question of how to communicate is often freighted with unarticulated anxieties. His mandate to resolve apparently trivial issues serves as a kind of research tool, bringing to light aspects of work that are otherwise felt only as vague concerns. And when it is difficult to find a simple physical action that can advance a project, it is a sign that the project may be unrealistic or even impossible. This is an excellent thing to know in advance.

Allen is careful to attribute credit for his focus on specific action to a business consultant he met in the early '80s named Dean Acheson (no relation to President Truman's secretary of state). But the emphasis on gaining efficiency through precisely described actions has a legacy almost as long as positive thinking. In 1906, the same year the great Yogi Ramacharaka (aka William Walker Atkinson) published his seminal work of magical optimism, Thought Vibration or the Law of Attraction in the Thought World, Frederick Winslow Taylor took over as president of the American Society of Mechanical Engineers. Taylor, whose book The Principles of Scientific Management introduced the concept of efficiency to a whole generation, was famous for using a stopwatch to time manufacturing tasks as a way of demonstrating how much more productive workers could be. Workers hated Taylorism, especially when it was implemented through brutal piece-rates and a general reduction of wages. But Taylor's emphasis on breaking down everything into small steps, and his prediction that a choreography of work could lead to previously unimaginable efficiency, formed the basis of a hundred years of managerial high hopes.

One of Taylor's most controversial proposals was that labor and analysis should be strictly divided. The boss plans, and the hired man executes. Workers who don't need to think ahead can go faster, while observant managers benefit from unfettered clarity. One way to understand Getting Things Done is to see it as Taylorism for knowledge workers, those poor — or privileged — souls who must handle both sides of this equation in the same consciousness. The boss is nowhere in sight, and yet the demands never cease. As ever-more complicated communication networks both extend our reach and hem us in, Allen's strict routines supply exact instructions on how to manage ourselves.

Allen lives in a modest house on an acre of land in Ojai, California. The oaks are very old, as is the giant Aleppo pine in his front yard. There is a greenhouse for the orchids his wife, Kathryn, raises, and a shed for the bonsai trees Allen regularly kills while trying to master the craft. He enjoys learning bonsai, because it takes years to fully understand the consequences of his actions, and this strikes him as salutary. Now that his company, which handles trainings and a growing Web business, has grown to 32 employees and $6 million in annual revenue, he is constructing a building in downtown Ojai to house it. His personal headquarters is still in the small guesthouse at the back of his property, with indoor-outdoor carpet on the floor, a plain desk in the entryway for an assistant, and a 100-square-foot office where he works when not on the road.

A photograph of this office shows up in his presentations, where it illustrates the point that Getting Things Done is not about special equipment. Almost everything in the room is ordinary. There are six Herman Miller two-drawer filing cabinets, a low desk that takes up the better part of two walls, an inbox, a heavy-duty stapler, a to-read file, a laser printer, a scanner, and sound-recording equipment for the interviews he conducts by telephone and publishes on his Web site. On this workday Allen is wearing jeans, a knit shirt, loafers, and a quilted vest. Like other successful small proprietors, he has a custom license plate on his car that advertises his business. It says GTD GUY.

Allen is grappling with all the normal challenges of a person who does not have a deep hierarchy above or below him, who is required to make countless small decisions, and who has limited ability to pass mundane tasks off to others. He sets his own goals and uses his own methods to achieve them. Allen's list of open loops includes getting GTD adopted in schools, learning to type 80 words a minute, becoming better at small talk, and achieving a high net worth. This ambitious mind-set, with its combination of boldness and conventionality, says something about where *Getting Things Done *is coming from, and to whom it is aimed. The book is for people who are striving hard. "The people who take to GTD are the most organized people," Allen says, "but they self-assess as the least organized, because they are well-enough organized to know that they are fucking up." Allen would no more crowd his mental environment with unprocessed email in his inbox than he would go to bed in filthy clothes, or stop brushing his teeth. "The scuzz factor gets too high," he says.

Allen's words, with their suggestion of personal shame, hint at something that goes beyond mere practicality. They suggest an increase in the demands of civilization, a change in what sociologist Norbert Elias called our habitus, by which he meant our normal psychological organization, our comportment. As these changes become the norm, they turn invisible. It takes some effort to remember that a medieval nabob in fine clothes probably ate with his hands and blew his nose onto the floor, or that self-help authors of an earlier age had to point out that it was rude for dinner guests to spit unchewed food into their hands. Today, we have different problems to work out. Allen speculates it will soon be thought remarkable that civilized human beings once walked around with their brains polluted by stuff.

Among the normal array of equipment in Allen's office, one item stands out. It is an hourglass with two minutes of sand. Any clock would serve equally well to mark the strict interval GTD gives us to process something the first time we handle it, but Allen's hourglass is as much a talisman as a practical tool. In a medieval painting, it would symbolize death. Here, the hourglass is a symbol of virtue. It regulates our attention. It guards our self-esteem. The guru of Getting Things Done is living by the standards of the future, and his hourglass is an icon of an emerging civilization whose exacting demands we may all someday be expected to meet.

Contributing editor Gary Wolf (gary@aether.com) wrote about atheism in issue 14.11.