I keep a running list of half-started things: a novel with three earnest first chapters, a notebook of collaged ideas for a zine, a website draft that still uses Comic Sans because I was distracted, a sourdough starter that somehow survived a week in the back of the fridge. They live in different folders, drawers and the quiet corners of my head. Like many people, I feel both guilty and slightly thrilled by the possibility that any one of them could become the next thing that matters.
Deciding which unfinished project deserves your time is one of those surprisingly painful choices. You want to be honest about value and energy, but you also want to preserve the joy that propelled you into starting in the first place. Over the years I’ve developed a brisk, five-minute test that helps me answer the question without overthinking it. It’s not perfect, but it’s quick and clarifying—and it treats creative inclinations with a bit of kindness.
The five-minute test: quick setup
Set a timer for five minutes. Have paper or a note app ready. Pick the project you’re considering. Then run through the following checkpoints, answering as candidly as you can. Each item is meant to expose a different dimension: energy, feasibility, impact, and delight. You’ll end with a simple snapshot that tells you whether to keep going, pause, or let go.
Checkpoint 1 — “If I had to start it tomorrow, would I actually do it?”
This is a gut test. Imagine tomorrow morning: the alarm goes off, you have 30 minutes before the day fills up. Would you reach for this project?
Circle one of: Yes / Maybe / No.
Why it matters: intention is different from intention-plus-action. Projects that are truly alive tend to call you into small, repeatable actions. If the answer is “No,” the project may mostly exist as a comforting idea, not a practical commitment.
Checkpoint 2 — “What problem does this solve (for me or others)?”
Write one sentence. Not: “It will be beautiful,” but something more concrete: “It helps me write a novel that explores my childhood,” or “It reduces the time I spend searching for recipes.”
If you can’t find a clear sentence, ask: whose life will be better because of this, and how?
Checkpoint 3 — “How much work is actually left?”
Write a realistic estimate: hours, days, or months. Be honest—don’t confuse romantic thinking with logistics. If you truly don’t know, break the project into three parts (start, middle, finish) and estimate each.
Why it matters: the same five hours feel different if a project needs five focused hours versus a five-hour slog every weekend for three months. Match scope to your appetite.
Checkpoint 4 — “What will I sacrifice to do this?”
List the obvious trade-offs: fewer weekend walks, less time with a partner, less sleep, or the money you’ll need to spend. Include emotional trade-offs, too—will finishing this mean setting aside another dream?
Trade-off clarity keeps projects from becoming stealth demands on your life.
Checkpoint 5 — “Do I want to be known for this?”
Picture telling a friend, “I finished it.” What do they say? Does it feel like you? This is a values check—some projects are exercises; others stake a claim on identity.
Quick scoring and decision table
Now give each checkpoint a score: Yes = 2, Maybe = 1, No = 0 for checkpoint 1; for the others use a scale of 0–2 where 2 is most favorable. Add up the total out of 10.
| Score 8–10 | Green light. Schedule it. Find a tiny first step and do it this week. |
| Score 5–7 | It’s promising but needs trimming. Can you reduce scope, partner up, or reframe the goal so it matches available time? |
| Score 0–4 | Let it rest. Archive the idea and set a six-month review instead of forcing completion now. |
The follow-up minute: name one tiny next step
Whatever your score, finish the five-minute test by writing one actionable next step that takes no more than 30 minutes. Examples:
Small steps preserve momentum and reduce the intimidation that keeps projects dormant.
Some rules I use when I apply the test
- Beware of “shiny new project” bias. New ideas feel urgent because they’re novel. Compare them to projects that have already proven they sustain energy.
- Recognize honorable pauses. Sometimes pausing a project is itself the best decision; growth isn't always about finishing faster.
- Set limits for “perpetually unfinished” projects. I give each recurring project a deadline to either produce something small (a chapter, a prototype) or be archived.
- Use outside accountability sparingly. A friend or a small public commitment—publishing a launch date on a site like W Oswald Co—can help, but choose people who ask curious questions rather than pressure you.
- Protect low-energy creativity. If a project is joyful but not urgent—like an experimental collage zine—keep short, regular sessions so it stays alive without consuming you.
When to let go (and how to do it kindly)
Deciding to stop is not failure. It’s a calibration. If the test sends you to the “archive” column, do three things before you file it away: write one sentence about why you started, capture the most useful fragment (a paragraph, a sketch), and set a six-month reminder. That way ideas don’t die; they just rest.
I once shelved a long essay because it felt repetitive of something I’d written before. It stung for a day, then felt freeing. Months later, a line from that draft became the epigraph of a different piece that found its audience. Archiving didn’t erase value; it preserved the right timing.
When the test surprises you
Sometimes the scoring will surprise you: a project you thought vital drains energy, or something you almost dismissed lights you up. Trust the surprise. I’ve started more meaningful work this way—by allowing curiosity to trump a checklist. The five-minute test is not a rigid algorithm; it’s a mirror that shows what you really want and what you’re ready to do.
Try it next time you stand before a pile of unfinished things. Five minutes gives you a compass reading rather than a sermon. And if you do decide to set one back in motion, tell someone. Conversation is what keeps curiosity alive—and the web is a small, patient place for creative experiments. If it helps, I publish occasional progress notes at W Oswald Co; sometimes the smallest public step is the one that keeps a project breathing.
