I find that there are exactly two ways that new ideas occur to me: instantly, or painstakingly.
The instant ideas just feel right. I know there's an insight there, or I know that a creative concept would be compelling and fun. Yes, there are ways to tease it out, ways to explore it, ways to riff on it. If I want to turn those thoughts into something really worthwhile, it takes time, because what's valuable about those thoughts are where they lead me. But the idea serves as motive and foundation: it keeps me centered, and it gives me space to stretch and bend and twist.
The painstaking ideas, on the other hand, are agonizingly elusive. I can usually only articulate them at the very end of whatever process they inspire. It feels like I'm on a search for something, and it's something I have to build to. I have to create the new tools that I'll need for my exploration. When I establish my foundation, it's with gritted teeth, and laid brick by brick by brick. There's some echolocation involved—or maybe just some Battleship. There's a lot of guess-and-check, a lot of hypotheses and testing, and a lot of scrapped hopefuls along the way.
These types of ideas serve two very different purposes. Call them something true and something new.
One is valuable for its clarity, its immediacy. You immediately know that something's there. Maybe it's insightful; maybe it's emotional; maybe it's funny; maybe it's catchy. Either way, it's something. And you know that if you can see it and feel it, other people can see it and feel it too.
The other is valuable for its obscurity, and it gets more valuable the more obscure it winds up being. There is nothing more exciting, and nothing more frustrating, than trying to research a thing and realizing that nobody is talking about it. That either you know the words people use to discuss this thing, or you don't know the cultures of people who are discussing it, or else it's not being discussed anywhere at all.
I'm a little amazed at people who spend their whole lives in pursuit of the something new. There are scientists, artists, philosophers, who are only driven to explore the places that nobody else has discovered. Time and again, they plunge into the unknown; time and again, they come back with something no one has seen before. I'm not sure how they do it, or how they have the patience. It takes a certain kind of personality, I think, to grapple with that for long without going completely insane.
Personally, I much prefer the instant stuff. I'm somewhat epicurean by nature: I like a project and I like a challenge, but I love simple pleasures and easy delights. I write pop songs and clever lyrics and short punchy stories. I like surprising little thoughts delivered with emphasis and emotion.
But time and again, I find myself drawn to those maddening unknowns. It's hard to catch a whiff of them and not obsess a little. It's like picking a scab, only infinitely more aggravating, and substantially better for the soul. And it's strange, as I pursue ideas like those, to feel like the thing I'm exploring has always existed, and was merely biding its time, waiting to be discovered. A puzzle waiting to be solved, perhaps. Or maybe a tapestry waiting to be woven together.
It's strange, but rewarding, to feel like you're on the precipice of something new. But the instant stuff, I think, is still more fun.
The instant ideas just feel right. I know there's an insight there, or I know that a creative concept would be compelling and fun. Yes, there are ways to tease it out, ways to explore it, ways to riff on it. If I want to turn those thoughts into something really worthwhile, it takes time, because what's valuable about those thoughts are where they lead me. But the idea serves as motive and foundation: it keeps me centered, and it gives me space to stretch and bend and twist.
The painstaking ideas, on the other hand, are agonizingly elusive. I can usually only articulate them at the very end of whatever process they inspire. It feels like I'm on a search for something, and it's something I have to build to. I have to create the new tools that I'll need for my exploration. When I establish my foundation, it's with gritted teeth, and laid brick by brick by brick. There's some echolocation involved—or maybe just some Battleship. There's a lot of guess-and-check, a lot of hypotheses and testing, and a lot of scrapped hopefuls along the way.
These types of ideas serve two very different purposes. Call them something true and something new.
One is valuable for its clarity, its immediacy. You immediately know that something's there. Maybe it's insightful; maybe it's emotional; maybe it's funny; maybe it's catchy. Either way, it's something. And you know that if you can see it and feel it, other people can see it and feel it too.
The other is valuable for its obscurity, and it gets more valuable the more obscure it winds up being. There is nothing more exciting, and nothing more frustrating, than trying to research a thing and realizing that nobody is talking about it. That either you know the words people use to discuss this thing, or you don't know the cultures of people who are discussing it, or else it's not being discussed anywhere at all.
I'm a little amazed at people who spend their whole lives in pursuit of the something new. There are scientists, artists, philosophers, who are only driven to explore the places that nobody else has discovered. Time and again, they plunge into the unknown; time and again, they come back with something no one has seen before. I'm not sure how they do it, or how they have the patience. It takes a certain kind of personality, I think, to grapple with that for long without going completely insane.
Personally, I much prefer the instant stuff. I'm somewhat epicurean by nature: I like a project and I like a challenge, but I love simple pleasures and easy delights. I write pop songs and clever lyrics and short punchy stories. I like surprising little thoughts delivered with emphasis and emotion.
But time and again, I find myself drawn to those maddening unknowns. It's hard to catch a whiff of them and not obsess a little. It's like picking a scab, only infinitely more aggravating, and substantially better for the soul. And it's strange, as I pursue ideas like those, to feel like the thing I'm exploring has always existed, and was merely biding its time, waiting to be discovered. A puzzle waiting to be solved, perhaps. Or maybe a tapestry waiting to be woven together.
It's strange, but rewarding, to feel like you're on the precipice of something new. But the instant stuff, I think, is still more fun.