I.

Isn't it wonderful how much writing teaches us? I'm amazed that I can learn so much from putting one word in front of another. Writing refines my thoughts, and gives me new ones; I often only discover what I wanted to say when I'm finishing the conclusion. I don't even need to start from anywhere clever: have I said anything yet that isn't a common observation?

Why then, is this insight so hard to remember? When I want to be creative, I often go looking for something novel. I try to find an insight, or an idea, which will crack the problem immediately. I search for the destination, rather than the trailhead.

What I really should do is to remember to start.

II.

Why does starting work? One reason is that it creates a context with which to ask interesting questions. If you play a game of chess, you start with moves that have been played many times before. But as the game progresses, you soon reach a position few others have ever seen. It's here that you can make a new move, something no one has played before. The rich context of a half-played game allows you to find something new.

Writing is the same way. This essay started on well-trodden ground, but as I continue, my thoughts narrow and travel to someplace new.¹ Good ideas stand on the shoulder of giants. Sometimes those giants are other people; sometimes they are the previous four paragraphs.

In a similar way, I started this blog by accident. For a couple of years, I knew that I wanted to write online, but not what I wanted to write. I got stuck thinking about what to say in my intro post, and never finished anything. This time around, I published a couple of posts before I tried to define the blog, and I found the character of my writing grow up around me. My first essays weren't good, but they led me somewhere. They built a context.

III.

A similar lesson applies when I'm stuck in the middle of a project. A mediocre essay, or an isolated shard of song, can feel every bit as desolate as the empty page. Here, my instincts again reach for The Edit which will free me, rather than finding any place to start. Just doing something helps me explore, and makes later progress easier, even if that means restarting from scratch.² Partly, that's because any action builds momentum. But also, working massages the context into revealing new paths.

This isn't to say that continuing is easy. At a standstill, any momentum is daunting, and when I'm stuck, everything I do feels wrong. But again, focusing on the context makes it easier. Nothing I do has to end up in the final version; I just need to build forwards in time to inform my later efforts. And somehow, that works! Every time I dive back into writing, it feels like I resurface with new riches. I may not realize what I've gained in the moment, but these small blessings accumulate. I can tend to my writing (or my music) in many ways now, even if some turn up dry.

IV.

It's been almost a month since I've finished a post on this blog, and I've sat longer yet on this draft. So really, I'm writing this essay to myself. Future Kai, remember: when you want to be creative, nurture your context.

Notes