Our enduring love affair with ideas

 

As a screenwriter, I used to write two episodes a week for a soap opera.  A question I get a lot: "Where did you get your ideas from?"

The honest answer? I have no idea. Creativity can both be an ethereal spirit that descends into the human soul, or a random spillover from a frantic brain –no more than mental slop sloshing out of a bucket.

It is always about the ideas. Nobody ever asked me where I found the time to do all that writing, which is the real challenge for me.

It is partly because creativity receives universal respect. We look at a modern art installation of rubber balls floating in a bowl of treacle with a stuffed porcupine in the middle, and something tells us we should be in awe of the marvelous process that has unfolded right in front of us. Apparently, something creative has happened and an idea has been shaped into being.

Now we as the audience are supposed to figure out what it means. Add a pinch of societal pressure ("You don't get it? I do!") and a dash of doubt ("I think I get it..?") and the art installation has done its job: it has made you think. Or in art-speak: "it has invited you to explore the boundaries of rationality through a mix of conflicting media and tenuous, elusive physical and metaphysical connections".

 So when did the real creativity drop in? Was it during the making of the installation, or at the moment you make your interpretations? Or both? Some kind of value has been generated, obviously, because we now have more than what we started with. You should claim some of that value.

We worship creativity and can't get enough of it.  Not being creative is definitely not cool. Creativity is also considered humanity's life raft: the spine-tingling cold draft that AI has brought in has turned into a strong wind of change and many mundane (read: uncreative) jobs may soon be on the line. The good news is that true creativity is still the realm of human beings. Or is it?

Let me pump the brakes here. I am not debating whether machine-based creativity can pass a Turing test (it can) or whether the face of Michael Jackson drawn into cappuccino foam is art (I don't care - I just want my coffee). I am advocating something else altogether: let's forget about creativity for a moment and focus on the work that piles up around it.

The reason I was able to write two episodes of soap opera per week was ultimately because I suffered from what was probably undiagnosed ADHD. I had a master's degree in time-wasting, with a second  in procrastination and distraction. I had enough creative ideas, but just could not focus on them long enough to turn them into results. My creativity was the racing engine and my short attention span and lack of perseverance were the smoking brakes holding me in place. I was my own worst enemy.

What saved me was structure.

Writing a prime-time network soap is not just hard work, it is teamwork. It takes a well-oiled machine consisting of showrunners, storyliners, writers and editors to churn out episodes with clockwork precision and perfect uniformity over time. Scenes are timed precisely, down to the second. Stories have to be handed over seamlessly from one writer to the next to ensure continuity. Deadlines are completely non-negotiable. A good soap is an endless baloney sausage factory: pigs and spices go in at one end, uniform lunch slices coming out the other. There is no room for egos, creative wandering or writer's block. In a sausage factory, there are no irresolute cooks.

It was both exhilarating and empowering. I was surprised how much I thrived in such a rigid, high-pressure environment. Of course you need some inspiration for a job that requires you to pump out two divorces, an illegal adoption, a murder and a good handful of infidelities in a single month, but creativity became a given, something to be assumed, no big deal – not the most important thing. Creativity was dethroned and forced to take a back seat:Shut up, muse; we have work to do!"

By putting the horse behind the carriage, my carriage was now able to move. Creativity followed action. Deadlines became the motor. The reason I could overcome my distractions was simple: when the focus is not on creativity but on the process, there is always something you can do. Unlike inspiration, which is unpredictable and unquantifiable, any process can be broken into smaller tasks, until you eventually get to a task that is small enough to fit even the attention span of a fruit fly.

I was liberated. Instead of staring at a blank screen, trying to catch the elusive whispers of the inspiring but ethereal ideas in my head, I would say "Shut up, Muse" out loud and go to work. As if by miracle, creativity would not disappear but meekly stand by, ready to seep into the workflow when I commanded it to appear.

A pinch of spice is all you need. A slight dusting of fresh thoughts, and a dash of insight – and then it is time to go to work.