Designing a new way to see, for writers and artists
Creative Resilience Week 2: What are your possibilities? Curiosity is the practice and a week-long prompt
“When I dare to be powerful, to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid.” —Audre Lorde
Friends, I’m headed back to campus, and I’m both excited to meet new students and not excited to sit in my closet-office beneath flurocent lights.
The thing that’s beautiful and laborious about academia is that everything is “research-based and groundbreaking.” Meanwhile, what’s groundbreaking, truly, is getting back to human decency. And while I won’t reflect on the news here, I know many of us are wondering how to do this.
I don’t know about you, but I crave the perspective of those who move lightly and with indominable strength in the opposite direction of much of where we see things headed (efficiency, accumulation, competition).
The true innovation in our world is taking simple actions that reflect a new way to respond, like walking across a country for peace. The Buddhist monks who have decided to take a 2,300 mile walk with a well-dressed dog, Aloka, to show their dedication to peace in a world that seems to be breaking at the seams … they offer a path that does break ground but simply reconnects us to it.
Recently, after putting on my new (hello, mid-40s!) readers with blue light blocking lens, I began reading about design thinking for the first time in a few years. This is a theory originating at Stanford that was all the rage in the academic world 10 years ago. Perhaps it still is. As such, DT is a concept that I remember I wanted to dismiss initially as more academics selling the fundamentals of creativity to corporate types who will monetize anything creative as “innovation,” BUT when I dove back into it, I checked my cynicism and remembered that this is mostly about … just making stuff.
Taking action in a new direction and being a little more open to see how it goes.
In some ways, creative people already have a designer’s mindset, but to me, this concept is a specific way to package permission to think a little more flexibly, and creatives need this reminder as much as anyone (especially those of us who have been at it awhile).
So here’s my non-academic, non-expert, non-scientific interpretation of the DT mindset. Maybe it’s not about being groundbreaking, but finding a gentle reminder to listen deeper to what we already know.
Here are a few fundamentals, which I’ve adapted slightly to writing.
“Ask the right questions to open consciousness and elevate the mind.” — Marina Abramović
Begin by listening to the world and yourself (practice basic awareness)
Identify a question you want to answer, which sometimes emerges mid-draft or mid-work (in fiction, this is generally the theme)
Experiment with performing less and playing more (get wild with ideas and be willing to fail, friends - this is the foundation of everything)
Approach drafting for drafting’s sake. Your first iterations or drafts need permission to be unfinished and even silly. Let me tell you … even THE Bob Ross (I AM an expert here) painted each painting multiple times before he felt it was truly ready for primetime
Return to the work with new perspective and allow yourself to be changed by what you’ve learned as you’ve iterated (you = change, not just the work getting better)
I like any idea that gives us permission to stay curious instead of full of self-important expertise. To me, DT is not the end-all, be-all, but it’s fueled by a philosophy I share. It says dive in and start and start again and keep going, treating your work like an ongoing conversation (which I’ll speak about more next week).
So here’s this week’s prompt, and it’s wild. Not necessarily a writing prompt alone, but do with it what you want. You’re creative, after all. This comes from DT.
In essence, it’s about charting out three very different life paths. For fiction writers, this could apply to your protagonist. For those of us who are interested in self-reflection, it can be a bit of play with possibility. What are three different ways your (your character’s) life could unfold in the coming year(s)?
Aim for 250 word responses to each.
What would your life look like if you stay the course you’re already on and nothing changes? Write.
What would your life look like if your biggest safety net was no longer there (for many of us, that’s our day job or basic security)? Write.
What might a wildcard future look like? Aha! This is the opportunity to get really creative. If all bets were off, might YOU walk across the country for peace? Go find a small Italian villa to hole up in and paint? Teach meditation to fourth graders? Write???
“Happiness is not something ready-made. It comes from your own actions.” —Dalai Lama
I’d complete these thougth experiments on different days, give yourself time, and let them be 250 words each.
If you try this exercise, please let me know how it went in the comments. The more we share, the more we’ll grow this community.
Next week, I’ll share more about the larger conversation of art/writing. In the meantime, if you have any writing prompts that are less typical or inspired by unlikely sources, I’d love to feature you.
Finally, paid subscribers and contributers to Unleash are invited here.
Source: Stanford’s Design Thinking Lab
**If I stay the course:**
I'll keep doing this—writing brilliant things that make a few people laugh, collecting rejections like baseball cards, telling myself "soon." My daughter will grow up watching me hunched over a laptop at 2 AM, and she'll either admire my dedication or resent my distraction. The cottage will keep leaking. I'll keep explaining to my therapist why I can't just "get a real job." My ex will keep using my artistic ambitions as evidence of instability. I'll have moments of triumph—a story published here, a reading there—but mostly I'll have the low-grade anxiety of not knowing if next month's rent will manifest. I'll be that person at parties who says "I'm a writer" with the same apologetic tone people use when admitting they're between jobs. I'll wonder if I'm brave or just stubborn. The Holocaust relatives will keep clogging my sinuses every time someone suggests I should have more faith. I'll keep collecting mismatched stemware and making elaborate meals when I'm bored. It won't be terrible. It just won't be enough.
**If the safety net disappears:**
Panic, obviously. The kind that makes my chest tight and my thoughts loop like a broken record. I'd probably move in with someone—maybe my sister the successful attorney, which would feel like admitting defeat in the most humiliating way possible. I'd take whatever job I could get, probably something soul-crushing like social media management for another ex-wife's boutique industry. My daughter would see me shrink, watch me become the kind of parent who says "we can't afford that" instead of "let's figure it out." I'd stop writing because exhaustion isn't romantic, it's just exhausting. The stories would pile up in my head like unpaid bills. I'd tell myself it's temporary, that I'm just regrouping, but temporary has a way of becoming permanent when you're too tired to fight. I'd become careful, risk-averse, the kind of person who envies other people's boldness. I'd probably drink more. The liquor cabinet that's mostly empty now would stay that way not because I can't afford to fill it, but because I've stopped pretending anything helps. My ex would feel vindicated. That might be the worst part—not the poverty or the fear, but knowing he was right about me being impractical, unrealistic, unable to handle real life. I'd survive, because that's what I do, but I wouldn't recognize myself.
**The wildcard future:**
Fuck it—I move to Portugal. Not because I speak Portuguese (I don't even speak Italian despite pretending to read Italian Vogue), but because I read somewhere that writers can live cheap in Lisbon and the light is supposed to be incredible. I sublet the leaky Frank Lloyd Wright cottage to someone who thinks cold houses are romantic. I homeschool my daughter in cafés where nobody knows I'm supposed to be sensible. I write a novel about party planning during national trauma and it somehow becomes a hit—not because I worked the system but because I stopped trying to work the system. Or maybe I don't write at all. Maybe I open a tiny restaurant that only serves elaborate versions of the meals I make when I'm bored, and it becomes the kind of place Anthony Bourdain would have loved before he died. I teach my daughter that safety nets are overrated and adventure is undervalued. I have affairs with inappropriate people and don't feel guilty because guilt is for people who stayed in New Jersey. I collect stories instead of stemware. I stop explaining myself to anyone, including therapists and ex-husbands and custody judges. I become the person my Holocaust relatives would have been if they'd had the luxury of wildness instead of survival. I fail spectacularly at several things and succeed unexpectedly at others. Most importantly: I stop asking permission to want what I want.