Notes on Creativity

Two Creative Blocks (and Two Blockbusters)

photo credit: phineas gage | flickr creative commons

Block #1: Skepticism

Often students roll into my creative writing classes with heavy skepticism. Sometimes this skepticism is aimed at themselves. “I’m not creative,” they tell me. Other times, the skepticism is aimed at the course itself. This is revealed at the end of the semester with a comment like: “I thought this class was going to be such bullshit, but it actually turned out to be valuable!” 

Whether it’s aimed inward or outward, skepticism is usually a way of protecting yourself. If you doubt your own potential, you won’t feel exposed if you fail. If you doubt the potential of an experience, you won’t be disappointed if it’s not great. Skepticism lowers your risk—but it also can stifle your creativity. 

Why do I think this? Consider the opposite of skepticism, a personality trait called “openness to experience.” Openness means being receptive to new ideas and new experiences. Open-minded people “tend to be intellectually curious, creative and imaginative.” In fact, some researchers in the field of creativity studies argue that openness is the key to creativity. In Wired to Create: Unraveling the Mysteries of the Creative Mind, Scott Barry Kaufman and Carolyn Gregoire contend that openness to experience is “the strongest and most consistent personality trait that predicts creative achievement” in both art and science. 

Great, you might be thinking if you’re a naturally skeptical person. I’m doomed. 

Actually, I’ve got good news for you. “We do know that personality change is possible,” writes Scott Kaufman in Scientific American, if you “want to change, and be willing to put in the hard work to repeatedly change your behaviors and habits. The good news, however, is that the latest science of personality suggests that . . . you can fundamentally change who you are.” 

None of this is to say that you should never be skeptical, by the way. I’ll be the first to admit that skepticism and other forms of critical thinking can be helpful in the late stages of a creative project when you’re trying to locate and fix flaws. But early in the creative process, skepticism is more likely to be a toxic friend. She makes you feel safe, even as she’s smothering you. You think she’s protecting you, but really she’s closing you off from the world. She claims to be shielding you from disappointment, but she’s also blocking out ideas and inspiration.  

Block #2: Waiting for Inspiration

Speaking of inspiration, here’s another common comment from students: “I wait for inspiration before I write. I don’t want to force it, because I might get writer’s block.”  

The problem with that comment is not, as I used to think, a reliance on inspiration. The problem is in the word “wait.” 

Inspiration tends not to involve pure passivity,” according to researchers Todd Thrash and Andrew Elliot. Rather, there is a positive relationship between inspiration and effort.  

In other words, inspiration favors the active. The muse visits her devoted monk keeping an active vigil, not the guy who shrugs and says, If she comes, she comes.

When you write without feeling inspired, you aren’t “forcing it.” You are putting in the effort that summons inspiration. That effort doesn’t always take the form of writing, however. Inspiration is often facilitated by receptiveness to evocative influences like books and songs and paintings and thunderstorms and weird ceramic sculptures on your grandmother’s coffee table. (Look at receptiveness popping up again, by the way. Can you connect the dots back to openness?) When you read and listen to music and look at art, you are being receptive to influence that can spark inspiration. 

Read, listen, look: all of these verbs denote action, not passive waiting. Inspiration may feel like a bolt from the blue, like when Paul the Apostle was struck blind on the road to Damascus, but keep this in mind: that life-changing bolt didn’t hit Paul on his couch; to get thunderstruck, he had to walk the road. So if you’ve been waiting around for inspiration, get off your ass and seek it (though, like Paul, what you find may be different than what you seek).  

One more note about inspiration. Emerging writers and artists often think of it as a starting point: inspiration → work. So far, this little essay might seem to suggest the opposite: work → inspiration. But the truth is that the relationship between work and inspiration can be a virtuous cycle. 


So if you want to be more creative (and really, who doesn’t?), ask yourself how you might be getting in your own way with these two blocks. Look for notes of skepticism and passivity in your outlook and habits. What would happen if you were more receptive? What would happen if you actively sought inspiration? 

Are you open to finding out? 

Animal Stories

At least once a semester, a student will ask me for examples of stories written from the point of view of an animal. Today, with help from the good folks of the Creative Writing Pedagogy board on Facebook, I’ve put together this little compendium. Maybe it will help you, too.

Sun Dogs” | Brooke Bolander | Lightspeed Magazine | #dog

The Infamous Bengal Ming” | Rajesh Parameswaran | Granta | #tiger

Little Roy’s Roving Reptile Zoo” | Jim Powell | Fiction Southeast | #snake

The Great Silence” | Ted Chiang | Electric Lit | #parrot

After I Was Thrown in the River and Before I Was Drowned” | Dave Eggers | #dog

The Burrow” | Franz Kafka | THE COMPLETE STORIES | #badger

The Barn at the End of Our Term” | Karen Russell | Granta | #horse (although technically these horses are reincarnated presidents, so it’s kind of a hybrid human/animal p.o.v.)

Sex Scenes

As I was writing a sex scene today, I was reminded of:

a) how difficult it is to write this kind of scene without being creepy or porny, and

b) my favorite sex scene in all of literature, from Elect Mr. Robinson for a Better World by Donald Antrim, which is funny, and almost all dialogue.

Here’s the heart of Antrim’s scene, for your reading pleasure:

“Ah,” she said into my mouth.

“Ah,” I breathed back.

“Ah.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“Hmn?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

“Slow.”

“Mn.”

“Ah.”

“Mn.”

“Oh.”

“Mn.”

“Easy.”

“Sorry.”

“No. Good. Great. Just not yet.”

“Sure?”

“Yes. No.”

“Turn me over.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Doesn’t hurt?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

“Sure.”

“Tell me if.”

“No, no, good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Ah, no, ouch.”

“Sorry.”

“Okay.”

“Mmn?”

“Mmn.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah,” I breathed.

“Ah.”

Yes Over No

A guy and a girl are walking on train tracks toward a nature preserve. The guy is dragging his feet because the preserve is closed. He’s worried they’ll get in trouble, but the girl says Come on, come on, it’ll be great. He grumbles but he keeps going. She’s his girlfriend; what else can he do

When they get into the nature preserve, they find a dead body. 

After a short argument, they end up calling the police—but that’s not the interesting part of this story. 

The interesting part comes after the police let them leave the scene, when the guy turns to the girl and says, for the first time, I love you. 

That’s a quick & clumsy summary of a cool story written by one of my creative writing students last month. The story has stuck in my mind and I thought of it again today as I considered how to move my teaching online because Coronavirus. 

As I imagined, too, what my creative writing students might be thinking right about now: How can you expect us to write during a time like this, Furuness? 

In the story at the top of this letter, the girl is the force of yes. The guy is the force of no. 

In the preserve, they encounter death, the ultimate force of no. In a move that seems to surprise both characters, the guy responds with the ultimate force of yes: love. 

Why bother writing in the midst of a pandemic? Why create anything at all during this scaryweird time? 

Not as an escape (or at least, not just as an escape). Art is a way to transcend shitty circumstances.

Art is rebellion, too, the big fuck you to death. You may beat me in the end, pal, but I’m going to get in a few good shots first.  

In a time of fear and isolation–the clamor of no–art is a clear bright chorus of yes, and yes, and yes again. 

This week I’m going to say yes, and I hope you do, too.

Two Quotes from Meg Wolitzer

image credit: Montclair Local News

Meg Wolitzer is the author of THE FEMALE PERSUASION and THE INTERESTINGS and a bunch of other books. On Thursday, October 24, she held a Q&A at the Efroymson Center for Creative Writing at Butler University. Since you couldn’t make it, I took notes for you. The quotes below are as precise as I could make them, but keep in mind that she talks fast and I write slow.

A story that sounds like an episode from the Bible in which a Pharisee asks Jesus a question:

One time [at another Q&A] a woman told me her daughter wanted to be a playwright. The woman said, “I know how tough that world can be, how tough it is to make it. I’m scared for her. What should I tell her?” I said, “Is she talented?” and the woman said she was. I said, “Is she burning to do it?” and the woman said she was. “Then you should encourage her to do it,” I said. “The world will whittle her down, but a mother never should.”

On talent vs. hard work:

The truth about writing is this: If you work hard for a long time, you’ll get pretty good. You’ll see more clearly. You’ll see the difference between what works and what doesn’t work. You’ll see what you can really do, and what you won’t ever be able to do.

Creative Thinking: Beyond Left Brain/Right Brain

You’ve heard it before: the left hemisphere of the brain is responsible for analysis and logic, while the right hemisphere is the home of art and creativity.

Simple. Catchy. But not really accurate.

The truth is that “no one area of your brain is responsible for creative thought,” as shown in this video from Braincraft. In just over three minutes, this little explainer will help you drop the left brain/right brain narrative and pick up a new paradigm: the default mode network and the executive control network.

Take a look:

Elizabeth Gilbert on the Intersection of Food and Creativity

“Years ago, a friend of mine was visiting from Rome and I said I was interested in going into one of those sensory deprivation chambers, and he just pounded his fist on the table and said, ‘The senses must not be deprived!’ He was like, ‘Why in the world would you want to pay money to have your senses deprived?’


All of these things (food, pleasure, creativity) are about the delight of the senses. My friend Elizabeth Minchilli, whom I met during the Eat Pray Love years, runs these food tours through various parts of Italy. She has a deep, abiding, passionate Italian-based delight in making sure that your senses should be stimulated at all times, whether it’s through music, storytelling, food, or learning a new language. Why bother to have these senses if you’re not going to use them? In America, we still come from a puritanical culture that is very suspicious of the senses, and that they have to be controlled or else they can lead to sin.


The Italians just sort of have a richer, old-world idea about that—that actually the senses can be trusted, nourished, and delighted, and that’s what constitutes a good life.”

The rest of the interview can be found on Indy Week. Image credit: impconcerts.com

Back to School: How Being a Student Again is Making Me a Better Professor

photo credit: yoser linares | flickr creative commons

Every teacher should occasionally take a class, not only for professional development but to be reminded how hard it is to be a student. (This advice goes double for professors, by the way.)

I’ve been teaching at Butler University for eleven years and taking classes for the last eight years. Here are three lessons I’ve learned about teaching from my recent experiences as a student:

Don’t mistake load for rigor.

Inject a professor with truth serum and ask them: “What are you afraid of?” One of their first answers is likely to be: “I’m worried my colleagues or students will think my class is easy and that I’m soft.”

Rigor! Toughness! Somehow these are the coins of the realm, especially in higher ed. The easiest way to achieve rigor is to assign a ton of work—but I would argue that this is also the dumbest and least effective way.

Piling on work does not help students explore the material more fully. A bigger workload does not deepen learning (if anything, it leads to more skimming, more exhausted hurrying, which results in less learning). As with everything else in life, quality > quantity.

Walk the walk.

If you ask students to read and do creative work/scholarship in your field, you’d better be doing that as well. Furthermore, you’d better find ways to show them you’re doing it. If you do show them, the message becomes:

  • We’re all in this together.
  • I’m not asking you to do anything I don’t do.
  • These are life-long, life-giving activities.

If the students don’t see you doing what they’re doing, the message becomes:

  • This is student work, and you can stop as soon as you graduate.

Reciprocate vulnerability.

If you ask to see early versions of your students’ work, you should share early versions of your own work. This is scary, I know. But it will humanize you in their eyes. And for most of them, it will be a surprise and a relief that your work doesn’t just spring out of your head, fully-formed. This will teach them about process and progress, and take some pressure off their own early iterations.

One final note: None of these lessons are subtweets at the professors who have taught me over the last eight years. In fact, these lessons come largely from positive examples, which I have shamelessly stolen for my own teaching practice. Credit and thanks to Butler’s College of Education for taking in a cranky weirdo from the English department.

Revision Strategy: Pie Chart

Writers like to talk about revision as re-vision—that is, to re-see—but before you can re-envision anything, you have to clearly see what’s there in the first place. Which can be hard to do when you’re close to the material. 

Fortunately, Dave Housley is here to help. He’s the author of four collections of short fiction, including Massive Cleansing Fire, If I Knew the Way, I Would Take You Home, Commercial Fiction, and Ryan Seacrest is Famous. His most recent book is this novel:

“I do have one thing I do [in a workshop] when we get into the area of a story spending a whole lot of time/energy on one specific thing/scene/character/whatever when maybe that thing doesn’t actually merit as much space/energy in the larger scheme of the story. 

What I do is make a spreadsheet of how many words or pages each thing takes up, and then make a pie chart of the percentages, so you can see something like: 

That’s if I think, for instance, that the flashback scene is taking up too much time and not doing enough in the story. It helps sometimes to see what those ratios actually are, especially if there’s a really long scene, or often it is flashback/back story, and I think maybe it’s not carrying enough weight in the story to merit that kind of heft. 

Measuring. Weighing. Thinking about ratios. These are doses of objectivity that can give you a little critical distance on your story—or at the very least, offer a different way of seeing the parts that might help you re-see the whole. 

Try it out! Then drop me a note in the comments or at furuness(at) gmail.com to let me know how it went, and if you made any tweaks of your own to the strategy.

Check out more Housley here. And if you really like this kind of literary data-crunching, check out NABOKOV’S FAVORITE WORD IS MAUVE.

Kill your darlings, but remember where they’re buried

pub date: November 2019 | available for pre-order now

This novel was given up for dead. After writing a couple of fast and loose drafts, I came to the conclusion that it was…irredeemable. So I stuck a hard copy in the closet to quietly decompose. A year or so later, after abandoning the next project, I was feeling desperate. What if I never finish a project again? So I hauled out the hard copy, read it over, and found that:


1) it wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d feared, and more importantly

2) I now had some ideas about how to make it better.

What’s the lesson here? Maybe it’s: Kill your darlings if you must, but remember where they’re buried.