Tight Briefs -- A Thought on Creativity

"Give me the freedom of a tight brief." -- David Ogilvy's

Two crappy pages. One creative habit. A lot less angst.

There are numerous, beautiful routines. And, before you think this is another stab at the perfect “Artist Ritual,” it’s not. I am not going to advise a system or plan to make you 10x your creativity. This ain’t copy, and I ain’t selling shit.

Right now, it’s almost more lucrative to be a guru than an actual artist. Why? Art is hard. Advice is cheap.

Why create when you can tell people what to make and how to make it?

C'est la vie. On to the point.

Writers still need help. Artists still need guidance. Otherwise, we’d all be beatnik hippies trying to be jazz musicians, and while I do dig a black turtleneck, it doesn’t help me make things any better.

Ann Lamott, auth of "Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life," does, in fact, offer some good advice on the creative life: two crappy pages.

That’s it. Two shitty pages, and out of those two crappy pages? Maybe a memorable line, a scene, a dance. But the work is done.

Creating is about not letting the ball drop or as Jerry Seinfeld puts it, “The Stallion.” Other words for this could be “The Monkey Mind,” ADHD, or simply, “I have so many ideas I don’t know where to start.”

Artists need constraints.

Growing up, we idolize freedom. Why? Because we don’t have it. Because there are rules. Because we all want to be Peter Pan.

Children are born imagineers, creatives, athletes, artists. They build. They destroy. They have no concept of right or wrong, no taste. They play with no restraints except those imposed on them by adults. The world doesn’t want to play their games.

And just like Captain Hook, adults are bad. Adults have jobs. They have responsibilities. There’s no time for play. Hell, even their play is work, i.e., Crossfit.

Even adults idolize freedom. Twenty-somethings think van life is amazing, backpacking is fun, and a life of no responsibilities is the way to go. And, having lived as a theatre gypsy for almost a decade, there is a time when “Yes” it is. But as a life? As an artist? It’s shallow. Or, as everyone’s favorite cowboy would advise, “Never shirk a task.”

Thus, we believe the man-child is the way to go. “Hold on to your youth!” the hippie screams. “Don’t let your dreams die,” warns the disgruntled old man. And, to their credit, they are trying to help. After all, as Baz Luhrmann’s song “Sunscreen” advised us, “Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts, and recycling it for more than it's worth."

But not all advice is good. The intent may be good, but we’ve been told plenty of things that are flat-out wrong. Remember when eggs were bad, and margarine was good? Lord knows what truths we hold self-evident today that shall be cast aside tomorrow.

The point is we let these ideas seep into our subconscious. They’re repeated so often to our young minds, “they must be true.”

When it comes to creativity, we don’t want more freedom. Too many options destroy our brains.

Seinfeld, one of the few comedians so successful you don’t need the Jerry, creativity is like a stallion in your head. It’s a beast that needs to be tamed, and your success is dependent on taming ole Bucephalus.

Otherwise, we fall into Despair, that angsty teen who just knows their ideas are great and waiting to be discovered if only they can get out of this one-horse town. Creative angst is a bitch, and we’ve all experienced it. Got an idea for a screenplay? Here are ten more. Think of a cool one-man show? How about adapting this one instead? Ideas flood the user, and if we’re not careful, we do nothing.

And therein lies the rub. Too many artists die on the vine. We never harness our creative power and so we become critics or start terrible podcasts about other art. Either way, it’s embarrassing.

Thus, we need limitations. We need focus. We need an adult in the room.

A long time ago the powers that be, those square bastards in grey suits and thin neckties, realized that if you can corral the creatives like cattle you can ride their ideas to success. Constraints and deadlines push those lefties to do great things, which you can take credit for.

Limitations spur us to action.

Why do games work? Games work because there are accepted limitations. Accepted rules. Both teams agree to those rules and play within them–attempting to stretch them or get away with breaking them; however, it is the limitations that define them. Football is football because of the 100 yards, no holding, and great Monday Night theme songs. Baseball is baseball because of the 60 feet 6 inches, the Sandlot, and the immortal battle of rock versus stick.

Within those agreements, magic happens. What Michael and Kobe could do was jazz. They made art with a ball, bending the rules, by expanding the game. What Nolan Ryan did with a baseball was electric. What Tom Brady constructed was nothing short of artistic.

This is why so often genre movies are so great. There are conventions, themes, and expectations. Audiences want to see Poirot solve the case in a fancy living room, Sam Spade smokes a cigarette, and badass music play when the Badass Motherfucker walks into the room. To ignore those expectations is to dance with your own peril.

Genre limits what we can do. It also creates a space between the artist and the audience.

But, this is putting the cart in front of the horse. Let’s slow down, pull back, and simplify.

Artists need to set limitations on themselves.

What genre am I working in? What is my medium? How can I use it? And we need to stick with it.

Here, the Greek parable takes root, “The fox knows many things, but the hedgehog knows one big thing.” We need to focus our energy.

But, alas, ideas produce more ideas. They're like rabbits the fuckers. Or, as Robert Louis Stevenson said, “It’s like starting a damn stone.” Start one and they all start to fall down.

Thus, we need to pick a project or a goal and do it.

Goals and Deadlines

What are we trying to accomplish and when are we trying to accomplish it by? Every piece of art needs an expiration date.

Otherwise, the muse moves on. And if you do not believe in fairies, well, the spark goes out. The idea goes cold and interest wanes. Some books take time, yes. It’s foolhardy to think you can write a book in a month, let alone a year. But, maybe you can. Great screenplays have been written in one night trying to capture that feeling.

Lofty goals are good. Finish A) script by B) Date.

Actions

These need to be doable. In training, it’s a terrible idea to go from zero to a 5k. For one thing, you will wake up achy and unable to train the next day, and secondly, it’s not something you can just will yourself to do over and over again.

Going back to Seinfeld, it’s the X on the calendar. Write a joke a day, or two crappy pages.

I am as guilty as everyone else. After all, essays are about chasing ideas down for myself, at least they are to me.

I have a Southern Gothic screenplay that is a third written, a novel that is half written, a one-man show finished but unproduced, another screenplay about a womanizing asshole who gets what he deserves (comedy) finished (unproduced), and countless unpublished/unfinished essays and notes.

So, I’m setting my goals. Two crappy pages. Constant writing. Constant publishing. Be public. Be visible. Be accountable.