Imagination: Envisioning the New

The ability to form new ideas and images in the mind.

• • Brainstorming Sessions
• • Limit Constraints
• • Diverse Perspectives

Innovation: Bringing Ideas to Life

The implementation of new ideas, devices, or methods.

• • Experimentation
• • Collaborative Effort
• • Continuous Learning

It is worth remembering that anything worth doing, anything bound to earn its keep in the house of tomorrow, takes a long time, takes riding the troughs of doubt with unassailable devotion, takes balancing a clarity of vision with the courage of uncertainty. This is true of art and true of love and true of every creative endeavor in the great work of composing a life.

Rudyard Kipling (December 30, 1865–January 28, 1936) was the age I am now when he became the youngest recipient of the Nobel Prize, awarded him for his “power of observation, originality of imagination, virility of ideas and remarkable talent for narration.” The wild, wondrous worlds he created enchanted generations of children and influenced generations of writers. They are why Jane Goodall became Jane Goodall.

In the final year of his sixties, not knowing he would not live another — how cruel and how merciful that only hindsight knows each last — Kipling began setting down all he knew about writing, lensed through the story of his unusual life. He worked on the manuscript tirelessly until just before his seventieth birthday. Days later, he suffered a hemorrhage from which he never recovered. His wife edited the unfinished manuscript and published it as Something of Myself: For My Friends Known and Unknown (public domain).

Considering the Socratic notion of a personal daemon that Aristotle popularized — an “unknown superfactor” of divine origin that steers you toward right action by mercilessly flagging wrong choices — Kipling looks back on the first visitation of his daemon as a young, unsure writer who “sat bewildered” among possible paths to take until the daemon whispered, “Take this and no other.” (Dostoyevsky must have heeded a similar voice when he so boldly wrote to the general of his military unit, pleading to be released from duty in order to become a writer: “I am convinced that only on that path could I truly be useful.”)

Kipling stumbled down the path, looking back on his early writing as “weak, bad, and out of key.” But over and over his daemon goaded him to give things the time they take, often leading him back after a long lapse to ideas he had given up on. “Again and again it went dead under my hand,” Kipling recalls of one such abandoned story, “and for the life of me I could not see why.” But returning with a new perspective, which life always gives us by the mere accumulation of living, he would reanimate these dead ideas into some of his most beloved stories — a reminder that waiting is not a passive state but a creative act that allows time to anneal the essence of things and find the right shape of a devotion, be it to a person or to a project.

He recounts:

My Daemon was with me in the Jungle Books, Kim, and both Puck books, and good care I took to walk delicately, lest he should withdraw. I know that he did not, because when those books were finished they said so themselves with, almost, the water-hammer click of a tap turned off.

But beneath this mystical conception of the writing process pulsates Kipling’s uncompromising pragmatism about the mechanics of the craft, one of the hardest aspects of which is knowing when something is finished — feeling the tap turn off. He shares his exacting strategy for arriving at that point and trusting it:

In an auspicious hour, read your final draft and consider faithfully every paragraph, sentence and word, blacking out where requisite. Let it lie by to drain as long as possible. At the end of that time, re-read and you should find that it will bear a second shortening. Finally, read it aloud alone and at leisure. Maybe a shade more brushwork will then indicate or impose itself. If not, praise Allah and let it go, and “when thou hast done, repent not.”

Kipling’s relationship with his daemon contains a wonderful antidote to what may be the greatest danger of success for any artist — becoming a template of yourself — entirely countercultural in our era of sequels and uninspired variations on a marketable theme:

One of the clauses in our contract was that I should never follow up “a success,” for by this sin fell Napoleon and a few others.

Kipling distills the central tenet of allowing your daemon to serve you:

When your Daemon is in charge, do not try to think consciously. Drift, wait, and obey.

Complement with Gabriel García Márquez on his unlikely beginnings as a writer and James Baldwin’s fierce advice on writing, then dive into this decades-deep archive of great writers sharing their wisdom on the craft.

The aim of science is to illuminate the mysteries of nature and discover the elemental truths pulsating sublime and indifferent beneath the starry skin of the universe. The aim of art is to give us a language for wresting meaning from the truth and living with the mystery. Creativity in both is a style of noticing, of attending to the world more closely in order to love it more deeply, of seeing everything more and more whole — a word that shares its Latin root with “holy.”

This is why the greatest visionaries bend their gaze beyond the horizon of their discipline and of their era’s givens to take in the vista of life as a totality of being. How inseparable Einstein’s passion for the violin was from his physics and Goethe’s passion for morphology from his poetry, how difficult to tell where Kepler the mind ends and Kepler the body begins.

There are few visionaries in the history of our species who have changed our understanding of nature and our place in it more profoundly than Jane Goodall (April 3, 1934–October 1, 2025) — something she was able to do in large part because she never saw science as a walled garden separate from the wilderness of life. Formed by her love of books since childhood, she placed the raw material of literature — compassion — at the center of her scientific work, drawing on her passion for artistic creativity to make her revelatory discovery of chimpanzee tool use — that selfsame impulse to bend the world to the will that sparked human creativity when we descended from the trees to the caves to invent fire and figurative art.

The essence of Goodall’s integrated, holistic view of life comes ablaze in a passage from a letter to a friend found in Africa in My Blood: An Autobiography in Letters (public library) — that magnificent record of how she turned her childhood dream into reality. The day before New Year’s Eve 1958, visiting her family in London for the first time since her departure to Africa twenty months earlier, she writes:

It is lovely to be in an artistic atmosphere again. I realize now, more than ever before, that I can never live wholly without it. It feels so heavenly to be able to just sit in front of the fire & talk for hours — of cabbages & kings — poetry, literature, art, music, philosophy, religion. It’s wonderful, marvellous, terrific… I will stop now, because I have to wash my hair.

Shampoo, song, and science — all of it the stuff of life, intertwined and integrated, lest we forget that only an integrated human nature can begin to apprehend nature itself — that “great chain of causes and effects” in which “no single fact can be considered in isolation,” in the lovely words of Alexander von Humboldt, who knew that artists too are all the greater for taking a passionate interest in the realities of nature subject to science. It was Humboldt who first conceived of nature as a system, who saw “the unity and harmony of this stupendous mass of force and matter.” It was Jane Goodall whose science revealed that kinship is the software the system runs on, and whose life reminds us that just the kinship within a creature — the unity and harmony between all parts and passions of a person — is as essential to being fully alive as the kinship between creatures.

A person is a perpetual ongoingness perpetually mistaking itself for a still point. We call this figment personality or identity or self, and yet we are constantly making and remaking ourselves. Composing a life as the pages of time keep turning is the great creative act we are here for. Like evolution, like Leaves of Grass, it is the work of continual revision, not toward greater perfection but toward greater authenticity, which is at bottom the adaptation of the self to the soul and the soul to the world.

In one of the essays found in his exquisite 1877 collection Birds and Poets (public library | public domain), the philosopher-naturalist John Burroughs (April 3, 1837–March 29, 1921) explores the nature of that creative act through a parallel between poetry and personhood anchored in a brilliant metaphor for the two different approaches to creation. He writes:

There are in nature two types or forms, the cell and the crystal. One means the organic, the other inorganic; one means growth, development, life; the other means reaction, solidification, rest. The hint and model of all creative works is the cell; critical, reflective, and philosophical works are nearer akin to the crystal; while there is much good literature that is neither the one nor the other distinctively, but which in a measure touches and includes both. But crystallic beauty or cut and polished gems of thought, the result of the reflex rather than the direct action of the mind, we do not expect to find in the best poems, though they may be most prized by specially intellectual persons. In the immortal poems the solids are very few, or do not appear at all as solids, — as lime and iron, — any more than they do in organic nature, in the flesh of the peach or the apple. The main thing in every living organism is the vital fluids: seven tenths of man is water; and seven tenths of Shakespeare is passion, emotion, — fluid humanity.

This, of course, is what makes identity such a tedious concept — a fixity of past experience and predictive narrative that crystallizes a person’s natural fluidity, makes them impermeable to possibility, and is therefore inherently uncreative. True creativity, Burroughs observes, is rooted in this dynamism, this fluidity, this irrepressible and ever-shifting aliveness:

All the master poets have in their work an interior, chemical, assimilative property… flaming up with electric and defiant power, — power without any admixture of resisting form, as in a living organism.

It can only be so because we a fractal of nature, the supreme creative agent, whose processes are a ceaseless flow of change and self-revision. Burroughs writes:

The physical cosmos itself is not a thought, but an act. Natural objects do not affect us like well-wrought specimens or finished handicraft, which have nothing to follow, but as living, procreating energy. Nature is perpetual transition. Everything passes and presses on; there is no pause, no completion, no explanation. To produce and multiply endlessly, without ever reaching the last possibility of excellence, and without committing herself to any end, is the law of Nature.

Burroughs sees this as “the essential difference between prose and poetry,” between “the poetic and the didactic treatment of a subject.” A great life, he intimates, is more like a great poem than like a great teaching:

The essence of creative art is always the same; namely, interior movement and fusion; while the method of the didactic or prosaic treatment is fixity, limitation. The latter must formulate and define; but the principle of the former is to flow, to suffuse, to mount, to escape. We can conceive of life only as something constantly becoming. It plays forever on the verge. It is never in loco, but always in transit. Arrest the wind, and it is no longer the wind; close your hands upon the light, and behold, it is gone.

And yet because these interior movements are fundamentally untranslatable between one consciousness and another, belonging to that region of absolute aloneness that accompanies the singularity of being oneself, there is always an element of the ineffable in all great creative work and all great persons:

There must always be something about a poem, or any work of art, besides the evident intellect or plot of it, or what is on its surface, or what it tells. This something is the Invisible, the Undefined, almost Unexpressed, and is perhaps the best part of any work of art, as it is of a noble personality… As, in the superbest person, it is not merely what he or she says or knows or shows, or even how they behave, but in the silent qualities, like gravitation, that insensibly but resistlessly hold us; so in a good poem, or any other expression of art.

Couple with Lucille Clifton on how to be a living poem, then revisit Burroughs on the measure of a visionary, the art of noticing, and how to live with the uncertainties of life.

On this episode of A Productive Conversation, I sit down with Leslie Grandy, author of Creative Velocity: Propelling Breakthrough Ideas in the Age of Generative AI. Leslie is a global product executive turned CEO advisor who helps organizations unlock creative thinking to accelerate growth. Her decades of leadership at Apple, Amazon, Best Buy, and T-Mobile give her a unique perspective on how creativity, technology, and leadership intersect.

Our conversation explores why creativity isn’t limited to artists, how space and time fuel ideation, and what role emotional regulation plays in sustaining momentum. We also dig into how precision, AI, and frameworks can both hinder and propel breakthrough ideas. If you’ve ever doubted your own creativity—or wondered how to harness it consistently—you’ll want to hear this one.

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Six Discussion Points

• Why many professionals mistakenly believe they aren’t creative—and how to reframe that thinking.
• The power of space—whether walking, running, or even showering—in activating creative flow.
• Precision as both a driver and deterrent of creative velocity, depending on how it’s applied.
• Emotional regulation and equanimity as essential tools for sustaining creativity without burnout.
• How to think about velocity beyond speed—focusing on predictability, quality, and intentional triggers.
• Using AI as a creative collaborator through structured frameworks to expand possibilities without chaos.

Three Connection Points

This conversation with Leslie reminded me that creativity isn’t an exclusive club—it’s a capacity we all share, provided we give ourselves the time, space, and intention to use it. Whether you’re leading a team, writing your next book, or simply looking to bring more meaning to your daily choices, Leslie’s insights on creative velocity offer a clear path forward.

Want to support the podcast? You can subscribe to the show and leave quick rating and review wherever you listen to podcasts. You can subscribe on Spotify and also on Apple Podcasts.

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This episode is the latest in our monthly PM Talks series, where I’m joined by my friend Patrick Rhone to explore timeless ideas around productivity, creativity, and everything in between. In this conversation, we take a deep dive into what it really means to be creative—especially when you’re busy, overwhelmed, or stuck in perfectionism.

We unpack how constraints can fuel creativity, how time and space are both essential and elusive, and why imperfection might be your creative superpower. There’s a lot of riffing, real talk, and reflection in this one—and if you’ve felt like your creative well is running dry, this might be the refill you’ve been waiting for.

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Six Discussion Points

• The relationship between speed, structure, and creativity
• Why constraints can actually enhance creativity (yes, really)
• John Cleese’s insight: creativity requires both time and space
• How perfectionism can sabotage creative flow
• Turning mundane tasks into creative opportunities
• The importance of being your own audience—and knowing what’s “for you”

Three Connection Points

This episode is a reminder that creativity isn’t just for artists—it’s for anyone trying to make something meaningful with their time. Whether you’re juggling routines, deadlines, or just trying to show up a little more intentionally each day, the ideas we explore here can help unlock creative momentum—even in life’s most constrained moments.

Want to support the podcast? You can subscribe to the show and leave quick rating and review wherever you listen to podcasts. You can subscribe on Spotify and also on Apple Podcasts.

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Asking the right questions is the answer.

In a recent email newsletter I wrote, “Calm your mind today. Don’t just think outside the box; think like there is no box.”

And to my surprise, 97 people quoted that line and responded with the same general question: “How?”

I’ve spent the morning thinking about how to answer their collective question in the most universal way possible, and I’ve decided that the simplest explanation I can give is this: Ask yourself better questions — questions that focus your thoughts and filter out the excess noise that’s been cluttering your mind.

The calming and healing power of a positive imagination is unleashed by constraining your focus. Constraints drive creativity and force mindful thinking. It may sound counterintuitive at first but, in a backwards way, you break out of the box by stepping into the right shackles.

And that’s exactly what the questions below can help you with — shackling the noise in your head by channeling your focus into meaningful thoughts and moments of self-refection. Let these questions shift your perspective and guide you forward…

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Please share the questions above with others who you think will benefit from them. And as always, please share your thoughts with Marc and me in the comments section below. If you’re up to it, we would love to read your response to the very first question:  In one sentence, who are you?

(Also note that many of these photo-illustrated questions were initially created for our sister site, Thought Questions, but since we rarely update that site anymore we decided to share the questions with you here. And finally, many of these questions have also been published in the guided journal, “The Good Morning Journal”.)
For photo credits please refer to ThoughtQuestions.com

I once asked ChatGPT to write a poem about a total solar eclipse in the style of Walt Whitman. It returned a dozen couplets of cliches that touched nothing, changed nothing in me. The AI had the whole of the English language at its disposal — a lexicon surely manyfold the poet’s — and yet Whitman could conjure up cosmoses of feeling with a single line, could sculpt from the commonest words an image so dazzlingly original it stops you up short, spins you around, leaves the path of your thought transformed.

An AI may never be able to write a great poem — a truly original poem — because a poem is made not of language but of experience, and the defining aspect of human experience is the constant collision between our wishes and reality, the sharp violation of our expectations, the demolition of our plans.

We call this suffering.

Suffering is the price we pay for a consciousness capable of love and the loss of love, of hope and the devastation of hope. Because suffering, like consciousness itself, is a full-body phenomenon — glands secreting fear, nerves conducting loneliness, neurotransmitters recoiling with regret — a disembodied pseudo-consciousness is fundamentally incapable of suffering and that transmutation of suffering into meaning we call art: An algorithm will never know anything beyond the execution of its programmed plan; it is fundamentally spared the failure of its aims because failure can never be the successful execution of the command to fail.

We create — poems and paintings, stories and songs — to find a language for the bewilderment of being alive, the failure of it, the fulness of it, and to have lived fully is not to have spared yourself.

In his exquisite reckoning with what makes life worth living, Nobel laureate Elias Canetti captures this in a diary entry from the late spring of 1942. Under the headline “very necessary qualifications for a good Persian storyteller,” he copies out a passage from an unidentified book he is reading:

In addition to having read all the known books on love and heroism, the teller of stories must have suffered greatly for love, have lost his beloved, drunk much good wine, wept with many in their sorrow, have looked often upon death and have learned much about birds and beasts. He must also be able to change himself into a beggar or a caliph in the twinkling of an eye.

A generation before Canetti, the philosopher-poet Rainer Maria Rilke articulated the same essential condition for creativity in his only novel, reflecting on what it takes to compose a great poem, but speaking to what it takes to create anything of beauty and substance, anything drawn from one life to touch another:

For the sake of a few lines one must see many cities, men and things. One must know the animals, one must feel how the birds fly and know the gesture with which the small flowers open in the morning. One must be able to think back to roads in unknown regions, to unexpected meetings and to partings which one has long seen coming; to days of childhood that are still unexplained, to parents that one had to hurt when they brought one some joy and one did not grasp it (it was a joy for someone else); to childhood illness that so strangely began with a number of profound and grave transformations, to days in rooms withdrawn and quiet and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that rushed along on high and flew with all the stars — and it is not yet enough if one may think of all of this. One must have memories of many nights of love, none of which was like the others, of the screams of women in labor, and of light, white, sleeping women in childbed, closing again. But one must also have been beside the dying, one must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and the fitful noises.

Couple with Carl Jung on the relationship between suffering and creativity, then revisit Annie Dillard on creativity and what it takes to be a great writer and Oliver Sacks, writing thirty years before ChatGPT, on consciousness, AI, and our search for meaning.

“This is a very fertile house in the sense that it rules the creation of all things—how we express ourselves in artistic and dramatic ways, as well as the literal creation of children,” the AstroTwins previously wrote for mindbodygreen, adding, “This house governs attention, play, the joys of romance and love, and arts such as theater, music, and painting.”