One of the most common first impressions of the Mona Lisa is about its size – the painting seems small. It actually measures close to 21 inches wide and 30 inches high, about the size of the average painting that might grace a hallway in your home, and approximately the dimensions of the top of an average double well kitchen sink. However, displayed among the many behemoth paintings in the Louvre, some of them approaching 20 feet wide and 10 feet tall, the Mona Lisa seems puny. Also, its status as the most famous painting of all time suggests something larger and grander. Fame implies bigness: like the Sphinx, the Taj Mahal, or the Lincoln Memorial. But there she hangs, charming and detached, surrounded by sightseers, and decidedly smaller than most people expect her to be.

I am fond of the Mona Lisa for reasons beyond DaVinci’s extraordinary vision and technical brilliance, and the lady’s perplexing smile. She is an example of what might be done within a seemingly small space. In the context of the question from the man at the keynote, she is an appealing metaphor for creative expression in the midst of constraints that seem restrictive and with resources that appear meager.

Somewhere I came across an artist whose name I do not recall, and who wrote, “Every canvas has edges.” He or she was pointing out how creativity benefits from boundaries – limits – because the boundaries provide impetus for creative thought and action. For DaVinci, the limits included not only the size of the canvas, but also restraints such as the availability and cost of paint and the quality of the brushes at hand. In the case of watercolor artists, the temperature and humidity of the very air in which the painter works produce restraints. Poets accept the restraints of meter and rhyme. Potters know that there are certain things that clay just will not do. Photographers understand that conditions of light are not always ideal.

The task of creativity is to produce something of value within whatever the imposed constraints may be, and with whatever resources are at hand.

In his book The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell tells a story that further illustrates the point. It is the story of a nurse named Georgia Sadler who set out to increase understanding about diabetes and breast cancer in San Diego’s black community. Sadler struggled to find an effective way to spread the word about seminars she was offering. She had a very limited budget. After a few disappointing attempts to promote the seminars through churches, she hit upon the idea of gathering together hair stylists from around the city for training sessions. She helped the stylists learn how to talk about breast cancer and diabetes, showing them how to present the information in engaging ways. She provided them with materials to show to other women, creating laminated sheets that would not wilt in hair salons. She also evaluated how successful her approach was at getting women to have mammograms and tests for diabetes, and discovered that it worked. Gladwell said of Sadler’s efforts, “It is possible to do a lot with a little.”

Of course most of us would prefer minimum restraints on our efforts and maximum resources to work with. But I doubt that DaVinci spent much time, if any, lamenting the size of his canvas. And, as Gladwell points out about Georgia Sadler, “She didn’t go to the National Cancer Institute or the California State Department of Health and ask for millions of dollars to run some elaborate, multi-media public awareness campaign.” Instead, she used the tiny budget she had more creatively. DaVinci and Sadler show us what can happen when energy is focused on using the resources at hand in creative ways.

There is a tendency, when resources are limited, to focus energy on the limits: worrying, decrying, relentlessly seeking resources that are simply not available, or merely feeling stymied. This tendency leads inexorably into the depths of helplessness and cynicism. Whenever I visit those depths I don’t get much done, and I doubt that anyone does. I have also known people who not only visit those depths; they seem to live there permanently.

I don’t know if the man who asked the question after the keynote habitually focuses his energy on restraints and limits. He may be one of those who have taken up permanent residence in helplessness and cynicism. Many people do, and it seems a monumental waste of time and energy that could be better put to use finding creative ways to work within whatever limits there may be, and with whatever resources are at hand.
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The challenge of writing a book is as much about the process as it is about the content: maybe more. I’m a process kind of person, so I pay a lot of attention to it.

Over the last fifteen years, four books, dozens of articles, and hundreds of blog posts, I have noticed seven lessons about my process of which I must continually remind myself. I can’t seem to learn them for good and when I forget them I get in trouble. Here they are:

1. Every Sentence Is a Doorway

When I put a period at the end of a sentence I usually treat it as a signal to move on. That is all wrong. A period at the end of a sentence ought to be a signal to ask questions about the sentence.

Take this sentence as an example: “It is dangerous to seek to possess knowledge.” I need to remind myself to ask questions like these: What is knowledge? How does one try to possess knowledge? In what ways is it dangerous? Why did I say “dangerous” instead of “silly” or “fruitless”? Is seeking to possess knowledge silly and fruitless as well as dangerous? What examples do I have of the danger of seeking to possess knowledge? Why did I say “seeking to possess” instead of just “possess”? What are all the meanings of the word “possess”?

There are a lot of questions in even the shortest of sentences. If I remember to ask myself questions like that about every sentence, and then answer those that seem relevant and interesting, I have a book.

2. Put Your Butt in a Chair and Stay There Until the Words Come

I am great at distracting myself. There is always someone to call, someplace to go, some web site to explore, a dog to walk. So it is important for me to schedule appointments with my book; times when I pay attention to it even if I do not feel inspired.

Sit down. Stay there. Don’t answer the phone. Don’t wander into the kitchen to make tea. Once, a friend came knocking at the front door of my house and I didn’t answer. Two hour blocks of time work for me. My true friends understand and forgive me.

3. Make the Work Portable

Along with staying in my chair, I also find it useful to think of everywhere I go as an extension of my writing space. I have discovered ideas in malls, on turnpikes, on river banks, in the woods, at dinners, and in many other places. When I am working on a book I try to remember to carry a small notebook everywhere and a tape recorder in the car.

4. Mindless Activity Can Be Useful To the Mind

When conscious awareness is engaged in writing, the subconscious is also at work. We can’t hear what goes on in the subconscious because we are filled up with mental activity. Breaks from the mental activity allow the subconscious to burst into conscious awareness. These breaks ought to be relatively mindless. A long walk works well for me. So does a long drive. I forget this when my need to think of myself as a busy guy gets in the way.

5. Write While You Sleep

Another way that I put my subconscious to work is to pay attention to my book just before I go to bed. I might read what I wrote that day. I might start a new section or chapter; just a few sentences or notes. When I remember to do that, getting started the next day is much easier. Often, I can’t wait to get started.

6. Don’t Talk Away the Energy

When I am writing a book, lots of people want to talk with me about it. Some are just curious, some sincerely want to be helpful, and some want me to write the book that they wish they were writing. Many writers gain energy from such discussions. I often don’t.

I need to be careful about whom I talk with, about what aspect of my writing I discuss, and about what point in my process the discussion takes place. If I talk with the wrong person at the wrong time, or about the wrong aspect of my writing, I lose some kind of vital energy that I need in order to write.

7. Manage the Process

Writing isn’t one single process. It isn’t just banging out words. There are lots of varied activities involved: research, editing, reading what I have already written, brainstorming, making outlines, formatting text, and so forth. There is a lot to do.

Usually, when what I am doing isn’t moving the work forward, and I am feeling frustrated or even just bored, it helps to shift from one activity to another. If I can remember how writing works I can better manage the work of writing.

Now that I have collected these lessons that I need to remember, maybe I won’t forget them as easily. Don’t bet on it! But maybe you will learn them for good and avoid needing constant reminders. Good luck with that.

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