There is a particular moment in almost every creative project when I become convinced I've taken a wrong turn.
At the beginning, I had so much energy. An idea tugged at me. I could glimpse—however imperfectly—something in the distance worth moving toward.
And then, somewhere along the way, the path disappeared.
I lost sight of what comes next.
The thing I'm making doesn't look like the thing I imagined. The questions multiply faster than the answers. At this point, I usually start wondering whether the idea was any good in the first place.
For years, I interpreted this feeling as evidence that something had gone wrong.
Now I'm beginning to wonder whether it's evidence that something has gone right.
Because if I already knew exactly where I was going and exactly how to get there, I wouldn't be creating anything. I'd be following directions.
This is one of the ideas at the heart of Creative Wayfinding.
Traditional wayfinding fascinates me because it doesn't depend on following a predetermined route. The wayfinder navigates through attention: noticing the information available in the present, remembering what has come before, imagining what might lie ahead, and continually adjusting course.
And inherent in that kind of navigation is the possibility of becoming lost.
I think creative work asks us to develop a similar relationship with uncertainty.
Not to romanticize it. Being lost can be frustrating, frightening, boring, maddening.
But to stop assuming that uncertainty means failure.
The Murky Middle
've been thinking about this especially as I write a little book on Re-Vision.
We talk so much about the beginning of creative work. Follow your curiosity. Start before you're ready. Write the first draft.
And we celebrate the end. The finished manuscript. The published book. The business launched. The thing released into the world.
But between those two moments lies an enormous territory we don't talk about nearly enough.
It's the murky middle.
It's the place where something exists, but you don't yet understand what it is.
I think this might be the most important part of the entire journey. Because the murky middle asks us to exchange certainty for attention.
Instead of asking:
How do I fix this?
We might ask:
What is this trying to show me?
Instead of:
Why can't I figure this out?
Maybe:
What don't I understand yet?
Instead of:
How do I get back on track?
Perhaps:
What if this is the track?
That last question is particularly difficult for me.
I like maps. I like knowing where I'm going. I like knowing that I'm doing what needs to be done to ensure success.
But again and again, the most interesting creative discoveries I've made have happened because something refused to follow the route I'd planned for it.
A Creative Wayfinding Practice
So here's something to try the next time you feel lost in a piece of work—or perhaps in something larger than the work.
Don't immediately try to find the way out.
For ten minutes, make a map of where you actually are.
Write down:
What do I know?
What feels true, alive, or certain right now?
What don't I know?
What questions are unresolved?
What has energy?
What are you curious about, drawn toward, unable to stop thinking about?
What has changed?
What did you believe when you began that you no longer believe?
What clues are available?
A comment someone made. A recurring image. A passage you keep returning to. Something that isn't working. Something that unexpectedly is.
And finally:
What is one direction I could explore next?
Not the right direction. Just one direction. That's an important distinction.
Wayfinding doesn't require knowing the whole route. It requires enough attention to choose the next heading. Maybe that's true of creative work, too.
And maybe, occasionally, of life.
I'm trying to become less afraid of the moments when I can't see the path ahead. Not because I've learned how to avoid getting lost. Because I'm beginning to trust that getting lost and finding my way aren't opposites.
They're parts of the same practice.
Now go forth and make something,
Kelly
