Why I Still Sketch on Paper Before Opening My Laptop

I watched a carpenter mark a piece of trim the other day.

He pulled out a regular number two pencil. The yellow kind. The kind you'd find in a classroom.

I was confused. Carpenters have their own pencils. Flat ones. Wide lead. Designed specifically for marking wood. Why wasn't he using one of those?

So I asked him.

I've been using a number two forever. It's what I had when I started. Works for me.

That was it. No elaborate justification. No defensiveness. Just: this works, so I use it.

The Pressure to Upgrade Your Tools

As creators, we're constantly told we need better tools.

Better software. Better apps. Better systems. The professional version. The one the experts use.

There's always something newer. Something more specialized. Something designed specifically for people like you.

And sometimes upgrading makes sense. I'm not saying tools don't matter.

But sometimes? The number two pencil works just fine.

When "Good Enough" Is Actually Good Enough

Here's what I noticed about that carpenter:

His cuts were precise. His work was beautiful. His pencil didn't hold him back.

The tool wasn't the limiting factor. His skill was the multiplier. And a yellow pencil multiplied by decades of experience still equals excellent work.

I think about this with my own creative process.

I still sketch ideas on paper before opening my laptop. Not fancy paper. Just whatever's nearby. Sometimes the back of a receipt.

I used to feel embarrassed about this. Like I should have a sleek system. A dedicated notebook. An app that syncs across devices.

But the receipt works. The idea gets captured. That's the job.

Where This Breaks Down

I want to be honest: this isn't always true.

Sometimes your tools are holding you back. Sometimes the upgrade genuinely unlocks something new.

The carpenter's pencil exists for a reason. The flat shape keeps it from rolling off angled surfaces. The thick lead doesn't snap as easily on rough wood.

If the number two pencil was constantly breaking or rolling away, that'd be a real problem worth solving.

But it wasn't. For him, in his workflow, the standard pencil worked.

The question isn't "what do the pros use?" The question is "what's actually slowing me down?"

How This Shows Up in Writing, Business, and Creative Work

In writing: You don't need Scrivener to write a novel. Plenty of great books were written in Word. Or Google Docs. Or longhand. The tool that gets words on the page is the right tool.

In business: You don't need the expensive CRM when you're just starting. A spreadsheet works. An email folder works. Upgrade when the simple thing genuinely breaks.

In creative work: You don't need the professional-grade supplies to make something meaningful. Constraints breed creativity. Sometimes the limitation is the gift.

Permission to Keep Using What Works

Here's what I'm learning:

Don't upgrade out of guilt. Upgrade out of genuine need.

If your current tool is working — if it's capturing the ideas, making the marks, getting the job done — you're allowed to keep using it.

You don't have to justify your yellow pencil.

You don't have to apologize for sketching on paper before touching the keyboard.

You don't have to feel behind because someone else has a fancier system.

The work is what matters. The tool is just how you get there.

Try This Today

Notice the tools you feel guilty about. The "unprofessional" ones. The ones you've been using since the beginning.

Ask yourself: is this actually holding me back? Or is it working just fine?

If it's working, keep going. No upgrade required.

What's your number two pencil?

You Don't Need a New Idea. You Need Your Version.

A lamp seems like such an insignificant thing.

It's a simple device. Turns on. Makes dim light. Nothing a surgeon would ever use to operate with.

But surgeons have their own lamps. Bright. Adjustable. Mounted on articulating arms that swing into position.

Mechanics have their lamps too. Hooked onto hoods. Clipped to workbenches. Angled into engine cavities where no overhead light could reach.

Readers have theirs. Campers have theirs. Dentists, photographers, miners — all of them have lamps built specifically for what they do.

All these lights. All different shapes and sizes. All solving the same basic problem: I need to see.

Why "It's Already Been Done" Is a Lie

Here's the thing that stops most creators: the belief that if something exists, there's no point in making another version.

The lamp already exists. Why would anyone make another one?

But that's not how creation works.

The lamp exists. But the surgeon's lamp didn't — until someone made it.

The reading lamp existed. But the clip-on book light didn't — until someone made it for a different group of people with a different set of needs.

Different People Need Different Versions

This is the pattern I keep seeing:

Every creation has an audience it serves perfectly. And another audience it serves poorly. And a third audience it doesn't serve at all.

Your job isn't to invent something no one has ever thought of. Your job is to make the version that serves your people.

The mechanic doesn't need a prettier lamp. They need one that hooks onto a hood and survives getting dropped.

The reader doesn't need a brighter lamp. They need one that won't wake up their partner.

Same problem. Different context. Different solution.

How This Shows Up in Writing, Business, and Creative Work

In writing: There are thousands of books about productivity. But there wasn't one for your specific situation — your industry, your constraints, your way of thinking — until someone wrote it. Maybe that someone is you.

In business: Every market has gaps. Not because no one has solved the problem, but because no one has solved it for this particular group yet. The solution exists. The specific version doesn't.

In creative work: Every story has been told. But not by you. Not with your voice. Not for the people who need to hear it the way you'd tell it.

The World Doesn't Need New Ideas. It Needs Your Version.

I used to get stuck thinking I needed to create something completely original.

Now I think that's backwards.

The most useful things aren't new. They're specific. They take something that exists and reshape it for someone who's been underserved.

You don't need a new idea. You need your version of an existing idea, for your people.

That's not copying. That's serving.

Keep Creating Anyway

So if you've been holding back because your idea "already exists" — stop.

Of course it exists. That's proof there's demand.

The question isn't whether someone has made a lamp before. The question is: who still needs to see, and what kind of light would help them most?

There's always a different group of people who can benefit from your work.

Keep making.

Try This Today

Take that idea you've been dismissing because "it's been done." Ask yourself: who hasn't been served well by the existing versions?

What would a lamp look like if you built it specifically for them?

What's your version of the lamp?

What a Coaster Taught Me About Creativity

I set my coffee down the other day and my wife slid a coaster underneath.

"It protects the wood," she said.

I nodded. Then I got curious.

Thirty minutes later, I'd learned that some wood finishes don't actually need coasters. Certain countertops can handle hot pots directly. There's a whole world of heat-resistant materials I never knew existed.

I felt weirdly satisfied. Then I felt weirdly guilty.

Because what did I actually do with that information? Nothing. I wasn't going to correct my wife. I wasn't going to rip out our countertops. The research led nowhere.

Or did it?

Why We Feel Guilty About Curiosity

We live in a world obsessed with outcomes. Productivity. ROI on everything, including our attention.

So when we spend an hour learning about coaster materials or rabbit-holing through Wikipedia or wondering how something works — and it doesn't lead to a deliverable — we feel like we wasted time.

I do this constantly. I'll research something for an hour, learn a ton, and then think: What was the point of that?

How Old Problems Create New Materials

Here's what I realized while feeling guilty about my coaster research:

Someone, somewhere, was curious about the exact same thing. And they invented a countertop that doesn't need protection.

That's how everything gets made.

Curiosity that seems pointless is the raw material of innovation. The person who invented the coaster-proof surface didn't start with a business plan. They started with a question: Why do we even need coasters?

Old problems create new solutions. But only if someone gets curious enough to poke at the problem first.

How This Shows Up in Writing, Business, and Life

I see this pattern everywhere now.

In writing: The random research tangent that doesn't fit your current project? It might be the seed of your next one. Every novelist I know has a folder of "useless" research that eventually becomes essential.

In business: The side question you explored instead of staying on task? That's often where the real insight hides. The best product ideas come from noticing something odd and following the thread.

In life: The afternoon you "wasted" learning about something that has no practical application? You just added another connection to your brain. Creativity is connecting dots. You can't connect dots you don't have.

The World Runs on Curiosity and Problems

Think about it. Every invention started with someone asking a dumb question.

Why do we need candles? (Lightbulb.)

Why do we need horses? (Car.)

Why do we need coasters? (Heat-resistant surfaces.)

The world spins on curiosity. Problems are just invitations to get curious.

So that research rabbit hole you fell into last Tuesday? The one that led nowhere? It wasn't wasted. It was practice. It was collecting dots. It was keeping your curiosity muscle strong.

There's No Wasted Work

Here's what I'm learning to believe: there's no such thing as wasted curiosity.

Not every question leads to an answer. Not every thread leads to a breakthrough. But the habit of pulling threads — that's everything.

The person who stops asking questions stops creating.

So be easier on yourself. That hour you spent learning about something "useless"? You were doing exactly what creators do. You were staying curious.

Try This Today

Follow one curiosity thread without worrying about the outcome. Give yourself permission to research something just because you want to know.

No deliverable required. No guilt allowed.

See where it leads. Or doesn't. Either way, you're practicing the thing that makes new ideas possible.

What's the last rabbit hole you felt guilty about?

Why Rules Kill Creativity (And When They Actually Help)

My nephew threw mashed potatoes at the wall last Thanksgiving.

Not because he was angry. He wanted to see how far they'd go.

His mom was mortified. I was impressed.

That's the purest form of creativity I've seen in years. No plan. No outline. Just: what happens if I do this?

Messes are a requirement. Not a bug. A feature.

But somewhere along the way, we forgot that.

Why We Stop Making Messes

We grow up. We learn rules. We start believing we need everything figured out before we can begin.

The outline has to be perfect. The desk has to be clean. The idea has to be fully formed in our heads before a single word hits the page.

We get uptight. And uptight people don't create. They organize. They plan. They wait.

The Trap of Waiting Until You're Ready

I used to think I needed to know the ending before I could write the beginning.

So I'd spend weeks outlining. Researching. Preparing.

And then I'd never start.

Because the outline was never quite right. There was always one more thing to figure out first.

Rules Come After Creativity, Not Before

Here's what I'm learning: rules come after you've been creative. Not before.

You can't edit a blank page. You can't organize ideas you haven't had yet. You can't refine a mess that doesn't exist.

The mess has to come first.

What Kids Know That We Forgot

Kids understand this instinctively. They don't worry about whether the drawing is good. They just draw. They don't plan the block tower. They just stack until it falls.

Then they do it again.

That's not chaos. That's the creative process working exactly as designed.

Your Permission Slip to Be Messy

You're allowed to make a mess.

You're allowed to write the terrible first draft. To start the business plan on the back of a napkin. To build the thing before you know if it'll work.

You don't need to know where the mashed potatoes will land before you throw them.

This doesn't mean rules are useless. They're just for later.

Once you have something — anything — you can shape it. Edit it. Organize the chaos into something that makes sense.

But you can't skip to that part. The mess is the raw material.

No mess, no creation.

Try This Today

Start something without a plan. Give yourself 15 minutes to make the ugliest first attempt at whatever you've been putting off.

Don't outline. Don't research. Don't prepare.

Just throw the mashed potatoes and see where they land.

What would you make if you weren't afraid of the mess?

Stop Being Creative (With the Wrong Things)

I ordered my usual coffee the other day.

The barista handed it to me with a smile. Proud of herself.

I added extra pumps of mocha for you.

Like she'd done me a favor.

I didn't want to hurt her feelings. But I wanted to ask her to stick to what was already created.

I didn't order creativity. I ordered my coffee.

Why Consistency Beats Creativity at Your Favorite Restaurant

If you've ever ordered your favorite meal somewhere, you can appreciate the lack of creativity.

Think about that.

The person making your food refused to be creative. And you're grateful for it.

It took creativity to design that dish originally. Someone experimented. Tested flavors. Failed a few times. Adjusted. Tried again.

But once it was created and built, it moved to something else.

Consistency.

Now you don't want the chef improvising. You want them to make it the way it was designed. Every single time.

When to Stop Being Creative and Start Delivering

Creativity has a season. And so does discipline.

The problem is, most of us don't know when to switch.

We either stay in creative mode too long—endlessly tinkering, never shipping. Or we try to be creative with things that already work—and break them.

That barista? She was being creative in the wrong season.

The recipe was already created. Her job was consistency. But she couldn't resist adding her own twist.

How This Pattern Shows Up in Writing, Business, and Habits

• In writing: If you create a great blog about working in the dirt, you can't come in the next day talking about chess. People want what you created. They came back for that. The discipline to deliver it day in and day out isn't optional. It's the whole point.
• In business: A product that works doesn't need reinventing every quarter. It needs consistent delivery. Save the creativity for the next product.
• In habits: Once you design a morning routine that works, stop tweaking it. Run it. The creativity happened when you built it. Now execute.

The pattern is the same: create once, then protect it with consistency.

Knowing When Something Is Done Being Created

Here's what's hard. Knowing when something is done being created.

When does a blog find its voice? When is a product ready to stop evolving? When has a habit earned the right to run on autopilot?

I don't have clean answers. But I'm learning to ask the question.

Is this still in the creative phase? Or am I tinkering with something that just needs to be delivered?

Permission to Stop Tinkering

You're allowed to stop being creative.

Not forever. Not with everything.

But with the things that are already built? The recipe that works? The format that resonates?

Protect it. Deliver it. Consistently.

Save your creative energy for the thing that's still finding itself.

Try This Today

Pick one project that's already working. Something you keep tweaking.

Ask yourself: Is this still in the creative phase, or am I just afraid of consistency?

If it's built, stop adding extra pumps of mocha.

Just make the coffee.

How I Stay Creative While Hitting Every Deadline

 Everyone says creativity needs freedom.

No rules. No boundaries. No deadlines breathing down your neck.

And they're half right.

Here's what nobody tells you: nothing is truly productive until rules are established.

I used to think I had to choose. Either I'm in creative mode—wild, exploratory, following threads wherever they go. Or I'm in execution mode—disciplined, structured, grinding toward a finish line.

That choice is a trap.

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Where I First Noticed This

A writer who spends his days working as he pleases gets thrown into crisis when a publisher says, "We need this book in two months."

Suddenly the work needs to be systematic. It needs to be finished.

That's when creativity goes into a slump. The free-flowing artist inside you doesn't know how to operate with constraints. It shuts down.

I've been there. Staring at a manuscript that was almost done, paralyzed because now it had to be done.

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The Pattern That Changed Everything

Here's what I'm learning: you don't choose between creativity and structure. You run both—just not in the same project.

Right now, I have work in three different stages:

Stage 1: Creative mode. Some projects have no boundaries. No timelines. They're still finding themselves. I follow weird ideas, write scenes that might go nowhere, ask "what if" without needing answers.

Stage 2: Shaping mode. Other projects are being crunched down. The wild exploration is over. Now I'm cutting tangents. Finding structure. Making it work.

Stage 3: Disciplined mode. Then there's this blog. The creative part is done. Every morning at seven, the post goes out. There are rules. Constraints. A format I follow.

Three stages. Three different relationships with structure.

When the disciplined work feels like a grind, I have creative projects to play in. When the creative work feels aimless, I have structured work to anchor me.

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Where Else This Shows Up

In business: Companies need R&D projects with no pressure to produce—and operations that run like clockwork. The ones that struggle have everything as either chaos or bureaucracy. Never both.

In life: You need hobbies with no goals—things you do just to explore. And you need routines that don't require decisions. The morning that runs itself so you have energy for the things that don't.

The pattern is the same everywhere: freedom and structure aren't opposites. They're partners—just working on different things at the same time.

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Why This Works

Creative energy is renewable, but only if it has somewhere to go.

When all your projects are deadline-bound, you burn out. When all your projects are free-form, you finish nothing.

The portfolio approach gives you both. Structure where you need momentum. Freedom where you need exploration.

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Try This Today

List every project you're working on. Label each one:

• Creative – No rules yet. Still exploring.
• Shaping – Finding structure. Making it work.
• Disciplined – Rules are set. Just execute.

If you're missing a category, that's your problem.

All disciplined? Start something with no deadline. All creative? Pick one thing and give it constraints.

What would happen if you stopped choosing—and started balancing?

Build in Reverse

 Most people start at the beginning.

Step one, then step two, then step three. Figure it out as you go.

It feels logical. Natural. How you're supposed to do things.

But here's what I learned: starting at the beginning gets you lost.

Start at the end instead. Work backwards.

I Used to Build from the Beginning

Last year I started writing a novel.

Chapter one: introduce the character. Chapter two: set up the world. Chapter three: start the conflict.

I wrote for three months. 40,000 words. No idea where I was going.

The story wandered. Characters did things that didn't matter. Scenes that sounded good but didn't connect to anything.

I kept writing forward, hoping it would come together.

It didn't.

Then I tried something different. I wrote the ending first.

Start With What You Want to Build

Here's what changed:

I wrote the final scene. My character standing in a specific place, having made a specific choice, facing a specific consequence.

Now I knew where the story was going.

So I worked backwards. What has to happen right before this ending? What choice leads to that final moment?

And before that? What situation forces that choice?

Backwards, scene by scene, until I reached the beginning.

Suddenly I knew exactly what chapter one needed to do. Not introduce everything—just set up the one thing that leads to that ending.

Building in reverse gave me a map. Building forward gave me wandering.

The Pattern Shows Up Everywhere

I do this with business now.

I don't start by asking "What should I build?" I start with "What result do I want my customer to have?"

They need to be able to do X. What has to exist for that to work? What comes before that? And before that?

Work backwards until I reach: "First, they need to sign up."

Now I know what to build and in what order.

Same with systems. I used to design my morning routine by asking "What should I do first?"

Now I ask "What do I need to be true by 9am?" Then work backwards. To have that, what has to happen at 8:30? And at 8:00? And when I wake up?

The routine writes itself.

Even organizing a project. I don't start with "What do I have?" I start with "What does done look like?"

Then: what's the step right before done? And before that?

Backwards until I reach: "First, open the file."

When you know where you're going, every step becomes obvious.

Why Building Forward Fails

When you start at the beginning, you don't know what matters yet.

You include everything. Explore every option. Build things you think might be useful.

Most of it ends up being waste because you didn't know where you were headed.

When you start at the end, you only build what leads there. Nothing extra. Everything connects.

Permission to Start at the Finish Line

You're allowed to write the last chapter first.

Build the final feature before the first one.

Design the outcome before the process.

It's not cheating. It's clarity.

Try This Today

Think about something you're trying to create.

Don't ask "Where should I start?"

Ask: "What does done look like?"

Write that down. Be specific.

Now work backwards. What's the step right before done? Write it.

What comes before that? Write it.

Keep going until you reach the beginning.

Now you have a map.

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What would change if you started with the ending?