All creativity begins with the moment of conception.

That little piece of kindling that gets the fire going. That initial source of inspiration that takes on a life of its own. That single note from which the entire symphony grows. That single spark of life that signals an idea’s movement value, almost screaming to us, something wants to be built here.

And so, in this new blog series, I’m going to be deconstructing my favorite moments of conception from popular movies. Each post will contain a video clip from a different film, along with a series of lessons we can learn from the characters.

Today’s clip comes from the typing scene in Throw Mama From The Train:

What can we learn?

Establish a gentle flow that obfuscates
procrastination. Larry
is living under the proverbial piano on a rope. After his wife stole his last
novel and garnered mainstream success and critical acclaim, he struggles with
horrible writer’s block. And what I love about this scene is, it’s a wildly honest
and accurate look at the life of a writer. It’s lonely. It’s quiet. It’s just
you and the work. However, there’s a misconception. Facing the blank page seems like
an iconic, romantic and inspiring experience. The freedom. The potential. The power. But the reality is, most artists
experience it as an intimidating, frustrating and painful part of the creative
process. The blazing island of white,
as the cartoonists call it. And so, day after day, artists plop down in front
of that empty canvas, hoping to somehow will the art out of them, and they end
up torturing themselves. Sometimes to death. Prolific creators, on the other hand,
take a different approach. They dig their creative well before they’re thirsty.
The fortify their intellectual inventory with an organized, trusted and robust content
management system.That
way, theirprocess
of creation isn’t driven and dictated by time pressure alone. And they never
have to worry about facing a blank page in the first place.

Never underestimate the
creativity of avoidance. We
all have the equivalent to a blank page in our lives. And we all have our
private arsenal of spectator sports and shadow projects to avoid confronting
it. We invent things to outsource to preserve the illusion of productivity. We
artfully create constant distractions instead of working. We jack ourselves off
on social media to satisfy our bottomless need for validation and
approval. We creatively convince our colleagues and competitors that we’re
busier than we really are. And we react to digital fidgets that are really just
everyone else’s agenda for our time. Larry prefers using scotch tape to give
himself a homemade pig face. Anything to
avoid working. What’s amazing is, all of these surrogate activities, these
inventive procrastinations and addictions of the self, require energy and
creativity. Meaning, we just as easily could have burned those calories
creating something from whole cloth. Making something that shows people how we
see life. Perhaps creative blocks are simply a matter of energy
misappropriation.

Keep creative production going. Writers
At Work
is a series of books that contains candid conversations with some of the world’s
great contemporary novelists. Something I noticed after reading several of them
consecutively was, these guys used to write letters. Piles of them. Every
single day. But not just to correspond with readers, colleagues and critics, but
to get the creative faucet flowing. To pump oil into the machine. To fuel their
ability to execute. To keep production going. Snail mail correspondence ensured there was something
going on all the time, not just the moment they sit down and decide to start
working. And so, whatever your principal work unit is, whether it’s
taking pictures or painting landscapes or composing songs, consider finding a preliminary
trigger to activate the process.
Something simple, easy and incremental to grow your executional victory bank.
Once that becomes a daily discipline, by the time you make your way to the
blazing island of white, going to work will feel threatening. Remember, if
you can’t remove the poison, blunt its sting.

What’s your favorite movie moment of conception?

All creativity begins with the moment of conception.

That little piece of kindling that gets the fire going. That initial source of inspiration that takes on a life of its own. That single note from which the entire symphony grows. That single spark of life that signals an idea’s movement value, almost screaming to us, something wants to be built here.

And so, in this new blog series, I’m going to be deconstructing my favorite moments of conception from popular movies. Each post will contain a video clip from a different film, along with a series of lessons we can learn from the characters.

Today’s clip comes from the parking lot scene in Moneyball:

What can we learn?

Ask questions, but
also question answers. Pete is no athlete. He hasn’t spent his life in
baseball. And he doesn’t have a traditional view of the game. He’s a chubby,
entry level geek with a degree in economics and a bunch of radical ideas about
how to asses a player’s value. But that reality allows him to break through
the walls of denial and ask the questions aren’t being asked. And so,
his character, both physically and intellectually, personifies the entire crux
of his approach. Oakland doesn’t need a roster of expensive superstar players
who look good in uniforms, they need guys who can score runs. Period. As it
reads in the original screenplay, “They thought
it was the chicken that made the chicken soup taste good, when really, it was
the onions. And onions are a lot cheaper than chicken.” Pete’s players, in this
case, are the onions. Just like him. I’m reminded of another powerful line in the
script that didn’t make the final cut of the movie. Pete says, “There’s a much
more difficult question than asking how to win baseball games. Once you begin
to pull at that string, your understanding of the world might begin to
unravel.” What dangerous questions are you asking?

Walk in and create a
problem. Pete has two minutes in the parking lot to make his case. That’s
it. The moment has come for the big pitch, pardon the pun, and if he doesn’t
create a holy shit moment right then and there, he may never get the change to
do it again. Initially, we taste his fear. He even apologizes to Billy for what
he believes. But once he gets going, once he musters the confidence, he doesn’t
tuck it in, he doesn’t turn down the volume, he just owns it and goes for it.
He finds the biggest thing he’s trying to say, and just says it. Pete may not
be able to leg out a triple, but he sure knows how to paint a picture that
changes everything. And that’s what prolific communicators do. They equip
people to spot a new story with their own eyes. Instead of trying to change
people’s minds, they create a problem that leaves people with no choice but to
change their minds on their own. They make sure people walk away from their
interactions with beautiful reminder of what might be. Are you giving a pitching or telling a story?

When you’re good, you
make others gooder. Oakland’s veteran scouting department, which consists
of ten grizzled old tobacco chewing lizards who played baseball in the sixties,
still operates the same way it has for decades. And that’s precisely the
problem. Their approach is based on history and wisdom and subjective opinion,
i.e., this player looks like a superstar. Pete’s approach is based on math and
logic and sabermetrics, i.e., this player contributes the most to the team’s offense. Which isn’t to say there’s not a
place for instinct. But when you’re a financially limited team playing an
unfair game overshadowed by rich teams who can buy their way to a championship,
obviously something isn’t working. And so, they employed Pete’s objective
approach and won a record breaking twenty games in a row. But what’s really fascinating
is, although they still failed to take home the championship, a year later, The Red Sox won their first world
championship in ninety years embracing Pete’s philosophy. It’s a humble
reminder that the mark of a great thinker is how far your thoughts travel. And
that the purpose of magic is to illuminate and elevate everyone, not just your
own reflection. Whose game are you raising?

What’s your favorite movie moment of conception?

All creativity begins with the moment of conception.

That little piece of kindling that gets the fire going. That initial source of inspiration that takes on a life of its own. That single note from which the entire symphony grows. That single spark of life that signals an idea’s movement value, almost screaming to us, something wants to be built here.

And so, in this new blog series, I’m going to be deconstructing my favorite moments of conception from popular movies. Each post will contain a video clip from a different film, along with a series of lessons we can learn from the characters.

Today’s clip comes from the hoola hoop scene in The Hudsucker Proxy:

So, what did they do right?

Innovation is
innocence plus ignorance. Norville is a naïve, overzealous, inexperienced
mailroom screwball. And that’s exactly why the board of directors puts him in
charge of the company. He’s the ideal candidate to temporarily depress the
company’s stock price so they can execute their trading scandal. But as I’ve
said before, sometimes it takes a person who knows nothing to change
everything. Objectivity is equity. It’s the outsider advantage. When you know
nothing, you can offer perspective without a vested interest. You can spot
opportunities without being subject to the internal politics of the
organization. Progressive insurance followed a similar narrative. The founder
died in a car crash in the mid sixties, at which point his college aged son
took over the business. But despite the new president’s lack of experience, the
company went on to become one of the largest in the country. Not to mention,
their approach to pricing changed the auto insurance industry forever. Why?
Because when you don’t know the rules, you don’t know when you’ve broken them.
When you don’t know the limit, it’s easier for you to surpass it. It’s
counterintuitive, but, the less you know, the more likely you are to come up
with an original idea.

Capture people’s
imagination.Hudsucker throws a wealth of resources toward their new
innovation. From engineering to production to accounting to marketing, they’ve
committed to producing and marketing this new product. And yet, nobody knows
what the hell it is. Or how people are even going to react to it. The extent of
their market research is the frequently quoted line,you know, for kids!The paradox is, it’s hard to persuade people to
pay for something they’re not used to paying for; but nobody knows how good
your product is until they give you money. What’s a creator to do? Steve Jobs,
the a master at figuring out what customers were going to want before they did,
would tell us to just ship the damn thing. As it says in hisbiography,
he had an uncanny ability to cook up gadgets that we didn’t know we needed, but
then suddenly couldn’t live without. Why give customers what they want when you
can tell them what they need? Hudsucker achieved the same goal. Their hoola
hoop created a new standard by capturing people’s imagination, not by listening
to their needs.

Everybody is somebody’s
somebody. In one of my fiction books,The Religion Wars,
we learn about someone called theprime
influencer. It’s a big data theory about a single influential person who
sits at the seed end of a vast social network that ultimately connects all of
civilization. According to author Scott Adams, the prime influencer isn’t aware
of his or her power. And yet, any catchy idea from them has the potential to
quickly travel through the social fabric of civilization and change the world.Cool.Enter the little boy on the
sidewalk. He’s about to become the prime influencer. I love how it reads in theoriginal screenplay, “The screaming pack of children are staring, fascinated,
at the hula-hooping youngster. The children are dumbfounded. It is a moment the
likes of which they have never dreamed. They become maniacal, possessed. We
don’t know where they are running, but we can guess.” This moment is every
innovator’s dream.Virality.And it occurs
right at the low point, when the inventor and the storeowner have all but
thrown in the towel. Proving, that
momentum hinges on the power of one.

All creativity begins with the moment of conception.

That little piece of kindling that gets the fire going. That initial source of inspiration that takes on a life of its own. That single note from which the entire symphony grows. That single spark of life that signals an idea’s movement value, almost screaming to us, something wants to be built here.

And so, in this new blog series, I’m going to be deconstructing my favorite moments of conception from popular movies. Each post will contain a video clip from a different film, along with a series of lessons we can learn from the characters.

Today’s clip comes from the formula scene in October Sky:

What can we learn?

Beware all anxiety
thieves. Instead of going back to sleep and slaughtering his brain’s finest
impulses, he leaps out of bed, thinks on paper and makes the word flesh.
Instead of breaking for lunch and carousing with the coal miners, he choses a
productive obsession that’s as large and as great as he is. Instead of marching in lockstep with the
town’s blue collar culture, he turns himself over to a more academic
project where he feels at home intellectually. Instead of ignoring this
pressing existential demand,
the excitement at having discovered something worth doing galvanizes
him. Homer is an archetype for the psychological landscape that all artists
inhabit. His story is the perfect example of how to convert brain potential
into passion and genuine accomplishment. There’s an outstanding book about this
element of the creative process called Brainstorm.
Maisel explores how artists and creators can use their tendency to obsess to their
creative advantage. How obsessing productively can
lead to fulfillment rather than frustration. Required reading for anyone who
wants a more productive, prolific life.

Success never comes
unassisted. Homer is a genius, but also a pragmatist. He knows it’s hard to
be creative alone. He knows it’s like playing basketball without a backboard.
And he knows if he doesn’t get out from behind his desk and enlist his friend’s
support early in the process, they may never solve this problem in time. Homer,
like all great creators, recognizes the perimeter of his circle of competence
and stays inside of it, but is smart enough to get help from someone with a
complimentary skillset. Quentin, the nerdy, weird poor kid––who secretly lives
out in the swamps––becomes the secret weapon, the clutch player, the ninth
inning closer, the greater assister, who hops off the bench, comes into the
game and secures the win for the team. Homer breathes in help. He admits he
needs it, goes out of his way to ask for it, accepts it gratefully and adopts
it immediately. He lets it be okay that he needs other people. Which is a small
victory in itself, considering how stubborn and antisocial artists can be.

Manual competence
builds cognitive richness. Homer was kicked out of school and sent to work
in the coal mines. Best thing that ever happened to him. Working that dirty,
unglamorous and physically taxing job was exactly what jarred the idea loose in
his brain. By getting out of his head and into his body, he got in touch with
the deeper currents of himself and listened for what wanted to be written.The physical work transferred
the locus of his brain energy. And by pumping rhythmically and
repetitively, he also pumped the well of his creativity. In fact, it’s an
interesting metaphor. Coal is an energy resource. A fossil fuel. And throughout
history, it was primarily burned for the production of electricity and or heat.
Homer uses the coal to stoke his creative fire. And as a result, he not only
proves his innocence, not only wins the approval of his teacher, not only earns
his way back into school, not only enters him into the county science fair, but
secures his place in history as a town hero, famous space engineer and bestselling author.

What’s your favorite movie moment of conception?

All creativity begins with the moment of conception.

That little piece of kindling that gets the fire going. That initial source of inspiration that takes on a life of its own. That single note from which the entire symphony grows. That single spark of life that signals an idea’s movement value, almost screaming to us, something wants to be built here.

And so, in this new blog series, I’m going to be deconstructing my favorite moments of conception from popular movies. Each post will contain a video clip from a different film, along with a series of lessons we can learn from the characters.

Today’s clip comes from the finger scene in Patch Adams:

What can we learn?

Sniffing out resonant
identities. Patch’s simple remedy for the leaking coffee cup is a symbolic
moment. He demonstrates how a true ninja uses his surroundings to survive. And
by being open and vulnerable to every shred of stimuli that crosses his path, he
uses whatever tool is at his disposal to solve the problem. In this case, a
sticker stuck to the side of a desk. Arthur, a man who doesn’t waste time
mingling with mediocre minds, recognizes this moment as a sign of lucidity, creativity
and connection. The scrap of
paper is the tiny detail that triggers a whole world. It acts as shorthand for
a shared culture, captures where these two men have landed and encapsulates
their edges. They’re not mentally unstable, they’re kindred spirits who have
found each other. Proving, that the act of creating isn’t just discovering your own kind, but
deepening the relationships with your own kind to make the world a better
place.

Soften and enrich the
ground.  Patch Adams is a movie about
questioning the soulless, institutional approach to medical care. Treating
people as people, using compassion and humor to heal them. In other words, what do you see when you see people? That’s
the driving question of daily life. And the answer, the awareness plan with
which you experience the world, is what informs your creative abilities. Patch,
unlike the other patients in the mental institution, doesn’t see a bitter man,
he sees a brilliant one. This interaction changes the entire dynamic of the
relationship. Arthur is beside himself. As a man with a hardened heart, he’s
not used to this type of kindness. But Patch wins him over. And from that
moment on, their relationship blossoms. Arthur even lets Patch use his acreage
to construct the Gesundheit Institute. Yet another reason to treat people with
compassion. You never know who has millions of dollars and tons of land.

We see what we can
afford to see. I’m reminded of the first time I saw the award winning
musical Once. At time, the show hadn’t
won any awards yet. Nobody was talking about it. But we bought tickets anyway.
And to my delight, not only was I crying my eyes out during the whole show, but
watching the actors inspired me to start playing guitar standing up. And that
single change completely transformed my singing, songwriting and performing
style. The point is, innovation is born out of unexpected inputs that change or perspective forever. And the
more of these moments we have, the more we can create, and the more we can create,
the more we can push this world forward. The challenge, then, is
subverting resistance. Which typically manifests as fear and conformity and
laziness. Tom Robbins tells a story
about attending a rock concert in the sixties that jimmied the lock on his
language box and smashed the last of his literary inhibitions. When was the
last time you had an experience like that?

What’s your favorite movie moment of conception?

All creativity begins with the moment of conception.

That little piece of kindling that gets the fire going. That initial source of inspiration that takes on a life of its own. That single note from which the entire symphony grows. That single spark of life that signals an idea’s movement value, almost screaming to us, something wants to be built here.

And so, in this new blog series, I’m going to be deconstructing my favorite moments of conception from popular movies. Each post will contain a video clip from a different film, along with a series of lessons we can learn from the characters.

Today’s clip comes from the Nike scene in What Women Want:

 What can we learn?

Finished is the new
perfect. Both executives agree the advertising copy needs work. Good.
That’s the point of a brainstorming session. Not to have ideas that are
complete, but to have ideas that are catapults. Now, if you look closely, the
phrase on the storyboard reads, find the
time. Which is insightful and interesting, but wrong. And that’s okay. It’s
supposed to be wrong. It’s a placeholder
idea. A surrogate. A dummy. Songwriters are famous for using this technique
when writing lyrics. In fact, Paul McCartney famously used the phrase scrambled
eggs as the placeholder lyric for the song Yesterday, until he
found an appropriate title. And so, whether you’re writing songs or writing
ads, the goal is to budget time so it’s not all sucked up by one step of the
process. To prevent yourself from getting stuck on one particular idea, lest it
holds up production for too long. For now, it’s not about thinking something
up, it’s about getting something down. Order comes later.

Leave people’s
campsites better. Darcy, the high powered executive man eater, the infamous
bitch on wheels, speaks from a place of honesty and maybe even a little sexual frustration.
She casually mentions the phrase no games
in reference to the customer’s mindset.
Nick’s radar senses that, not only because he can read her mind, but also
because he’s equally infamous for being a player himself. What he does right,
though, is unearth a valuable new opportunity in the midst of a conversation. He
notices the phrase, affirms its potential and volleys the idea back to his
partner. And, he shuts up before trying to add too much value the conversation.
Instead of projecting his own meaning onto the other person,  rushing in with
the answer, he sits in companionable silence and gives his partner the space to
breathe. And he puts himself in a supportive, encouraging position to help keep
the momentum going until they come up with a solution. No game, just sports.

You can’t perform
without an audience. Creative people have a tendency to fall in love with
their own ideas. To disappear into their own heads and work from a myopic
perspective. But the reality is, nothing happens until a sales is made, and nobody
knows how good your product is until they give you money. Everything has two
births. First as an idea, then as the real and tangible output of that idea. And
without that kind of market feedback, you’re winking in the dark. You’re the
tree that falls in the forest. I remember the first time I played one of my
songs for a girl. At the tender age of sixteen, it was the first time I ever
shared my original music with anybody. I was trembling, sweating, probably
crying and possibly peeing. It’s hard to recall. The point is, I got the idea
out of my head and into the world. And even though she broke up with me three
weeks later on my birthday, at least I executed. Proving, that we don’t need an
idea, we need an “I did.”

What’s your favorite movie moment of conception?

All creativity begins with the moment of conception.

That little piece of kindling that gets the fire going. That initial source of inspiration that takes on a life of its own. That single note from which the entire symphony grows. That single spark of life that signals an idea’s movement value, almost screaming to us, something wants to be built here.

And so, in this new blog series, I’m going to be deconstructing my favorite moments of conception from popular movies. Each post will contain a video clip from a different film, along with a series of lessons we can learn from the characters.

Today’s clip comes from the lyric scene in Eight Mile:

What can we learn?

The user interface of
your brain. Jimmy’s bus commute is a fixture in his writing process. It’s a
trusted, consistent structure that triggers his creative focus. A portable
creative environment that helps him snap into work mode and make the word
flesh. Because all he really needs is a pen, paper, headphones­­––and a
landscape of pain, poverty and hard times––to inspire his work. It’s not the
most glamorous of workspaces. Detroit busses aren’t known as exemplars of
cleanliness, productivity and relaxation. But then again, Jimmy is writing rap
lyrics. Considering hip hop is musical genre historically rooted in suffering
and struggle, the scenery is actually quite perfect. And so, the scratch paper
he pulls out of his pocket, along with the music pumping through his ears,
become the associative triggers that give him a sense of control and stability
and comfort. He’s in harmony
with the small slice of the universe in which he finds himself. And by convening day after day in the
same space at the same time, a powerful energy builds up around him. Because he
loses himself in the music, the moment, he owns it, and he never lets it go.

Become an idea
foreman. Lose Yourself is one of my
favorite songs of all time. I used to rock out to it in the bathroom before
giving speeches. That’s why I love this scene. It’s not just an inspiring tune,
it’s an honest depiction of the songwriting process. I’ve been writing music
for twenty years, and in my experience, this is almost exactly how it happens.
There’s a specific melody and rhythm thumping through your head, and you just
keep replaying it over and over and over until the words finally match up. It’s
frustrating, time consuming and the people around you think you’re insane. But
it’s all part of the process. Jimmy is walking the factory floor. He’s taking a
casual, curious and thoughtful sweep of every idea he’s recently accumulated. He’s
managing his inventory. And over time, his lyrical ideas slowly arise from
combining many disparate words and phrases and concepts from his notes. His
creative inventory may appear raw and disorganized, but it’s actually quite
brilliant.

Creating a self to
express. Jimmy is man of grit, determination and anger. But in the presence
of his adorable kid sister, he’s also a man of tenderness. A man who seeks a
better life for the next generation. A man who’s loyal to those who look up to
him. And so, he crafts his song next to his sister’s crib for several reasons. First,
out of motivation. Because what he’s creating isn’t as important as why he’s creating it and whom he’s creating it for. Second, out
of inspiration. Because in the child’s eyes, he sees a purity and innocence he
lost long ago. Third, out of recalibration. Because his sister’s room is joyful,
human space that brings coherence back to his life. And finally, out of obligation.
Because he lives in an inner city trailer park with alcoholic and abusive
parents. Jimmy’s there to protect his sister. His muse. His purpose. Ultimately,
these emotions, environments and experiences are the very ingredients that
inform his music.

What’s your favorite movie moment of conception?

All creativity begins with the moment of conception.

That little piece of kindling that gets the fire going. That initial source of inspiration that takes on a life of its own. That single note from which the entire symphony grows. That single spark of life that signals an idea’s movement value, almost screaming to us, something wants to be built here.

And so, in this new blog series, I’m going to be deconstructing my favorite moments of conception from popular movies. Each post will contain a video clip from a different film, along with a series of lessons we can learn from the characters.

Today’s clip comes from the beach scene in The Doors:

What can we learn from this moment of conception?

Fresh ideas demand
fresh fuel. Jim was burned out on making movies. Nobody in the film world
understood his artistic vision. And everyone, including himself, knew that he
didn’t belong with the squares, he belonged with the hippies. Morrison needed to find his own kind. To connect with
kindred spirits through a shared culture.
That’s why he quit film school. Because life took him out of himself,
and he needed to carve a path back to himself. And that’s why went out into the desert, got lost, got high, got reconnected
and got inspired. He took trip to another world, unlocked a creative valve, and
the steam came pouring out. And as
a result, he crafted new and interesting art through different forms expression,
leading to one of the great rock bands of all time. Morrisson fired inspiration
into himself through physical displacement, connected to his subconscious
through intoxication and created a sense of home and community through a new
romance. That’s what’s possible when you recalibrate the soul.

To shove people is to
love people. Morrison is new to the world of music. He even admits his
shortcomings as songwriter. He’s shy and
he can’t sing. But Ray doesn’t care. When did extroversion and talent become
prerequisites to artistic success? Dylan sings like he eats sandpaper for
breakfast. What matters is writing. What matters is soul. What matters is
saying something. That’s how you make history. And so, this moment on the beach
becomes the shove. The permission slip. The provocation of a decision. Ray
responds to his friend’s art with attention, patience, respect, encouragement
and affirmation. He helps him see something he’s too close to himself to see.
He even believes in him more than he believes in himself. That response
elevates Jim’s hope. It’s enough to send his creative rocket into the sky. And
the best part is, that was just one song. He’s got a whole concert in his head.
All they have to do is yank it out and put it on wax. As it goes in the
original screenplay, “Ray looks at him a long beat. Intense eyes, the manner of
a man who knows what he wants and cannot be stopped.”

Timing isn’t
everything, it’s the only thing. Ray’s sermon about how the world is
screaming for change and that it’s their time to take the planet back, reinvent
the gods and make new myths, is inspirational. Boy was I was born in the wrong decade. This movie makes me wish I went to college
in the sixties. The point is, when you consider the trajectory of the
band’s career, time was very much on their side. They weren’t better or more deserving than any of
the other bands, they just had the right people, in the right place, at the
right time, with the right product, in front of the right audience, and with
the right leverage. Which is a powerful lesson for any artist trying to make it: Success doesn’t have a line. There’s no
rational system of advancement and no standard set of rules that determines
when it’s your time to shine. You
simply have to accept that itmight be a long time before what you do catches
on.And you have to be
ready to hop on the board when your wave comes. It’s like my mentor once asked
me,will you still be around when the world is ready for you?

What’s your favorite movie moment of conception?

All creativity begins with the moment of conception.

That little piece of kindling that gets the fire going. That initial source of inspiration that takes on a life of its own. That single note from which the entire symphony grows. That single spark of life that signals an idea’s movement value, almost screaming to us, something wants to be built here.

And so, in this new blog series, I’m going to be deconstructing my favorite moments of conception from popular movies. Each post will contain a video clip from a different film, along with a series of lessons we can learn from the characters.

Today’s clip comes from the skater scene in High Fidelity:

So, what did they do right?

Know those in the
know. The skate punks stole, of all things, a tattered old book from the
bargain box on home recording. And what’s interesting is, if you read the
original screenplay, the characters actually have a short conversation on the
physical process of recording an album. Rob, always the underappreciated
expert, tells the skate punks exactly how to do it. Make the tracks. Deliver them to the pressing plant. Cut a master. Dub
the submasters. Press the records. Design your cover art. That’s it. Unfortunately,
that conversation was cut out of the final version of the movie. Too bad. Because
at the time of the film’s release, home recording hadn’t been democratized by
the digital revolution yet. Making your own album was still a mystery to most.
And so, back then, if you were lucky enough to encounter someone who had a
grasp of the process, along with the resources to execute it, you stayed close.
Just like Vincent and Justin. Had the skate punks never loitered and looted,
they never would have gotten their big break.

                                          

Mentorship is an
inheritance. Rob’s face is priceless. The moment we hear Justin and
Vincent’s music for the first time, their whole skate punk culture comes out
barefoot. We don’t just hear their instruments, we hear their intentions. And
that closes the loop on the shoplifting incident. They weren’t stealing obscure
imported punk records for fun, they were for inspiration. Justin and Vincent may have been a couple of underage
criminals causing trouble, but they were also a couple of budding musicians
demonstrating initiative and promise. Yes, they broke the law, but only to
break into the music business. How punk
rock of them. And so, for the first time in the movie, Rob realizes he was
wrong about someone. Perhaps image doesn’t necessarily preclude taste. Perhaps
youth isn’t always a liability. Turns out, the skate punks embodied an indie
spirit in which Rob saw a reflection of himself. So he took action on his
intuitive lead and signed them to his record label.

Originality is your only
currency. Rob’s couldn’t believe his ears. As much as he loathed those two
skate punks, he had to admit, their music
was really good. They were rough, but they were original. They were
business crippling nazi youth shoplifters, but they developed a sound that was
their own. And considering their influences, aka, the obscure foreign music
they stole from the record store, it’s no surprise. Justin and Vincent created
a unique, unreplicatable inspiration pool. They built a lexicon for what set
their hearts on fire. And they earned the currency of originality. Barry, on
the other hand, despite his vast knowledge of music history, never earned Rob’s
attention as an innovator. He was a hacksimile who created derivative, unimaginative work. And because
he never wrote all those pseudo impressions out of his system, he couldn’t
compete in clear air. Proving, that there are no cover bands in the rock and
roll hall of fame. If you want to make a name for yourself, you have to make
your own music.

What’s your favorite movie moment of conception?

My new project is called Prolific.

It’s an intellectual property development system. The art and science of collecting, creating and communicating your ideas. And it comes with a new creative vocabulary.

I already shared part one and part two of the glossary, if you missed them.

Here’s more…

Activist. Making a bargain with yourself to achieve aquotaof creative usefulness so the workday does not go down in debt.

Disturbance. Well intentionedmonkeywrenches that make your work emotionally provocative, constructively challenging and delightfully disturbing.

Firing blanks. A period of work in which you’re running onfumes, soaring past point of diminishing returns and need to reload the creative chamber.

Ignition sources. Atoolthat opens a creative window, broadens an artistic vista and sends you off to the creative races. 

Progress rich environment. Surrounding yourself with concreteevidenceof progress to emotionally invigorate yourself and make you more inclined to take further action.

Promiscuity. Providingmultipleentry points for your audience through a continuous, voluminous level of output.

Side door. Increasingoutputby expanding the definition, changing the context and lowering the threat level of your work.

Tourniquetting. Creating a healthy sense ofdistancefrom your work by damming up the creative flow, compressing the circulation and applying enough pressure so there’s an explosion waiting for you when you’re ready to return. 

Unprecedented dramatic device. An unexpected, selective emphasis that deviates from the conventional norm and introduces your audience to a previously fringe world. 

Victory dance. A small, customized reward that commemorates the fruits of your motivation and equips you to be what the moment requires.