Alan Ackmann

The Medici Effect

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While riding a commuter train from Chicago to St. Louis earlier today (the train being a new addition to my annual Christmas migration back to my hometown) I read The Medici Effect by Frans Johansson, which claims that creativity, while to some extent random, can be harnessed and directed by recognizing certain qualities about its nature—specifically that creativity is frequently triggered when individuals examine the intersection of disciplines, and that the overlapping or divergent qualities within these disciplines exponentially increases the number of variables available for combination, which consequently increases the number of ways that innovators can solve problems or initiate ideas. True creativity, according to Johansson, rarely occurs when problem-solvers or inventors reside entirely within one discipline, where creativity is generally a process of refining existing ideas rather than generating new ones. Drawing on such multi-disciplinary think tanks as the Santa Fe Institute, Johansson gives examples of economists who develop their theories of price stabilization by studying the interactions of genes in a simulated primordial soup; of 1970s musicians who broke ground by combining then conventional modes of rock with the structure and instrumentation of classical music; or (in one of my favorite examples) game developers whose consideration of how competitive gaming might intersect with the fury over collectibles resulted in the multi-billion dollar “Magic: The Gathering”. Since Johansson’s book invites a consideration of how external dissimilarities overlap, it got me thinking about what role combination might play in creative writing, as well as how creative writing is taught.

COMBINATION IN CREATIVE WRITING

When it comes to the role combination plays in the actual process of creative writing, I confess I don’t have much new to add. This might be because one of my first fiction professors—Dr. William Baer of the University of Evansville—emphasized that good stories often take familiar archetypes (such as coming of age motifs) and add unfamiliar components (the devilishly sly Arnold Friend, for example, from Oates “Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?”). Such stories modify a reader’s expectations of narrative modes, while simultaneously using those expectations as a framework for the story itself. This kind of artistic shorthand is frequently distilled to the image of an oily executive recycling clichés (“It’s like Die Hard, you know? Except he’s on a cruise ship!”) but if writers emphasize—as most good writers do—what is fresh as opposed to familiar, this process of combination can result in compellingly new stories, tales with striking particulars that refine our sense of emotional universals. The idea for my story “The Night Comes in A’ Falling”, for example, came when I combined my reflections on a relative’s experiences with cancer (old) with a friend’s stories of his new job scouting land acquisitions for the oil industry (new). Most writers I know, in fact, draw inspiration from items all around them, whether they do so on the level of detail or of narrative concept. In bad art, these combinations seem arbitrary, like gimmicky throw-aways that exhibit novelty but leave no additional impact. In good art, however, the combinations can be unforgettable. Cold Mountain, for example, is at least a partial attempt to retell “The Odyssey” within the framework of backwoods participants in the American Civil War—which was itself a new idea. To take an example from short fiction, I recently re-read Dan Choan’s “I Demand to Know Where You’re Taking Me”, which focuses on how a family deals with the impending incarceration of a relative who may or may not have committed murder. The protagonist is the accused murderer’s sister-in-law, who has been entrusted with the accused’s pet parrot. Throughout the story, the parrot (and the complications of its care and surly attitude) become the primary engine for the story, and compel the protagonist to actions, fears, and commitments that she otherwise would not reach. Good fiction finds ways to take its characters places that they do not wish to go, and in the case of this story the seemingly innocuous parrot—which could have been downright silly in the hands of a lesser writer—becomes a fine device for accomplishing this task. And I’d bet that it started as a consequence of combination.

COMBINATION AND FORM STUDY

For that matter, most artists I know benefit from considering how their own storytelling can be improved by a deliberate study of alternative ways of presenting art—or at the very least from appreciating these ways of art. There are numerous stories of creativity working in this fashion; T.S. Eliot created The Wasteland by studying different cultures and art forms, and then amalgamating them into his masterpiece, and many of the more experimental writers from the sixties drew inspiration from abstract art and modern music. To use a non-literary example, George Lucas’s conception of Star Wars was broadened by his viewing Kirasawa’s Seven Samurai, whose lush visuals of feudal Japan were mysterious but captivating. Upon seeing this alternative mode of art, Lucas understood that it was not necessary (or even desirable) to fully explain everything that appeared in his films. Instead, he could simply present the visuals as an engaging façade ornamenting the primary narrative, resulting in such dazzlingly weird backdrops as the Mos Eisley cantina. Seeing a different type of art helped Lucas develop his own, and enhanced his understanding of what his virtual text could look like. For that matter, the entire world of Star Wars is basically an intersection of Greco-Roman archetypes (Luke Skywalker trekking into a pseudo-underworld cave on Degobah to confront his personal demons, for example), Asian samurai motifs (what is a light-saber but a glowing katana, and who is Obi-Wan but a transplanted sensei?), and some good, old fashioned mythos from the American Western (Han Solo is a frontier renegade right down to the smuggling, as well as his alliance with an alien, only faintly civilized indigenous people—i.e. Chewbacca. And as for Vader’s helmet . . .well, let’s just say he wears a black hat for a reason). Beyond this, though, there’s a big metal ball that can blow up a planet. And that’s unassailably cool.

COMBINATION AND PEDAGOGY

Equally interesting are the implications disciplinary overlap could have on pedagogy, and what might be gained by presenting the alien, intimidating process of writing within the framework of other disciplines. I’ve taught basic composition courses, for example, where students began by examining photographs, and in the age of the internet it seems that visual concerns play more of a role in composition than ever. For that matter, beginning fiction writers, whose stories are often little more than derivative posturing or thinly veiled autobiography, could benefit by being compelled to include things they might ordinarily ignore. With more advanced students, there might be value in a course on banned books, where texts are studied in connection with cultures that initially (or ultimately) prohibited them. As for interdepartmental work, I’ve always wanted to try swapping students with the theater department, so that fiction writers take an Improv class (since thinking on your feet is essential to developing an organic scene) and actors take a writing class that focuses on characterization.

There is more to say about this book—Johansson’s claim that studies have repeatedly demonstrated how task-reward paradigms almost universally limit creativity has troubling implications for assigning grades in creative writing classes—but since this is a lengthy entry I’ll wrap it up. The book is a quick but stimulating read—so if it crosses your path, check it out. Oh yeah, and Happy Holidays.

Posted by Alan Ackmann - Dec 22, 12:32 PM.
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