Brainstorming Doesn't Really Work--Or Does it?

On twitter tonight, someone tweeted Jonah Lehrer's article from The New Yorker about the history behind group brainstorming and how 60 years of scientific studies have shown that the traditional style of group brainstorming just doesn't work. The whole article is fascinating, but what most interested me was Lehrer's discussion of Brian Uzzi's forty-five-year study of the collaborative processes behind Broadway musicals. Uzzi found that the more commercially and critically successful musicals were created by teams comprised of people with strong, but not too strong connections:

According to the data, the relationships among collaborators emerged as a reliable predictor of Broadway success. When the Q was low—less than 1.7 on Uzzi’s five-point scale—the musicals were likely to fail. Because the artists didn’t know one another, they struggled to work together and exchange ideas. “This wasn’t so surprising,” Uzzi says. “It takes time to develop a successful collaboration.” But, when the Q was too high (above 3.2), the work also suffered. The artists all thought in similar ways, which crushed innovation.

This got me to thinking both about creative writing workshops and about writing groups in general. As both a veteran of such groups as well as a creative writing teacher, I've noticed the same thing. There has to be at least some level of trust and intimacy in a group in order for the exchange of ideas to be formative and not punitive or crippling. But if a group knows each other too well, sometimes the tendency is to become softer with one another, or perhaps just to think, as Uzzi found, too similarly.

That said, I know several thriving writing groups (one in particular involving people on this blog!) who have a longstanding history of meeting together. They cheer each other on, support each other through the hard times, and help each other filter out the bad writing and the not so great ideas. They celebrate each other's successes and help mollify the sting of rejection. They still keep doing these things, year after year.

So what gives? What do you think helps writing groups not only survive, but continue to thrive through the years? What is the best group atmosphere for fostering creativity? And how do novelists, who in the end are always going to be a bit solitary, find the creative spaces Lehrer's talking about, spaces which "hurl us together" often uncomfortably, into the "human friction that makes the sparks?"

Great Minds Think... Differently

Yesterday, I met a friend with whom I'll be working on a brand new two-book writing project. We're both very busy right now, but I carved out some time, after a brief chat with her about general parameters, and typed out several pages detailing the backstory, characters, and a plot idea I had. I was feeling confident about my start.

But as we brainstormed, she started popping off ideas about what would work and what wouldn't and then suggesting alternatives. She supercharged the conversation with her own rapid-fire thoughts, based on many, many books' worth of experience with the publisher and editor involved, and the years she spent living in the city where the story will take place.

And much of what I had written changed, one of us riffing off the other's thoughts, both of us coming up with central ideas and characters for our respective, interconnected stories, and in the end synthesizing something richer than either of us could have done alone.

It happened not because we think alike, but because we think so differently. When I prepare to write a story, I get a whole lot of disjointed visuals. Mood, atmosphere, and setting. Snippets of plot events I have to carefully stitch together without really understanding the why or how. My friend works differently, thinking aloud and hammering out a coherent road map far more quickly.

Is one way right and the other wrong? Of course not. Do I feel compromised by having to alter my original vision to fit with someone else's? Heck, no. For one thing, I've been writing long enough to learn to shove my ego out of the way and listen when an agent, editor, or writer I respect gives constructive criticism. I've learned that my best books aren't written, but rewritten, and that sometimes, seeking input early and making minor course corrections can save heaps of work or even a rejection later on.

Our words aren't etched, inviolate, in marble. Those who rail about their artistic integrity and refuse to properly consider advice don't generally get contracts, or when they do, don't last long in the business. Of course, there are times to pick one's battles, times to defend the core vision at all costs. But there are many, many more times when a mind that thinks differently than your own offers the perspective you will need.

Even Ideas Need Fresh Air and Light to Grow

The natural inclination of many new writers is to play their cards close to their vest, to keep their best ideas secret so no one else will steal them. Sometimes, these folks get sufficiently paranoid that the mark their submissions with copyright symbols (which mark the writer as an amateur) or imagine James Bond-worthy conspiracies wherein some agent, editor, or movie studio exec steals the million-dollar concept from their rejected submission and then passes the sacred spark to one of their experienced, already-rich-and-famous writers.

Such is the stuff lawsuits are made of.

The truth, however, is more complicated. Early in my career, someone told me (wish I could recall who) that when a great idea comes into the world, it does not come to you alone. And since ideas can't be copyrighted, only their physical expression, the best defense is to create, polish, and submit your version with all due speed and diligence.

But if you keep your thoughts jealously to yourself, you could be missing a valuable resource. If you're lucky enough to have a few trusted compatriots, it can help to hash out an idea as you're writing. Discerning colleagues can point out and help you shore up weaknesses before they become rejections. They can help you make your way through knotty problems and suggest solutions that suggest their own, even better solutions. (I refer to what happens in these brainstorming sessions as "spring-boarding" or "piggybacking" since each new idea supports deeper thinking that leads to more viable ideas.)

I was fortunate enough last night to have a conversation with romantic suspense author Christie Craig that turned into a terrific plotting session. I had a premise, characters, and a whole bunch of interesting possibilities, but I hadn't yet defined the story's central conflicts. Christie, who by all rights I might view as a competitor, offered to help, then dove right into the soup and helped me seine out the good stuff.

Do I worry that she'll "steal" my ideas? Heck, no. For one thing, even if we were to write about the exact same plot elements, our voices and styles are so different, the outcomes would bear very little resemblance to each other. For another, both of us have been writing long enough to understand that even novelists, who are by nature less collaborative than many other types of writers, breathe in the same inspiration that floats on the collective ether.

So don't be afraid to seek out help when you need it, to talk through a tangled problem, or invite a supportive fellow writer (no defeatists, naysayers, or saboteurs allowed!) to help you identify and correct any weaknesses before you send off your submission. Expose your idea to the light, then stand back and watch it grow.

Bouncing Baby Boxers?

Yesterday, I was thrilled and relieved to finish the draft of a novel that's been punching my lights out lately. The work is far from over, as editing begins, but I'm already conjuring some ideas for a new single title romantic suspense proposal.

Normally, at the idea stage, I try to keep my mouth shut. Not because I'm paranoid someone with steal my brilliant thought. (No one else *can* write your book, not even if you handed out free copies of your synopsis.) Mostly, I keep quiet because it's possible to get bored with the idea before it's committed to paper if you yap about it too much. Plus, I hate listening to people gas on about the brilliance of books they haven't yet written (and most likely won't). You know, the people who, on discovering you're a novelist, feel compelled to tell you they're going to write their book when they have time, only they'll be *really* successful at it. They'd be doing it right now, but they're busy (INSERT-LITANY-OF-EXCUSES).

But there is a time and place for everything, including bouncing unripe ideas around in a brainstorming session with a trusted pal -- or better yet, a trusted pal who's also a seasoned pro. Especially when you're really not certain whether the project's viable. Joni calls this "dating the idea" with an eye toward commitment. She and I have had a lot of "let me bounce this crazy idea I have off you and see what you think" sessions, and I had such a discussion yesterday with friend and fellow romantic suspense author Karen Young.

"Is this fertile ground (another Joni-ism; I'm full of 'em today) or a train wreck?" I asked her. We both agreed the idea was extremely high-concept but potentially risky, but sure enough, Karen starting tossing out her thoughts (good ones) on how to make it work, I piggy-backed off those ideas and bounced back more, and before I knew it, I'd decided to go ahead and write up this proposal, one that had so fired my imagination, I barely slept last night.

So how about the rest of you? Do you bounce your ideas off a friend, critique partner, your agent or an editor? Or do you nurture them in isolation until they're well grown enough to come out and play?

And enjoy this Boxer on a trampoline video. It's hilarious!