 Thinking on Paper
Why the Answer Is Often Already Inside You A month or so ago, I made an interesting discovery—or perhaps I should say, I rediscovered something people have been doing for centuries. Have you ever had a problem that seemed impossible to solve? Then you started explaining it to someone else, only to find yourself stopping halfway through the conversation and saying, “Never mind…I think I just figured it out.” The other person looks at you with a puzzled expression, and you thank them for helping solve your problem—even though they never said a word. I’ve done that more than once. That experience led me to wonder: If simply talking through a problem helps me find the answer, could I get the same result by writing the problem down? The answer, at least for me, was yes. I found that if I wrote as though I were explaining the problem to a trusted friend, my thoughts became clearer. Confusion began to disappear. Ideas I hadn’t considered suddenly appeared on the page. More often than not, the solution had been there all along—I simply hadn’t organized my thinking well enough to see it. Later, I discovered this practice has a long history. The Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius kept a personal journal—not to publish, but to think. His Meditations were simply conversations with himself, helping him sort through difficult decisions. Scientists, inventors, and writers have long kept notebooks for the same reason. Charles Darwin filled journals with observations and questions. Leonardo da Vinci left behind thousands of pages of sketches and written thoughts. They weren’t just recording ideas; they were developing them. More recently, psychologists have found that writing about our thoughts and problems reduces mental clutter. When our worries stay inside our heads, they compete with one another. Putting them on paper moves them into the open, where we can examine them more objectively. The paper doesn’t judge. It doesn’t interrupt. It doesn’t argue. It simply waits while we think. One of the most respected management thinkers of the last century, Peter Drucker, often emphasized that writing forces clarity. It’s difficult to hide fuzzy thinking once it appears on paper. I’ve begun calling this process Thinking on Paper. When faced with a difficult decision, I simply start writing. I describe the problem. I explain why it concerns me. I write down what I know, what I don’t know, what options I have, and what might happen with each choice. Sometimes I ask myself questions. Sometimes I argue both sides. Sometimes I simply keep writing until something finally clicks. The surprising part is that the answer often arrives quietly—not because I discovered new information, but because I finally saw what had been there all along. Write as if you’re explaining the problem to someone who truly wants to understand. Don’t worry about grammar. Don’t worry about handwriting. Don’t even worry about making sense at first. Just keep writing. You may discover that the person best qualified to solve your problem has been sitting in your chair all along. As the old saying goes, “The shortest pencil is longer than the longest memory.” I think I’d add one more thought: The blank sheet of paper may be one of the wisest friends you’ll ever have. There’s a quote from the German sociologist Niklas Luhmann that fits beautifully: “Writing is not the result of thinking. It is the medium in which thinking takes place.” I suspect that sentence captures exactly what you’ve discovered for yourself. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED ©2026
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 Feedback: The Courage to Grow
Recently, our art chat group spent nearly forty-five minutes discussing one word: feedback. It became one of those conversations that seemed to strike a nerve. Artists who normally say little opened up and shared their thoughts and feelings. The discussion reminded me that feedback is not merely about criticism—it is about growth. Dr. Sonke Ahrens writes in How to Take Smarter Notes: “Nothing motivates us more than the experience of becoming better at what we do. And the only chance to improve in something is getting timely and concrete feedback.” As artists, we often put pieces of ourselves into our work. A photograph, painting, poem, or sculpture is rarely just an object. It carries our time, our effort, our experiences, and sometimes even our vulnerabilities. Because of that, feedback can feel personal. Yet, feedback is one of the greatest gifts an artist can receive. Psychologist Carol Dweck refers to this willingness to learn as having a growth mindset. People with a growth mindset understand that abilities are not fixed. Skills can be developed, creativity can expand, and artistic vision can mature. They actively seek feedback because they see it as information, not judgment. The opposite is what Dweck calls a fixed mindset. In this mindset, feedback can feel threatening. Critiques are avoided because they may challenge our self-image or reveal weaknesses we would rather not see. It may feel safer in the short term, but it often limits our progress. I have found that some of my most meaningful improvements as a photographer came from moments when someone pointed out something I had overlooked. Sometimes it was a technical issue. Other times it was an observation that made me see my work in an entirely new way. At the time, I may not have fully appreciated the comments, but looking back, those moments often became stepping stones. Perhaps the lesson is this: Feedback is not a verdict. It is a conversation. It does not diminish our work; it invites us to see it from another perspective. Every comment does not need to be accepted, but every comment deserves consideration. Even feedback we ultimately reject can sharpen our understanding of our own intentions. As artists, we should seek opportunities to hear honest responses to our work and be willing to offer thoughtful feedback to others. In doing so, we create something larger than individual improvement—we build a community where learning and growth become shared experiences. The artist who continues to grow is not necessarily the most talented person in the room. More often, it is the person who remains curious enough and humble enough to ask: “What can we learn from this?” Feel free to chime in ! |
