Part 1 in a series about the practice of creative briefing

“This is the fear that all creatives know. Of being able to come up with something brilliant, on command, again and again, for your whole life.”

— Rick Webb (Agency)

It was the holidays, maybe 20 years ago and my extended family was gathered at a relative’s house to celebrate. At this point, I was a few years into what would be an eight year tenure as a copywriter then creative director on the Volkswagen “Drivers wanted” campaign. Our brand was riding high, celebrated for a consistent string of memorable ideas. (And let’s be clear—the brand-side and agency-side teams, especially those who directed us, deserve all the credit.) One of my uncles approached, “Tim, I have an idea for your client!”

And as I recall, Uncle Steve pitched a pretty good idea.

So I thanked him and said, “This is great, Steve. But we need a complete campaign… could you work up three or four more TV spots in a similar style—remember they’ll likely end up as :15s, and we’ll need related print ads and how would this idea of yours work across interactive? And do you think you could get all that organized by Monday afternoon?”

Uncle Steve starred at me for a long time. “Huh. So that’s what you’re up against?”

We’re human. We have ideas.

Just as we all have voices. And yet, not all of us are singers.

Clearly, there’s a business to being an Ideas Person.

I’m fascinated with the rigor and definition of the business of creativity—what distinguishes Uncle Steve’s freewill offering from a 401k-supported, 60 hour a week role that demands certain results. Anyone can have ideas, and many do. And then there are some who sign up for the responsibility to create on demand, whether they’re feeling it or not, within specific constraints, consistently, until something better comes along.

It’s worth noting Idea People exist in every sector and industry. My journey colors my affection for Idea People in marketing, design, and advertising. But I’ve been fortunate to meet similar minds across Architecture, Law, Medicine, Government, and Entertainment. The keywords and camouflage differ but the root mentality and struggle remain the same.

Everyone begins their idea-seeking in the Fog.

The Fog looks and feels different for every Idea Person. It could be endless or a box, opaque or glistening, chaos or silent, swirling or poised. You might be keenly familiar with its contours, or blind to any sense of it, yet you know when you’re in it.

The Fog usually exists inside our brains, but frequently appears in physical form like you see in the movies: Scribbles on napkins; walls of Post-It® Notes; piles of crumpled paper. The stereotypical lightbulb icon is the obvious sign someone has been laboring in the Fog. I’m not sure it’s actually dark in there. But it’s as if, the design or theory or headline becomes evident and—click!—the Fog clears, the monsters scuttle off. (There are definitely monsters in the Fog.) It seems we need these neat metaphors to ease the messiness, the uncertainty, the underlying fear inherent to unearthing and harvesting ideas.

The Fog is where the ideas come from. It’s where Uncle Steve made a brief trek.

Most days an Ideas Person attends meetings, submits expense reports, drives to piano lessons, fixes the grout that’s starting to chip off. The Fog seems absent here. Forgotten perhaps. But I think it’s always in the periphery, hence the numerous tales of stepping off a bus, exiting the shower, only to—EUREKA!—be handed the gold.

But for our purposes, the Fog has on-stage and off-stage moments. Most days are not spent in the Fog.

Until an assignment appears. There’s a kickoff. The Brief is made manifest. (We’ll spend plenty of time on the Brief later.)

But long story short, the Idea Person(s) are talked through the Brief, and the meeting ends. If this were a movie some element of reality would bend, to reveal our heroes alone, standing in the shallow edges of the Fog. Maybe we’d hear echos of our colleagues wishing us luck, a faint voice trying to confirm a deadline to review whatever emerges from the Fog…

CUT TO - INTERIOR - TIGHT OVERHEAD

We see a pen poised over a very blank page. Hold.

We hear the HVAC purring.

We sit there, on the edge of the unknown forever.

And… scene.

It’s okay to be afraid of the Fog.

I still fear it—typically when I’m overwhelmed.

“What if…?” as we take a step deeper into the swirl. “Wait. I should check Twitter.” (Several hours later.) Now knee deep in fog… “This assignment sucks...” Neck deep... “Where did the brief go?” Rinse, repeat for a career.

There’s an adage about screenwriters: Everyone in Hollywood despises (or envies) the writer because they get to see the movie first. They’re the first to see the world, the characters, the drama emerge from the Fog onto the screen.

That’s why Uncle Steve was so happy to find me. He experienced the thrill of an idea arriving, unbidden, from the Fog. What joy! Who wouldn’t want to share that? This defines the Hollywood version of Idea People and the Fog. The hero always emerges unscathed, triumphant. She always win. The Fog… loses? I’m not sure the Fog cares. Or is even sentient.

What Steve didn’t experience and what I rudely introduced him to was a world that requires repeated effort in the unknown with threats to your mortgage lurking somewhere. Go forth, brilliant person, and dig for gold with nothing but your wits, your experience, maybe a partner and hopefully a piece of paper—a Brief—as guidance. Then come back on time, every time, with constructions that can withstand the violence of other people’s opinions and fears, that can stand the test of focus groups, that will conjure measurable economic vitality. With a smile on your face, too, please.

I respect the Fog. Even if it is not alive, or aware of me mucking about. It’s where the work happens. Steven Pressfield describes it in his own way:

“When we sit down day after day and keep grinding, something mysterious starts to happen. A process is set into motion by which, inevitably and infallibly, heaven comes to our aid. Unseen forces enlist in our cause; serendipity reinforces our purpose. This is the other secret that real artists know and wannabe writers don’t. When we sit down each day and do our work, power concentrates around us. The Muse takes note of our dedication. She approves. We have earned favor in her sight. When we sit down and work, we become like a magnetized rod that attracts iron filings. Ideas come. Insights accrete.”

I like to think of the Fog as inert yet fertile. So vast and uncaring as to baffle, yet not above the kindness of a momentary association, or pinprick of realization. It’s a stark, empty void and a dangerous maw simultaneously. And it is most definitely a job site. It is where the real work happens.

I suspect this is the point in the narrative where Management fidgets. Because how could any of what I just said make accountable sense? Wait—we’re paying for something “mysterious” to occur? Where and Who is this Muse? Has she filled out her timesheets?

“Ideas come.” ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

And from a sort of holy place where humans court the unknown and all-powerful for assistance. Miracles occur. It’s enough to run back to accounting. You can see why there isn’t a crowd banging on the door to be let in.

Yet this the same realm owned by children. Strange how opposite, how nurturing and friendly their Fog appears. We envy them their days spent larking about, regardless of outcome. Age spoils us, perverting the Fog.

Or not. Pressfield’s right. I agree the Fog is a work site, where consistent practice honors the gods, hones marketable talent, and births remarkable configurations. It’s just not inside some office tower, nor is it in the corner of a coffee shop. And who cares if it remains novel for many. We can’t all be Idea People just as we can’t all be Mother Teresa or Jeff Bezos or the gymnast Suni Lee.

We just need a place to do what only we can do.

Into the Fog. Begin!