In Defense of Ignorance: The Secret Path to Creative Breakthroughs

I was minding my own business recently when someone close to me called me ignorant. I’d lapsed into a daze, slipped up, made a mistake, forgotten something important—because I’d been distracted by something more interesting. I’d chosen wonder over logic.

The creation of something original requires adventure into the unmapped territory of duh. And yet the urge to manifest full-blown success right out of the gate grips us, as if we might close our back door, cross the yard to enter the forest, and trip over a masterpiece in the underbrush. At the computer, we’ll write a while, stare at our blathered words on the screen (backspace! backspace!), feel inadequate, and question why we bother.

The cluelessness inherent in the creative process isn’t the enemy. Quite the opposite. That tension at the outer edge of the envelope—the barrier beyond which we see or feel the presence of something authentic and new, if only we could reach it—can be pierced by ignorance.

I haven’t had much experience with being called ignorant. I grew up in an extended family of overt dorks. Valedictorians, patent-holders, and unabashed nerds populate the family tree (during a Thanksgiving dinner at my Uncle Garvin’s, encyclopedia volumes were hauled to the table to resolve a debate regarding the invention of margarine).

Within a week of moving to a new town (which we did often), Mom would usher me and my brother into the local public library so we could check out stacks of books. Dad had a “Let’s try it and see what happens” attitude and could be counted on to shrug and consider mistakes part of life’s experimental process.

Although I was teased about my weird teeth, no one ever called me ignorant. I found pride in knowing things and getting good grades. People who befriended me considered me thoughtful and patient, and my ability to teach without judgment seemed to make my weird teeth immaterial. I loved that.

So when I was called ignorant, I became intrigued. It hadn’t felt the way I’d always thought being ignorant would feel. I’d felt good, actually. The feeling of being ignorant had been… promising, like the corner I was stumbling toward could only be navigated on my hands and knees, and as I rounded the edge I’d find amazements I couldn’t find while trying to know it all. While being ignorant, I’d felt open and awestruck.

Not-knowing is a perfect state to be in for acts of creation. Not knowing but wanting to know, reaching and stumbling—this is how we learn. Ignorance is the first step toward innovation, even when that step is a crawl.

If you want to create something original and authentic, you can’t get there without being the one who goes first. Therefore, when all you see is a wall an inch from your face, don’t bang your head against it. Instead, pick up a tool and make a mark. Eventually, if you try enough tools, the wall gets smaller and you get stronger. Then the wrecking ball arrives and you have a breakthrough.

When you set out to write but you fumble, lean in. Admit what you don’t know and pat yourself on the back for being exactly where you need to be. There is nothing wrong with you or your process, and everything required to pull wondrous and original works from the ether around you can be found in the come-hither crook of the question mark. Every false start gets you closer, so make more of them.

I’ll confess now that it was me who called me ignorant. That’s okay. I’ve decided to take it as a compliment.

===

Grace Kerina is the author of Personal Boundaries for Highly Sensitive People and other resources for quiet people. She has more than twenty years of experience helping writers and other creators find their true voices. Get her free ebook 7 Liberating Life Hacks for Highly Sensitive People when you subscribe to her newsletter. She also writes novels as Alice Archer.