The idea that sharing your goals makes you less likely to achieve them gained popularity after the publication of a study led by German psychologist Peter Gollwitzer in 2009. Gollwitzer's research suggested that when others become aware of our plans—particularly those related to identity—it creates a social reality, which can provide a premature sense of achievement, thereby reducing motivation. Experiments demonstrated that participants pursued plans known by the research group with less intensity than those kept private. The results have been widely interpreted in self-improvement and productivity advice, including starting a business, learning a language, and achieving a healthy body. The recommendation: keep your goals private to succeed.
I aspire to follow the middle way, a principle rooted in Buddhist philosophy, which advocates for a balanced approach that avoids extremes. Keeping an open mind to diverse principles and methods is particularly beneficial in self-improvement. An idea might be effective for an individual under specific circumstances at one point in their life, yet the opposite could be true at another time in a different scenario. I wonder if any single piece of advice remains universally applicable throughout life. Continuous learning and adjustment are the only constants you can rely upon. However, regarding a problem of creativity that had troubled me for over seven years, I found a solution in the popular interpretation of Gollwitzer's research.
The Tokyothèque newsletter is the first self-generated project I have started and sustained for any significant period since 2017. During those years, I could not launch any project meaningfully—a creative impasse. I've always had the artistic impulse to create, and for anyone with this inclination, such a deadlock is a deeply dissatisfying condition. In this state, you know you are not meeting your needs but feel stuck and unable to generate the momentum to do so. It differs subtly from creative block, which is characterised by a lack of inspiration. In contrast, I had numerous ideas in notebooks and detailed plans to realise them across various disciplines and media. I would initiate projects but then allow my ideas to stagnate and fade away.
Each time, I had a cacophony of reasons. I was too tired from my day job to continue working in the evening, experiencing a perceived burnout. There was dissatisfaction with the work and a routine loss of confidence. Sometimes, I felt a sudden emotional disconnect from the work. Other times, I believed somebody had already done my idea, and I had nothing to add. I entered a cycle of negativity: I would think extensively about my ideas, consume inspirational books and videos, and discuss the ideas with people around me. Then, I would overcomplicate the work, devise reasons not to act, and eventually abandon it. Reflecting on it, the emotional arc of this cycle would peak around the moment I decided to talk about the work. Perhaps I was embodying Gollwitzer's thesis.
When people were not offering compliments and reinforcing my social reality, they would provide advice to improve my ideas or caution me about the risks of failure. While usually well-meaning, such advice has its downsides. Critiques directed at the seed of an idea can be misguided or ineffective since the concept has yet to have the chance to grow and develop. Conflicting advice from different sources can add unnecessary complexity at a time when simplicity is crucial. Additionally, repeatedly relying on others' opinions can erode your self-confidence, causing you to doubt your judgement and ultimately stifling the growth of your idea.
With the writing of this newsletter and the creation of its supporting media, things have been different. The issues of overcomplicating the work and finding reasons to stop are a discussion for later—resisting these is an ongoing effort that will be more challenging to articulate. However, the decision not to speak to anyone about Tokyothèque during its inception until the project was well underway has positively influenced everything that followed. Starting silently helped create the right conditions for creativity, providing the space I needed to keep it simple and progress with a clear, intentional mind.
Conversations about the work take on a different tone when it has already been somewhat developed. Since launching Tokyothèque and gradually opening it up for discussion, the advice I've received has been constructive and inspiring. This feedback is based on the work itself, not its initial concept. With my initial version of the project in place, I'm free to experiment with advice judiciously and iteratively, retaining what resonates and discarding what does not. Similarly, compliments on the work can be genuinely appreciated and stored as an uplifting reminder of the value I've created for people in moments of self-doubt.
"Do not speak, act" is the most distilled expression I've seen of the mantra at hand. Still, returning to the middle way, the opposite can be true when one badly needs accountability to others to prevent procrastination. Alternatively, during a golden phase of effortless, prolific output, the extent to which you speak with people might be irrelevant. Nevertheless, if you have reached a creative impasse, I posit that a quiet beginning might just be the thread that unravels the knot.
Today's thinkpiece has been a pause from studying the signs of Tokyo and exploring the metropolis. It is an introspection into my recent creative process, which I believe many of you will relate to and perhaps benefit from reading, whether you are in a creative profession, pursuing some form of art or craft, or simply living creatively through personal interests or, indeed, your love of Japan. The theme of this week's newsletter, however, does connect to a new endeavour—a plan whose time has come to be shared.
I have been working steadily on a short book. It will be a natural extension of the newsletter, venturing into one of the city's many secluded exurban locales, where not much seems to happen at a glance. Yet, every detail teaches us something about Japanese design, culture, history, and daily life. On an extended midsummer walk, there will be ample time for philosophical reflections, autobiographical vignettes, and brief meditations amidst the layout of the streets and the intricacies of the suburban and rural vistas. For the first time, I'll illustrate my writings with photography throughout.
A book is the type of project that could easily be derailed per Gollwitzer's model. However, I am well aware of this risk and have waited until now to share it, with the contents drafted and the layouts taking shape. I have reached a stage where accountability will be operative in ensuring the work's completion. For now, I've resisted the urge to overburden the process by producing a physical printed book with all the associated costs and complexities. Instead, it will be an eBook, straightforward and uncomplicated, which I can release nimbly and without delay.
When the day of release comes—and it won't be too long—I sincerely hope you'll join me within the book's pages to explore the city at a slower pace, whether to enrich your travels in Japan, deepen your knowledge, or find a modicum of solace amid contemporary life.
Until we meet in artistic flow,
AJ