Rachel: That romantic image of the genius struck by a lightning bolt of inspiration? It’s a lie. And today, we’re going to argue that the most creative people in the world are actually the most boringly predictable. Justine: Boringly predictable? That sounds like the exact opposite of creativity. Are you telling me my entire life of messy, chaotic, last-minute panic is the wrong way to do it? Rachel: Not wrong, but maybe inefficient. This is the core idea from Twyla Tharp's incredible book, The Creative Habit. And Tharp is someone who knows a thing or two about creating under pressure—she's a legendary choreographer with both Tony and Emmy awards to her name. She spent over 35 years in the studio, and she argues creativity isn't a gift from the gods; it's a habit you build. Justine: Okay, a habit. Like brushing your teeth? That still sounds so… un-artistic. It feels like it would squeeze all the magic out of it. Rachel: That's the paradox, isn't it? She argues the habit is what creates the magic. And that’s our first big idea today: The Ritual is the Muse.

Justine: The Ritual is the Muse. I like the sound of that, but it feels counterintuitive. We're always told to wait for the muse to visit, to be open to that flash of insight. Rachel: Tharp would say that’s a terrible strategy. Waiting is passive. Creativity is action. She starts the book by describing what it’s like to stand in an empty white room—a dance studio—with the obligation to create something from nothing. It’s terrifying. It’s the blank page, the empty canvas, the silent instrument. The only way to conquer that terror is with a routine. Justine: So what does her routine look like? I’m picturing something incredibly elaborate and artistic. Rachel: It’s the opposite. It’s almost comically simple. Every single morning, she wakes up at 5:30 AM, puts on her workout clothes, walks out of her Manhattan apartment, and hails a taxi. The ritual isn't the two-hour workout that follows. The ritual is telling the driver, "Take me to the Pumping Iron gym at 91st and First." Justine: That’s it? Just saying a sentence? Rachel: That’s it. Because in that moment, the deal is sealed. The commitment is made. She can't turn back. She’s not debating with herself, ‘Am I tired? Do I feel inspired today?’ The ritual has already made the decision for her. It’s an automatic, decisive pattern that bypasses willpower altogether. Justine: Okay, the taxi is a great story, but she's a world-famous choreographer. What about for the rest of us? Does my ritual have to be a 5:30 AM workout? Because I am definitely out. Rachel: No, that's the beauty of it! It's deeply personal. The only rule is that it has to be easy and automatic. She tells stories about others with completely different rituals. There’s a writer who can only work outside on his porch, so his ritual is carrying his coffee mug out the back door. A painter she knows can’t start until propulsive music is pounding from her speakers. For her, turning on the music is what turns on the switch to create. Justine: It’s like a trigger. A psychological cue that tells your brain, "Okay, it's time to do the thing now." Rachel: Exactly. It transforms discipline, which is hard, into a habit, which is automatic. It’s a way of tricking yourself into starting. And it’s not just for artists. She mentions an executive whose ritual is a twenty-minute meeting with her assistant every morning. It’s predictable, it kicks off the day, and it strengthens their working bond. Justine: That makes sense. But I have to push back on one thing. What about true, undeniable genius? You can't tell me Mozart had a boring little 'ritual' before composing his Requiem. Some people are just touched by the divine, right? Rachel: That is the biggest and most romantic myth of all, and Tharp demolishes it. She points out that the popular image of Mozart—this giggling, effortless prodigy from the movie Amadeus—is mostly fiction. She quotes Mozart himself, who wrote to a friend, "People err who think my art comes easily to me. I assure you, dear friend, nobody has devoted so much time and thought to composition as I." Justine: Whoa. He actually said that? Rachel: He did. His father, Leopold, was a taskmaster who put him through a grueling, systematic musical education from the age of three. He practiced so much that his hands became physically deformed. The genius wasn't a lightning bolt; it was forged in the fire of thousands and thousands of hours of habitual, disciplined work. The same goes for Beethoven, whose ritual was a long morning walk where he’d scribble ideas into a pocket sketchbook before returning to his desk to work. Justine: Okay, my mind is a little blown. The idea that 'effortless genius' is a total fabrication is actually… really liberating. It means creativity isn't some magic I was born without. It’s a muscle I can actually build. Rachel: That’s the entire point of the book. It’s not magic, it’s a process. And that brings us to the next step. Once your ritual gets you to the desk, or the studio, or the keyboard… what do you actually do? How do you handle the chaos of ideas? Tharp has this brilliant, tangible system for that, which I call 'Building the Spine'.

Justine: Building the Spine. I love that. It sounds so architectural and solid. What does that mean in practice? Rachel: It starts with a surprisingly low-tech tool: a physical box. For every new project, Tharp gets a simple cardboard banker's box and writes the project name on the label. That act, she says, is the beginning. It’s a commitment. Justine: A box? That sounds dangerously close to my 'doom pile' of random papers and things I need to organize. Is she just a very tidy person? Is this a book about decluttering? Rachel: It’s more than that. It’s a dedicated space for what she calls "scratching." Scratching is the process of gathering raw material. Any idea, any news clipping, a book, a CD, a photograph, a doodle on a napkin—anything even remotely related to the project goes into the box. It’s permission to be messy, but within a defined space. Justine: So it’s organized chaos. A container for all the random thoughts that might become something later. Rachel: Exactly. And she gives this amazing example of how it worked for one of her biggest hits, the Broadway musical Movin' Out, which was set to the music of Billy Joel. The project started when she put the very first item into a box labeled "Billy Joel Project." It was a 20-minute videotape of her dancers performing choreography she’d created to his songs. Justine: She made a demo tape to pitch him? That’s bold. Rachel: It was. And it worked. Joel loved it and gave her access to his entire catalog. But the second thing she put in the box were two little blue index cards. On one, she wrote "Tell a story." On the other, "Make dance pay." Those were her goals. Over the next two years, that box filled up with everything imaginable: books on the Vietnam War, news footage from the 60s, Joel's music videos, notes on characters. The box became the project's physical brain. Justine: I can see how that would be an incredible resource. It’s like an external hard drive for your inspiration. But a box full of stuff is still just a box full of stuff. How does that mess become a coherent story? Where does the 'spine' come in? Rachel: The spine is the crucial next step. It’s the core, guiding idea of the work. It’s the single, clear statement you make to yourself that outlines your intention. The spine is what gives the project its integrity and direction. It’s the internal logic that holds everything together. Justine: Okay, give me an example. How is that different from, say, the theme or the plot? Rachel: It's a fantastic question, because they're related but distinct. Tharp uses the example of Bernard Malamud's classic baseball novel, The Natural. The story is about an aging baseball player trying to make a comeback. The theme is about redemption and the loss of innocence. But the spine, the deep structure holding it all together, is the myth of the Holy Grail and the Fisher King. The team is called the Knights, the manager is named Fisher, the hero's bat is like a sacred lance. The audience doesn't need to know that, but it gives the story its mythic power. Justine: Ah, so the spine isn't the plot. It's the why. It's the North Star for all your creative decisions. If you get lost in the weeds of your project, you just look at the spine and ask, 'Does this serve the core idea?' Rachel: You've got it. For her own dance, Eight Jelly Rolls, the spine was incredibly simple: "Make them laugh." Anytime she was choreographing and got stuck, she’d ask herself, "Is this funny? Will they laugh?" It was her filter for every choice. For another piece, Nine Sinatra Songs, the spine was "the life of a married couple, from infatuation to acceptance." That narrative spine guided the creation of all nine dances. Justine: That makes so much sense. It’s a tool for efficiency. It stops you from chasing a million different ideas and keeps you focused on the one thing that truly matters for that specific project. Rachel: It’s the ultimate defense against getting lost. The spine is your way home.

Rachel: And that's really the whole system in a nutshell. You use a ritual to conquer the fear of starting, you use a box to gather your chaos, and you find a spine to guide you through it. It’s a completely demystified, practical, and honestly, reassuring toolkit for creativity. Justine: It really reframes creativity from this terrifying, abstract monster into a series of manageable, concrete steps. It’s less about being a 'genius' and more about being a good craftsman. I find that incredibly empowering. I know some readers have found her approach a bit too rigid, almost militaristic, but I think that misses the point entirely. Rachel: I agree. The structure is there to create freedom, not to constrain it. It's like a musician who practices scales for hours every day. The discipline of the scales is precisely what allows them to improvise so beautifully later. The structure is the launchpad for freedom. Justine: And it seems like this habit is about more than just producing work. It’s about building a certain kind of life. Rachel: It is. Tharp’s final message is that this habit isn't just for making art; it's for survival. She tells this incredibly powerful story about her dance company. They gave a free performance in the plaza of the World Trade Center on September 8th, 2001. Justine: Oh, wow. Just days before. Rachel: Days. She said they were the last artists to perform there. In the aftermath of the attacks, when the world felt like it had stopped, she considered canceling rehearsal. But every single one of her dancers showed up, ready to work. In the face of unimaginable chaos and grief, the one thing that grounded them, the one thing that helped them process the tragedy, was returning to the studio. Returning to the habit. Justine: That gives me chills. So the creative habit is also a resilience habit. It's a way of making meaning when the world feels meaningless. That’s a profound takeaway. Rachel: It is. So for everyone listening, maybe the question isn't "Am I creative?" but "What's my ritual?" What's the one small, repeatable action you can take to start your own creative habit today? Justine: A great question to ponder. This is Aibrary, signing off.