Strategy Ruins Creativity
I’ve started writing my second book.
And I’ve already caught myself writing for the reader's gaze.
A few weeks ago, I had a conversation with a woman in publishing about my book.
She asked me for three things, when I was ready to share more:
an outline, an introduction and a sample chapter.
There was no deadline.
No pressure.
No expectation that I produce any of them immediately.
And yet—as I started writing—I put her in the room with me.
I started thinking about the outline.
I started wondering whether the introduction was doing enough.
I started imagining what chapter I would send.
Without realizing it, I had skipped ahead to packaging, selling and delivering the pie before I had even come up with a recipe to bake it.
I was allowing strategy to ruin my creativity.
I have spent my entire career being strategic.
I understand audiences.
I understand positioning.
I understand how to uncover inherent truths.
I understand business models.
I understand what sells.
I understand how to take an idea and turn it from a moment into a Movement.
I am not interested in forgetting any of that.
But I am learning to discern the moment when I allow that intelligence to enter the room.
Because creativity and strategy are doing two entirely different jobs.
Creativity asks: What do I feel?
Strategy asks: What do others need?
Both are valuable questions.
But they cannot have equal authority in the ideation phase.
Because the second I ask, "What will others think?" someone else enters the room.
The publisher.
The customer.
The boss.
The board.
The audience.
The algorithm.
The market.
The metrics.
And suddenly I am no longer only listening for what wants to emerge.
I am anticipating how what emerges will be received.
That anticipation changes the work.
Strategy is incredibly useful—once there is something to discern.
Will people understand this?
Who is it for?
How should we position it?
What would make it stronger?
How can we make it viable?
Where should it live?
How do we help people find it?
These are essential questions.
But when we ask them during creative discovery, something changes.
What do I want to say?
becomes:
What do people want to hear?
How can I express this?
becomes:
How can I sell this?
Where does this idea want to go?
becomes:
Where will this perform?
Before the idea has fully introduced herself, we’re asking who will want to know her.
Creativity requires time and space for an idea to show us who she is before we ask her to become useful to someone else.
We have lost this profoundly important time with our ideas.
Because we are creating inside systems that reward speed.
Post again.
Publish again.
Launch again.
React.
Respond.
Measure.
Optimize.
Repeat.
I know this rhythm intimately.
For much of my life, fast felt superior.
Fast felt productive.
Fast felt impressive.
Fast felt necessary.
But I have spent the past year slowing down enough to recognize something else:
Fast can also be reactive.
A nervous system built in fight or flight becomes exceptionally skilled at moving quickly.
It scans.
Assesses.
Solves.
Adjusts.
Anticipates.
It is constantly asking:
What is about to happen and how can I control it?
And when we bring that same operating system into creativity, we can begin anticipating reception before we have finished discovering expression.
The idea is immediately followed by:
Will it work?
Will they like it?
Can I sell it?
How should I package it?
Will the algorithm distribute it?
What will the metrics say?
We move from inspiration to evaluation so quickly that we barely notice we skipped discovery.
It's why so much of what we consume these days feels the same.
We have more content than we have ever had before.
More books.
More podcasts.
More posts.
More products.
More brands.
More people creating more things more quickly than at any other point in human history.
And yet so much of it feels strangely similar.
Because we have become extraordinarily good at understanding what performs.
Creators know what hooks work.
Authors know what publishers acquire.
Founders know what investors fund.
Marketers know what algorithms distribute.
Brands know what converts.
That intelligence is valuable.
But our unique point of view disappears when we consult everyone outside of ourselves before fully listening to our internal voice.
We begin optimizing our ideas before we've even finished having them.
Everyone enters the room.
The market is there.
The customer is there.
The publisher is there.
The boss is there.
The audience is there.
The algorithm is there.
The metrics are there.
Everyone is there.
Except the idea hasn’t had a moment alone with the person who created it.
And women are especially practiced and proficient at this.
We have spent generations learning how to anticipate the room before we enter it.
What will my boss think?
What will my mother think?
What will my husband think?
What will the other women think?
What will the customer think?
What will the audience think?
What will they need from me?
What will make them comfortable?
What will make them approve?
What will make them choose me?
We have become so skilled at anticipating what others want—that delivering their desire has become our identity.
We prioritize what others think before asking ourselves what we feel.
Reclaiming our creativity is more than simply making something new.
It requires creating enough space to hear ourselves before everyone else gets a vote.
This doesn’t mean we abandon strategy.
It means we change our relationship to it.
Strategy is a resource.
Data is a resource.
Expertise is a resource.
Feedback is a resource.
The market is a resource.
Our audience is a resource.
They are inputs.
They are tools.
They are information.
They are not authorities.
So, the way I've shifted how I'm writing my second book is not to pretend that the publishing system doesn’t get an opinion.
Of course they do.
A publisher may understand the market in ways I don't.
An editor may see something I cannot see.
A strategist may identify an approach I never thought of.
My own decades of marketing, communication, PR and commercial experience may help me recognize how to make an idea more viable, effective and resonant.
All of that intelligence can make the work better.
But first, I must create space to hear myself.
The publisher gets invited into the room later.
The market gets invited into the room later.
The audience gets invited into the room later.
Strategy gets invited into the room later.
Their opinions are not irrelevant.
Their turn simply hasn’t come yet.
I have spent 44 years building the neural pathways that tell me how to anticipate what people want from me.
Create.
Package.
Present.
Be chosen.
Then know you're worthy.
I am building a different pathway now.
Create.
Listen.
Discover.
Discern.
Decide.
Let. It. Marinate.
The old path is efficient because I have traveled it thousands of times.
The new one requires me to move slowly enough to make a different choice.
To let the idea breathe.
To let her land.
To let her deepen.
To resist demanding that she justify her existence through usefulness, performance or approval before I even know who she is.
And when she finally fully arrives?
Then I invite strategy into the room.
Because I don't have to become commercially naive to become creatively sovereign.
I simply have to remember who has authority.
Creativity discovers.
Strategy discerns.
Sovereignty decides.
Practicing this order of influence will help us all come back to a place where our ideas are nourished.
Next Wednesday, I'm gathering an intimate room of women to share what I'll be exploring in my second book.
Our Fall HYPE WOMEN Dinner—the final dinner for 2026—is Sept 9th.
Doors close Sept 4th.
And if my writing has made you feel seen, I want to make sure I can keep doing it.
xoxo,
Erin
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