I saw an exhibit by Claude Monet once at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. As you might expect, it featured a great many paintings of water lilies—too many for my own taste, but taste is a subjective matter. Fortunately, there were a few paintings of other things. They were quite good, too. I thought they were much more notable because of their uniqueness. It made me wish he'd done more of those and fewer of the water lilies.

I also visited his home in Giverny, France some years ago. It was a strange place because I felt like I'd seen it before in paintings, but suddenly there it was in crisp detail, like the scene in Mary Poppins where they step through a chalk drawing into a world of crisper color.

But what was really striking about his house wasn't the garden or Monet's art, but the art he had chosen to feature on his wall. All along the walls of more than one room, packed as tightly edge to edge as it would fit, in two rows, one over top of the other, were paintings not by him but by someone else.

I don't actually know who the paintings were by, and really it doesn't matter to me here. I didn't like the fact that they were packed so densely either, but doesn't matter here either. The visit was to see what he was like, not what the house would have been like if I lived there. And what I did take away, what does matter, is that the art wasn't by him. It wasn't even impressionist art, as I recall.

As a consequence of various experiences in my life, of which this is one, I have come to believe that creativity is not a mystical process but a relatively mundane and mechanical one. It's not about doing something totally random, but rather about doing something quite routine, but only routine for that one person. We are each made differently, and some of are regarded as creative.

One thing creative people seem often to be plagued by is a worry that they will be “found out,” that people will realize they were never creative at all. In a way, I think worry has some foundation. It's my guess they really are not creative in the sense that others think they are, in the sense of a creativity that is mystic in some way. I don't mean to say they don't create something special and unique. I also don't mean to say that these people are not unique and special. But I do imagine the process of creativity to be quite different than I think many people imagine.

I imagine that the thing called “creativity,” the thing creative people do, is regarded as mystical by others not because something mystical is going on, but rather just because those others look to themselves and say “I couldn't do that.” They imagine there is some secret power called creativity that allows the other to succeed at something they cannot. It doesn't occur to them that the capability or experience or skill the other has is far more mundane.

Imagine a Coke machine and a Pepsi machine facing each other across the room. The coke machine knows what it does. It cranks out Coca-Cola. It may know how it does it, it may not. But it knows that it can help a person who is thirsty for Coke. But try as it might, it can't make a Pepsi. There is something about Pepsi that eludes it. It can think as hard as it wants. It can will itself to make Pepsi. But no Pepsi can be made. It is not part of its nature. This particular Coke machine stands in awe of the Pepsi machine, which has the magical power of making something it never can. And yet, the Pepsi machine is in the same position. It knows that the making of Pepsi is an utterly rote activity, but what a feat it would be to emit a Coke. It would be magical and powerful. It would demonstrate the creativity shown by the Coke machine.

This example is perhaps overly simplified but I hope it makes my point in a way where the mechanics of doing and wishing one could do something are accessible to you to contemplate. People are more complex in what they can do, and people learn some things through education and experience after they are delivered from the factory, but ultimately, I think, the nature of the differences between them is not that much different between them than the Coke and Pepsi machines in my story.

A good painter who cannot sing is amazed and impressed by a good singer. A good singer who cannot paint is amazed and impressed by a good painter. Even among painters, each has different experiences and different skills. None can duplicate the works of another. Each of us is like a snowflake, mundane in our structure and yet different in our detailing in a way that makes us unique.

I am not religious and don't believe in the mystical. I believe in what can be observed. And I've not seen anything in life that cannot be explained by either the laws of physics or random chance—other than perhaps the existence of the Universe itself, which I'll leave for discussion another day. But within that Universe as it is, however it got here, the rules seem self-consistent and to require no mysticism to understand. Sometimes we don't know the rules, but when we have taken the trouble to look closely, there has always seemed to be one. And I have no reason to believe it will be different in this case.

Fortunately, there is plenty to keep us busy and intrigued—even in an orderly Universe.

So why do I raise all of this? My goal is not in fact to upset people or even really to debate my views. Rather, I wanted to just say out loud how I see the world for the sake of those who are interested in me or this particular view. It must seem a lonely point of view to some people, and I suppose in some ways it is. I suppose that's one reason why some turn to religion—perhaps they are more comfortable being told there are answers than being told that there are not.

Yesterday I read a post by someone calling herself “hourglass figure” that asked a simple question. In fact, the entire post is so short that it's hard not to quote it here in its entirety:

I replied briefly to her post, but this article is, in a way, an expansion of that reply. Other parts of the of this article were modified from text I wrote someone in private mail recently. In other words, this is advice I find myself giving repeatedly, so I wanted to write it out publicly in case there are others who have this kind of concern.

Not all writings contribute in the same way. Some offer one literary quality, others a different. Some may offer none at all but merely inform or provoke. They may cause people to start a conversation or to write another post, as happened here. Or they may cause effects unseen by informing or inspiring.

I conceive the matter as being somewhat like Escher's work “Ascending and Descending,” in which each of four staircases lead upwards to the next. In an ideal society, everyone has a reason to look up to everyone else because the gifts each of us provides complements those provided by others.

Or, if you prefer, it's like a game of Rock-paper-scissors, where each choice of outcome has its positive and negative features. Some bits of art appeal to some audiences, and others to another audiences, but there is no one form or piece that is effective in all cases.

It's easy to see ourselves as mundane and never really measuring up to our compatriots if one makes the mistake of saying “I could never do that.” But our job in life is not to duplicate the actions of another. Rather, each of our personal bests are achieved and our collective best as a society is achieved, if we embrace our differences and find ways to complement one another.

I'm not saying we're all equals. Some obviously do have skills that others don't. But that doesn't mean it's time for the others to give up—it means there's plenty to learn and plenty of room to grow. Study what others do. Ask them questions. Practice. Collaborate. In doing these things, not only may we find ways to grow, but we may discover others who have the same worries we do and who need us as much as we need them.