“Around 1960, a young psychologist named Sarnoff Mednick thought he had identified the essence of creativity. His idea was as simple as it was powerful: creativity is associative memory that works exceptionally well.”

Improv quiets my mind, frees my intuition, and prevents exhaustion from focused practice (the frustrating kind that saps inspiration). It’s how I frame my time composing music: free the mind, don’t think. I work within a certain limit—guitar through delay in a certain mode, as an example—and let my mind and fingers work. Sometimes what emerges is the basis for a structured tune, and other times the raw performance stands tall. Regardless, what happens comes from preparation and repetition, and the result is free association between pre-existing ideas.

Wiktionary says that to improvise is to “make something up or invent it as one goes on; to proceed guided only by imagination, intuition, and guesswork rather than by a careful plan,” which is nearly how I see it, but with the caveat that there is no guessing. Imagination and intuition are the focus, with one pre-learned idea coalescing with another, either in interesting ways or not at all. The ultimate origin of the word is the Latin improvisus, which means unexpected or unforeseen, and which is closer to the goal of improv—we are trying to throw something on the canvas that we can manipulate, something we hope is a novel combination of ideas.

But here’s the paradox: freedom comes from discipline, from practice, which is boring. Improv needs to be free and imaginative, but conscious thought drags those faculties down. That’s why guesswork is not the crux of improv, because guessing is frustrating; it’s too unexpected.

The problem is that focused practice is needed to absorb vocabulary, but we want to make rewarding music. Intuition builds flow, which frees up thinking power, but straining for novel ideas during performance halts the process. It’s like thinking about what you’re going to say, before a big speech, during the speech itself. With music, improv can be fruitful, but also monotonous if we recycle the same ideas over and over. But rather than going into practice mode—during performance, or the big speech—we can shift into practice, and separate it from performance.

One example is practicing chord shapes on the guitar. I can start on one end and work my way down the neck while keeping the voice leading smooth (I know I’m practicing if this isn’t fun). Eventually, I program some patterns into my brain that I reach for without deliberate thought—bossa nova patterns are interesting, and difficult, so that’s a current project. Now when I sit down to create music there is some material underneath. Frustration builds when I clutch at the next idea, especially when I want to keep creative flow, so framing practice as a separate activity is important. I think to myself: “where should this idea go next?” Now my momentum is stalled.

The concept of unconscious intuition and conscious effort is discussed at length in Thinking, Fast and Slow by Daniel Kahneman. He describes these two modes as system 1—fast and unconscious—and system 2—slow and deliberate. System 2 takes over when system 1 fails, and it’s where difficult computation takes place: “In summary, most of what you (your System 2) think and do originates in your System 1, but System 2 takes over when things get difficult, and it normally has the last word.” Essentially, we want an easy decision from system 1, but when things go wrong system 2 needs to activate.

Successful improv, then, and creative flow, rely on system 1. System 2 requires self-control, which is depleting and unpleasant, something Kahneman calls ego depletion. After spending considerable effort on one task, you don’t want to do the same with the next. It uses more glucose to think harder, so your energy level—and inspiration—go down the more you have to use System 2. In short, things which require less thought evoke positive moods, whereas things which require focused concentration and deliberation produce vigilance and suspicion. The result is that when we use conscious thought for a long period of time, we are working hard, and too much hard work shuts down intuition.

Here’s a case study: the beginning guitarist. There is little for her to draw on since the instrument is new to her, and so practice becomes dominant. It’s difficult to improvise in this state, and, unfortunately, she needs to practice enough to save up some intuition. Short bursts of practice help here since it’s easy to get fed up when the task of even moving your fingers is cognitively demanding. With enough practice, she builds vocabulary to draw on. Now there is separation between practice and creative improv.

I remember a time when I was stuck on a composition and I asked a mentor for help. At the time I was pretty new to making my own music, and it seemed impossible. He looked at me, grabbed his guitar, and said: “Do you ever just sit down and play?” He started tinkering, going from one chord to the next while we both sat in silence. It felt like a classic Buddhist riddle: “What is the key to enlightenment?” “Have you made breakfast yet?” “No” “Well go make your breakfast.” But the point was made: thinking too much drains creativity.

Thinking is great, and improv too, but I separate them. I don’t want to associate practice with creativity because then an intuitive process becomes tedious. We can, with intuition and spontaneous action, mark the canvas and then react to those ideas, or refine them, or preserve the original emotional response. However, rigorous tinkering during performance interferes with this process, so it’s important to avoid overworking ideas as they take shape.

I read an interview, for example, that said Vangelis, the composer for Blade Runner, created his scores live on first watch, and that reasoning about creation interfered with his process:

Vangelis believes that trying to reason how ‘creation’ works is futile and can interfere with the creation process itself. Vangelis sees his method of composing as like a child riding a bicycle: if the child asks how the bicycle moves forward the child may fall off the bicycle as he/she tries to rationalise his/her movements. By not dwelling on creation, Vangelis aimed to keep his approach pure – it is best not to think and just play.

We learn how to ride a bike with conscious effort, but once ingrained it’s automatic. Performance and composition are linked in a similar fashion. If I see composing as a performance, then I’ll avoid trying to think through ideas on the spot. I improvise/respond to what I hear or feel and worry about analysis after—don’t want to fall off my bike. Improv, then, is a performance that draws on prior experience. It’s my vocabulary. Stopping and thinking about every new association is tiring, and it weakens my grip on the idea.

I do see improv as performance, and, by extension, composition as performance. But it’s intuition, learned from thinking. When I say “I’m going to write some music” I know to avoid overanalysis. Even as I write now I’m reacting and associating, only to revise later. None of this is easy, of course, and creating art will involve struggle and days of dejection. But I try to get in the Vangelis frame of mind: don’t think, just act. It’s like meditating; observe the thoughts. Seek creative enlightenment by going for a walk, or making eggs.

Listening to: It Should’ve Happened a Long Time Ago by Paul Motian Trio

Reading: The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula Le Guin