My first book is coming up in a week! I’m very excited to share it with you. Hopefully it will help you be more creative. Hopefully it will help you see the world with fresh eyes.
Chapter 1.2: Imitation: we are always borrowing, don’t call it stealing.
We are the sum of the stories we tell, the stories we hear, and the worlds we experience. Our cultural production—whether it’s ideas, art, or science—is always connected to both our past and our present. Most innovation involves some level of imitation, and that’s perfectly fine. We draw inspiration from the lives we lead, from what we observe around us. As creators, we build on the breakthroughs of others, using what’s already there to make something new.
René Girard’s theory of mimetic desire suggests that human desires are not entirely original but are often borrowed from others. We imitate not just actions, but the desires of those around us. When we see someone else desiring something—be it a success, an object, or an idea—that thing itself becomes desirable to us. The object of imitation becomes the object of desire, not because of its inherent qualities, but because we perceive it as desirable through the eyes of others. This dynamic can drive competition and conflict, as multiple individuals may vie for the same object, but it also fuels innovation. We often imitate what others long for and, in doing so, propel the cycle of creation and progress, reshaping our desires as we go.
In innovation, the object of imitation is often not just a product but an ideal—success, brilliance, or breakthrough. This is why so many startups chase after the next “disruptive” innovation. It’s not always the intrinsic value of the idea that propels them forward, but the desire to emulate those who have achieved success before them. The desire to “be like” becomes the driving force, shaping the objects we chase and, ultimately, the innovations we bring into the world.
Steven Johnson, in his book Where Good Ideas Come From, introduces the concept of the “adjacent possible,” a term borrowed from biologist Stuart Kauffman. The “adjacent possible” describes how new, innovative ideas or discoveries often arise by combining existing concepts in new ways. The most likely breakthroughs aren’t radical leaps into the unknown but incremental steps just beyond the current state of knowledge—within reach but requiring a shift from what’s already familiar. Johnson highlights that significant discoveries often emerge simultaneously because they occupy this “adjacent possible” space, where those on the cutting edge of a field are ready to spot and develop them.
This concept ties closely to imitation in innovation. Progress isn’t about creating something entirely from scratch; it’s about building on and remixing what already exists. I first came across Steven Johnson in Cal Newport’s So Good They Can’t Ignore You, where the idea of the “adjacent possible” stood out to me. It captures how most innovation stays close to what we already know. After all, if something is too unfamiliar, would you even recognize it? Without a frame of reference, you might not see it at all.
Language is one of the most universal yet varied ways we communicate. isiXhosa, for example, the language of the Xhosa people in South Africa, is known for its unique clicking sounds. If you’d never heard isiXhosa before and encountered someone speaking it, what would you think? Would you recognize it as a language, or would it sound like music or even like someone choking?
Now consider a language more familiar, perhaps an Indo-European one like Ukrainian. Take the tragic case of Catherine Sinschuk, born Katerina Yasinschuk, a Ukrainian immigrant who was institutionalized for 48 years in Philadelphia due to a heartbreaking misunderstanding. In 1921, at just 24 years old, police found her grieving and speaking in Ukrainian—a language they didn’t understand. Mistaking her sorrowful speech for incoherent babbling, they committed her to the Philadelphia State Hospital. It wasn’t until decades later that a social worker finally realized she was simply speaking her native language. Ukrainian isn’t even that distant from English, and yet it was unfamiliar enough to make her words incomprehensible, rendering her invisible and misunderstood for nearly half a century.
When innovation closely resembles imitation, it becomes easier to recognize and accept. Radical departures from the status quo can be “marginalized down” as madness or “marginalized up” as genius. More often, these ideas are simply overlooked—too far outside familiar boundaries to be understood. That’s why the most innovative thinkers and visionaries must also be master communicators; only through effective communication can they bring their strange, new ideas into the light.
Take Michael Jackson, for example. He was not just a musical icon but a cultural phenomenon, idolized worldwide. Yet, the intense scrutiny and expectation to maintain his “superhuman” image contributed to his personal difficulties and, ultimately, his tragic end. Similarly, chess prodigy Bobby Fischer, revered as one of the greatest of all time, experienced enormous pressure to maintain his dominance. This pressure contributed to his eccentric behavior and eventual retreat from public life. Figures like Einstein, Da Vinci, and Howard Hughes were similarly “marginalized up”—their genius status isolating them, often causing harm.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, you have figures like Ignaz Semmelweis. He was an obstetrician who championed hand washing as a lifesaving practice for doctors assisting births. His research showed that hand washing reduced maternal mortality from 18% to 2%, sparking a fervent passion in him to save mothers and their babies. Yet his findings were met with such opposition that it drove him to madness. Semmelweis was eventually committed to an asylum, where he was brutally beaten, leading to his death just two weeks later.
Hand washing—this simple yet revolutionary practice—became one of the most significant medical advances, saving countless lives at the end of the 19th century. It had been advocated for centuries, from Maimonides to Florence Nightingale, but met persistent resistance. Only when Louis Pasteur’s solid scientific research proved its effectiveness did it start gaining wider acceptance. Slowly, hand washing became a standard practice in hospitals, saving lives with every scrub of a hand.
However, it wasn’t until the 1980s, a hundred years after it was scientifically validated, that hand washing was systematically adopted across all hospitals in the U.S. Research from 2016 revealed that even though hand washing is mandatory, compliance among medical professionals was still inconsistent, with at least 30% of doctors not practicing it consistently. As of 2023, perfect adherence to hand hygiene remains elusive, even after a global pandemic highlighted its importance.
What seems like a no-brainer, like hand washing, shows just how resistant we are to change—even change that clearly saves lives. Resistance to innovation isn’t just emotional; we rationalize it after the fact, justifying our reluctance. This isn’t limited to “women in their periods” or “men driven by desire”—this resistance lives in all of us: parents, teachers, scientists, lawyers, engineers, and policymakers alike. Rational thinking often plays second fiddle to emotional responses when faced with disruption, even when that disruption could save lives.
Even I, writing about awareness and the narratives that pull our strings, am drawing on more than just my own theory of reality. These ideas are rooted in entire fields of research, like behavioral economics and cognitive science.
So, what shifted in the 1980s that made hand washing a standard practice in U.S. hospitals? It wasn’t just science—it was the emotional impact of the AIDS epidemic. Hand washing became more than a recommendation; it became a necessity because doctors were afraid of infection. In the end, it was an emotional decision, driven by fear and uncertainty.
In the end, hand washing became standardized because doctors got the ick.
Even now, after more than a century of evidence proving the life-saving benefits of hand washing, resistance remains in the medical community. It’s not uncommon—new ideas like phage therapy for antibiotic-resistant infections or ketamine therapy for treatment-resistant depression often face the same pushback. But when something works, innovation finds a way forward, evolving despite the resistance.
Timothy Leary coined the term “Semmelweis reflex” to describe this exact phenomenon: the automatic rejection of new knowledge that threatens established norms. Named after Semmelweis, whose life saving discovery about hand washing was met with hostility, Leary saw this reflex as a deeply ingrained human response to disruptive truths. Rather than embrace change, societies often punish those who bring it, whether it’s Semmelweis in medicine or Leary with psychedelics.
Ignaz Semmelweis saw what no one else could. Worse, he saw what no one else wanted to acknowledge. His fierce commitment to saving lives led him to push his findings relentlessly, but for that, he was “marginalized down”: labeled insane, dismissed from his work, and eventually pushed toward an early death.
The more revolutionary an idea, the further it is from the collective reality of its time. If the “adjacent possible” lies just one degree beyond the known, true visionaries are often operating at two or three degrees beyond, where their insights become too distant for most people to grasp. Visionaries must, by nature, be somewhat disconnected from their societies—they see realities others can’t, and often struggle to communicate them. So, where are these visionaries now? Are they homeless, unseen by the world? Are they drowning in the politics of academia, their ideas losing momentum? Or are they cooking dinner for their families, quietly managing their genius while keeping it hidden under everyday obligations?
Marginalizing people “up”—elevating them to a god-like status—can be just as damaging as pushing them down. Geniuses are often geniuses because part of them is unusually disconnected from society. When we widen that disconnect, whether through reverence or dismissal, it can deeply affect their mental health. Our definition of “crazy,” no matter how we phrase it, boils down to a person, object, or idea completely out of sync with the spacetime of their society. By placing these remarkable individuals on a pedestal, we may be contributing to their isolation and the mental distress that follows.
Of course, creativity thrives in a certain level of disconnection; it’s necessary for innovation. But as a society—and as individuals with unusual loved ones—we have to balance this. How much disconnection is healthy, and when does it become harmful? As I researched artists, scientists, and innovators who were so ahead of their time they became isolated, I noticed a recurring pattern. Figures like Vincent van Gogh or Emily Dickinson had loved ones who, after their deaths, recognized their talent and championed their work. Without these advocates, their genius might have been lost. It makes me wonder—how many others fell through the cracks? How many revolutionary books, symphonies, or discoveries were never shared because their creators were too disconnected from society to have their work seen?
By necessity, most innovation is a form of imitation. When I write a song, it’s often connected to another song. Sometimes, I use a piece directly as a reference—maybe I’m drawn to the beat or the arrangement. Other times, a melody that answers something already familiar to me drifts into my mind, and I have to catch it before it fades. If I were to show you both the song that inspired me and the one I created, you might not see the connection. But I do. I know there’s a thread of imitation woven into the fabric of the new creation.
And then, there are those moments when I just have something I need to say—maybe to the world, maybe to someone who isn’t there. In those instances, the song feels like it’s a true original. But even then, I recognize that it’s shaped by the vast reservoir of music I’ve absorbed over time. I’m not easily deceived by the allure of a “new” song because I understand it’s still part of that larger musical tapestry.
What does imitation in music sound like? Sometimes it’s as obvious as the inspiration that Sara Bareilles’ Brave gave to Katy Perry’s Roar. I love both songs, and it’s clear how Katy drew from Sara’s work. But imitation can also be more subtle, like how Rammstein’s Sonne (in my view) gently echoes The Beatles’ Here Comes The Sun. Or consider The Cure’s Lovesong, which has an understated connection to Sinatra’s Fly Me to the Moon. A more direct example is Santana’s Love of My Life, which borrows directly from Brahms’ Symphony No. 3 in F Major. I admire all of these songs and artists deeply. Brahms is one of my favorite composers, and his influence sometimes filters into the arrangements of my own jazzy songs. The Cure is also one of my all-time favorite bands.
Imitation doesn’t diminish creativity. It shows how, by drawing on the world around us, we can still craft something unique and true to ourselves. Innovation often starts with borrowing, but it always has the potential to become something entirely fresh, unique, and true to yourself.
In the following chapters of this first part, I’ll analyze the different ways we can imitate. I have found that being aware of the creative process is always helpful if we want to have control over both the volume and the quality of what we produce. Whether in art, music, or business, planning plays a crucial role.
It’s easy to romanticize creativity as something that happens purely in the flow of the moment, but much of it comes down to decisions we make ahead of time. Defining the sound of a song, choosing the right words for a piece of writing, or even purchasing the proper tools and implements for a painting—all of these steps lay the foundation for creativity to flourish. Planning isn’t a constraint; it’s the scaffolding that helps us bring our ideas into reality. By mastering the balance between planning and allowing space for improvisation, we create the conditions for meaningful innovation.
Imagine two lovers, their love boundless, but worldly things
money,
fear,
circumstances
separate them.
Broken things
broken trust,
broken minds,
broken hearts,
separate them.
He starts a silly social media account that mocks her viciously. She only finds out months later. She has an emotional breakdown.
She feels the fabric of reality breaking.
But then she looks
deeper
and she finds a caricature,
she finds a clever meme,
she finds a mirror,
she finds herself.
She laughs.
She finds peace.
You are funny. I’m not mad. I love you. Be happy.
Sometimes, losing control—not knowing—opens up paths we never expected. It can be a kind of freedom, allowing us to see what really matters. Through the rest of this book, I’ll explore the processes and mindsets that cultivate this kind of creativity, that make space for genius to flow even in the messiest of situations. Flexibility, after all, is a cornerstone of mental health. The ability to bend without breaking allows you to ride the waves of uncertainty, to stay open to inspiration, even when it feels like the ground is crumbling beneath you.
But I’ll also help you manage that disconnect—the one that happens when creativity pulls you too far from the world. While flexibility helps, you need grounding, too. Connection to the world and to others is just as essential for mental health as creativity is. There will always be trade-offs, but I hope this book helps you find a way to embrace both Love and Wonder without having to sacrifice one for the other.
There are so many ideas waiting for you to discover. So many words to write, songs to sing, and businesses to build. I can’t do it all myself, which is why I’m giving you the tools that have worked for me, hoping they’ll spark something in you, too.
Will you shine for me? Will you write a song, a poem, a business plan? Come along with me on this journey.
I’ll show you how to create a world of your own.
© 2024 Laureana Bonaparte. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
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