Be honest: do you really know if they like to swim? If your next creative work includes one, you might want to do your homework.
Well? Can they?
If you haven’t considered the question, you’re probably not alone. Researchers haven’t been able to get a definitive answer on this. Some speculate that unicorns tend to doggy paddle, which implies more of a canine flotation solution rather than sui generis, pointy-headed, equine propulsion system—that is, unicorn swimming. Dog lovers of the world may immediately contest a perception that doggy paddling implies some sub-standard form of swimming, but I will not get pulled into that semantic debate here.
The original question about cranially sharpened swimming steeds persists. And, if at this stage of the essay, you’re wondering “what’s the point“, I’ll be happy to tell you. The creative process is all about asking questions you’ve never asked before.
Unicorns and others of their ilk may not be the top of your invention agenda. They may not be the goal of your creative considerations. But if your attention ever concerns the pursuit of things atypical from the day-to-day experience, you’ll inevitably have to examine your subjects in ways that force you to tilt your head and squint.
I don’t regard this as a luxury. I don’t look upon this pursuit as a parlor game or a dalliance. If you’re working on a something genuinely novel and new and you’re not properly interrogating its inner clockworks, you’re likely missing something fundamental about the whole enterprise.
One of the reasons strong creative work becomes memorable is that it strictly follows its own internal logic. Things that appear to abide by a set of rules and standards not only make sense but tend to stay in mind. To extend my original question, we are not surprised to hear that unicorns can fly. Magical creature: sure, makes sense. But swim? Interesting. I’ve never considered that before.
Truth is, I don’t really care much about unicorns, but I do care about the creative work I pursue. When I think about the hard work of landing a gig with a powerhouse client—or any client, for that matter!—, I’m always conscious that the pitch itself matters as much as the ultimate finished product. The reason for that should be obvious: while the finished work is the stuff that matters, the pitch becomes the vehicle that makes that finished work possible. Without the pitch, there’s no work, but a pitch that simply delivers half-baked ideas without smartly considered, deeply probed internal logic risks falling flat. A smart pitch requires that I’ve done the work to understand the rules of the world governing the project at hand. Unless I properly interrogate the project for myself—unless I fully understand the “backstory”— there’s no way I’m going to be able to deeply understand the spirit of the final work I’m trying to create.
So, back to swimming unicorns: if I haven’t adequately considered unicorn swimming skills, how they run, and whether they like to drink coffee or tea (good to know if you’re offering cookies late in the afternoon) then I know I haven’t probed the subject thoroughly enough to be deeply in sync with the work. If I satisfy myself simple descriptions— “it’s like a horse, but with a spiky horn on its head”, — I can just about guarantee I won’t be bringing anything new to the table, and after all, bringing something new is the whole point.