## 12 Develop Ideas “Every note is just an element in the network of references and back references in the system, from which it gains its quality.” (Luhmann 1992) Ideally, new notes are written with explicit reference to already existing notes. Obviously, this is not always possible, especially in the beginning when the slip-box is still in its infancy, but it will very soon become the first option most of the time. Then you can put the new note “behind” an existing, related note straight away. Luhmann, working with pen and paper, would put a note behind an existing one and number it accordingly. If the existing note bore the number 21, he numbered the new note 22. If note number 22 already existed, he would still add it behind 21, but number it 21a. By alternating numbers and letters, he was able to branch out into an infinite number of sequences and sub-sequences internally with no hierarchical order. An initial subsequence that attracts more and more follow-up notes can easily become a main topic with many subtopics over time (Schmidt 2013, 172). The digital Zettelkasten makes things easier: numbers are assigned automatically, note sequences can be constructed any time later and one note can become the follow-up note to different notes at the same time. These note sequences are the backbone of text development. They combine the advantages of an abstract with a topic-related order. A pure topic-related order would have to be organised top down and requires a hierarchical order up front. A pure abstract order would not allow idea clusters and topics to be built bottom up. The individual notes would stay mostly independent and isolated with only one-dimensional references – pretty much like a one-person Wikipedia stripped of the knowledge and fact-checking abilities of the community. But a loose order of sequences allows freedom to change course when necessary and provides enough structure to build up complexity. Notes are only as valuable as the note and reference networks they are embedded in. Because the slip-box is not intended to be an encyclopaedia, but a tool to think with, we don’t need to worry about completeness. We don’t need to write anything down just to bridge a gap in a note sequence. We only write if it helps us with our own thinking. The gaps we do need to concern ourselves with are the gaps in the arguments in the final manuscript – but these gaps will only become obvious in the next step, when we take the relevant notes for an argument out of the network of the slip-box and sort them into the linear order for the rough draft. As the slip-box is not a book with just one topic, we don’t need to have an overview of it. On the contrary, we are much better off accepting as early as possible that an overview of the slip-box is as impossible as having an overview of our own thinking *while* we are thinking. As an extension of our own memory, the slip-box is the medium we think *in*, not something we think *about*. The note sequences are the clusters where order emerges from complexity. We extract information from different linear sources and mix it all up and shake it until new patterns emerge. Then, we form these patterns into new linear texts. ### <a class="pcalibre pcalibre1" id="_Toc475013823"> 12.1 </a> Develop Topics After adding a note to the slip-box, we need to make sure it can be found again. This is what the index is for. Luhmann wrote an index with a typewriter on index cards. In the Zettelkasten, keywords can easily be added to a note like tags and will then show up in the index. They should be chosen carefully and sparsely. Luhmann would add the number of one or two (rarely more) notes next to a keyword in the index (Schmidt 2013, 171). The reason he was so economical with notes per keyword and why we too should be very selective lies in the way the slip-box is used. Because it should not be used as an archive, where we just take out what we put in, but as a system to think with, the references between the notes are much more important than the references from the index to a single note. Focusing exclusively on the index would basically mean that we always know upfront what we are looking for – we would have to have a fully developed plan in our heads. But liberating our brains from the task of organizing the notes is the main reason we use the slip-box in the first place. The file-box can do much more than just hand out what we request. It can surprise and remind us of long-forgotten ideas and trigger new ones. This crucial element of surprise comes into play on the level of the interconnected notes, not when we are looking for particular entries in the index. Most notes will be found through other notes. The organisation of the notes is in the network of references in the slip-box, so all we need from the index are entry points. A few wisely chosen notes are sufficient for each entry point. The quicker we get from the index to the concrete notes, the quicker we move our attention from mentally preconceived ideas towards the fact-rich level of interconnected content, where we can conduct a fact-based dialogue with the slip-box. Even though we will not get an overview of the whole slip-box (as we certainly will never get an overview of our whole internal memory), we can get an overview of a specific topic. But because the structure of topics and subtopics is not a given, but the outcome of our thinking, they too are subject to ongoing considerations and alteration. The consideration of how to structure a topic, therefore, belongs on notes as well – and not on a meta-hierarchical level. We can provide ourselves with a (temporarily valid) overview over a topic or subtopic just by making another note. If we then link from the index to such a note, we have a good entry point. If the overview on this note ceases to correctly represent the state of a cluster or topic, or we decide it should be structured differently, we can write a new note with a better structure and update the respective link from the index. This is important: Every consideration on the structure of a topic is just another consideration on a note – bound to change and dependent on the development of our understanding. The way people choose their keywords shows clearly if they think like an archivist or a writer. Do they wonder where to *store* a note or how to *retrieve*it? The archivist asks: Which keyword is the most fitting? A writer asks: In which circumstances will I want to stumble upon this note, even if I forget about it? It is a crucial difference. Let’s assume I want to add a short note that says: “Tversky/Kahneman (1973) showed in an experiment that people are more likely to overestimate the likelihood of an event to happen if they are able to conceive it well and in detail than if it were abstract.” If you think in terms of archiving, you might feel keywords like “misjudgements,” “experimental psychology” or “experiment” would be fitting. In this case, you would think in general categories like “subject,” “discipline” or “method.” It is rather unlikely that you will ever think of writing an article based on all notes to “experimental psychology” or see the need for retrieving all notes filed under “experiment.” Maybe you will think about a book that collects “misjudgements,” but it is unlikely that you could turn any of these piles of notes into a structured argument. As writers, we approach the question of keywords differently. We look at our slip-box for already existing lines of thought and think about the questions and problems already on our minds to which a new note might contribute. If you are an economist working on decision-making, you might think of the preferences management often shows for projects with an easy-to-visualise outcome over more profitable ones. A fitting keyword would then be “capital allocation problems.” By assigning the keyword alone, the note is already put into a specific context, which gives it a particular meaning and triggers context-specific questions like: If this is a systematic effect, can it be measured? Has someone already measured it? Does the effect show up in available data, like the market value of publicly listed companies, and if so, is it that companies with products that are easy to visualise have richer valuations than those who offer services or products that are rather difficult to grasp? And if not: Is it because the experimental findings cannot be extrapolated or is it because the knowledge is already publicly available and therefore priced in? If not, is it another argument against the Efficient Market hypothesis or just a good way to stack the odds in the stock market in your favour? By assigning this keyword, you might stumble upon already existing notes on capital allocation, which either help to answer these questions or trigger new ones. But maybe you are a political scientist and read this note as an answer to the question of why certain topics are discussed during an election and others not, or why it could be politically more sensible to promote easy-to-visualise solutions over solutions that really work. Fitting keywords here might be “political strategies,” “elections” or “dysfunctionalities, political.” Keywords should always be assigned with an eye towards the topics you are working on or interested in, never by looking at the note in isolation. This is also why this process cannot be automated or delegated to a machine or program – it requires thinking. The Zettelkasten does make suggestions based on existing keywords and scans for keywords in the text you wrote. But it makes sense to see these suggestions more as a warning sign than an invitation to use them: these are the most obvious ideas and probably not the best ones. Good keywords are usually not already mentioned as words in the note. Assume I have the note “A sudden increase of ad-hoc theories is for Kuhn a sign that a normal-science phase might be in crisis (Kuhn 1967, 96).” A fitting keyword might be “paradigm change,” but that phrase is not in the note and therefore would not be suggested by the program. Assigning keywords is much more than just a bureaucratic act. It is a crucial part of the thinking process, which often leads to a deeper elaboration of the note itself and the connection to other notes. ### <a class="pcalibre pcalibre1" id="_Toc475013824"> 12.2 </a> Make Smart Connections In the digital version of the Zettelkasten, all we need to do is to click on “Links” and add the number of the note we want to refer to. It then automatically adds a backlink to the note we refer from. Even though the Zettelkasten makes suggestions here, too, for example based on joint literature references, making good cross-references is a matter of serious thinking and a crucial part of the development of thoughts. Luhmann used four basic types of cross-references in his file-box (Schmidt 2013, 173f; Schmidt 2015, 165f). Only the first and last are relevant for the digital Zettelkasten, the other two are merely compensating for restrictions of the analogue pen and paper version. You don’t need to concern yourself with them if you use the digital program. 1\. The first type of links are those on notes that are giving you the overview of a topic. These are notes directly referred to from the index and usually used as an entry point into a topic that has already developed to such a degree that an overview is needed or at least becomes helpful. On a note like this, you can collect links to other relevant notes to this topic or question, preferably with a short indication of what to find on these notes (one or two words or a short sentence is sufficient). This kind of note helps to structure thoughts and can be seen as an in-between step towards the development of a manuscript. Above all, they help orientate oneself within the slip-box. You will know when you need to write one. Luhmann collected up to 25 links to other notes on these kind of entry notes. They don’t have to be written in one go as links can be added over time, which again shows how topics can grow organically. What we think is relevant for a topic and what is not depends on our current understanding and should be taken quite seriously: It defines an idea as much as the facts it is based on. What we regard as being relevant for a topic and how we structure it will change over time. This change might lead to another note with a different, more adequate topic structure, which then can be seen as a comment on the previous note. Thankfully, it won’t make all the other notes redundant. As mentioned before: All we have to do is to change the entry in the index to this new note and/or indicate on the old note that we now consider a new structure more fitting. 2\. A similar though less crucial kind of link collection is on those notes that give an overview of a local, physical cluster of the slip-box. This is only necessary if you work with pen and paper like Luhmann. While the first type of note gives an overview of a topic, regardless of where the notes are located within the slip-box, this type of note is a pragmatic way of keeping track of all the different topics discussed on the notes that are physically close together. As Luhmann put notes between notes to internally branch out subtopics and sub-subtopics, original lines of thoughts were often interrupted by hundreds of different notes. This second type of note keeps track of the original lines of thought. Obviously, we don’t need to worry about this if we work with the digital version. 3\. Equally less relevant for the digital version are those links that indicate the note to which the current note is a follow-up and those links that indicate the note that follows on the current note. Again, this is only relevant to see which notes follow each other, even if they don’t physically stand behind each other anymore. The digital Zettelkasten automatically adds these kinds of backlinks and presents you the relevant notes in a note sequence. 4\. The most common form of reference is plain note-to-note links. They have no function other than indicating a relevant connection between two individual notes. By linking two related notes regardless of where they are within the slip-box or within different contexts, surprising new lines of thought can be established. These note-to-note links are like the “weak links” (Granovetter 1973) of social relationships we have with acquaintances: even though they are usually not the ones we turn to first, they often can offer new and different perspectives. These links can help us to find surprising connections and similarities between seemingly unrelated topics. Patterns might not become visible right away, but they might emerge after multiple note-to-note links between two topics have been established. It is no coincidence that one of the main features of Luhmann’s theory of social systems is its discovery of structural patterns that could be found in very different parts of society. For example, he was able to show how vastly different things like money, power, love, truth and justice can be seen as social inventions that solve structurally similar problems (they all can be seen as media that make the acceptance of certain communication offers more likely, cf. Luhmann 1997, chapter 9–12). Observations like these could never be done nor explained by someone who is working with a system that keeps things neatly separated by preconceived themes and topics. It is important to always keep in mind that making these links is not a chore, a kind of file-box maintenance. The search for meaningful connections is a crucial part of the thinking process towards the finished manuscript. But here, it is dealt with in a very concrete way. Instead of figuratively searching our internal memory, we literally go through the file-box and look for connections. By dealing with actual notes, we are also less prone to imagine connections where there aren’t any, as we can see in black and white if something makes sense or not. As we are making these connections, we build up an internal structure of the slip-box, which is shaped by our thinking. While this structure builds up externally and independently of our limited memory, it will, in return, shape our thinking as well and help us to think in a more structured way. Our ideas will be rooted in a network of facts, thought-through ideas and verifiable references. The slip-box is like a well-informed but down-to-earth communication partner who keeps us grounded. If we try to feed it some lofty ideas, it will force us to check first: What is the reference? How does that connect to the facts and the ideas you already have? ### <a class="pcalibre pcalibre1" id="_Toc475013825"> 12.3 </a> Compare, Correct and Differentiate If you use the slip-box for a while, you will inevitably make a sobering discovery: The great new idea you are about to add to the slip-box turns out to be already in there. Even worse, chances are this idea wasn’t even yours, but someone else’s. Having the same thought twice or mistaking another person’s idea with our own is far from unusual. Unfortunately, most people never notice this humbling fact because they have no system that confronts them with already thought thoughts. If we forget about an idea and have it again, our brains get as excited as if we are having it the first time. Therefore, working with the slip-box is disillusioning, but at the same time it increases the chance that we actually move forward in our thinking towards uncharted territory, instead of just *feeling* like we are moving forward. Sometimes, the confrontation with old notes helps to detect differences we wouldn’t have noticed otherwise. What seems to be the same idea sometimes turns out to be slightly, but crucially, different. We then can explicitly discuss this difference on another note. This is especially helpful when two authors use the same concept in slightly different ways. The clarification of differences in the use of words and concepts is a major part of every serious academic work anyway – but it is so much easier if you have a nit-picking partner like the slip-box. If we had written just excerpts or notes that we had kept in separate places, these differences would only become obvious if we had all the relevant notes on our minds at the same time. It is much easier to detect these small but crucial differences when we literally have our notes in front of our eyes, comparing them during our attempts to connect them. The brain is very good at making associations and spotting patterns and similarities between seemingly different things and also very good in spotting differences between seemingly similar things, but it needs to have them presented objectively and externally. It is much easier to *see* differences and similarities than to detect them by mere thinking. Comparing notes also helps us to detect contradictions, paradoxes or oppositions – important facilitators for insight. When we realise that we used to accept two contradicting ideas as equally true, we know that we have a problem – and problems are good because we now have something to solve. A paradox can be a sign that we haven’t thought thoroughly enough about a problem or, conversely, that we exhausted the possibilities of a certain paradigm. Finally, oppositions help to shape ideas by providing contrast. Albert Rothenberg suggests that the construction of oppositions is the most reliable way of generating new ideas (Rothenberg 1971; 1996; 2015). The constant comparing of notes also serves as an ongoing examination of old notes in a new light. I am surprised how often the addition of one note leads to a correction, a complementation or an improvement of old ideas. Sometimes, we discover that the source given in a text is not the actual source. Sometimes, we discover that the interpretation of a study conflicts with another interpretation, making us realise that the study is so vague that it can be used as proof for two contradicting interpretations. Sometimes, we find two unrelated studies that give proof to the same point, which is not a correction, but an indication that we are on to something. Adding new notes to old notes and being forced to compare them leads not only to a constant improvement of one’s own work, but often discloses weaknesses in the texts we read. We have to compensate for that by being extra critical as readers and careful with extracting information from texts, and we always have to check the original source of a claim.[\[34\]](part0000_split_023.html#_ftn34) The slip-box not only confronts us with dis-confirming information, but also helps with what is known as the feature-positive effect (Allison and Messick 1988; Newman, Wolff, and Hearst 1980; Sainsbury 1971). This is the phenomenon in which we tend to overstate the importance of information that is (mentally) easily available to us and tilts our thinking towards the most recently acquired facts, not necessarily the most relevant ones. Without external help, we would not only take exclusively into account what we know, but what is on top of our heads.[\[35\]](part0000_split_023.html#_ftn35)The slip-box constantly reminds us of information we have long forgotten and wouldn’t remember otherwise – so much so, we wouldn’t even look for it. ### <a class="pcalibre pcalibre1" id="_Toc475013826"> 12.4 </a> Assemble a Toolbox for Thinking Just by working with the slip-box, we retrieve old ideas and facts on an irregular basis and connect them with other bits of information – very much how experts recommend we learn (Bjork 2011, 8; Kornell and Bjork 2008). This is also the idea behind flashcards. But even though flashcards are much more effective than cramming or reviewing information within the context of a textbook, they also have a downside: The information on flashcards is neither elaborated on nor embedded in some form of context. Each flashcard stays isolated instead of being connected with the network of theoretical frames, our experiences or our latticework of mental models. This not only makes it much more difficult to learn, but also difficult to understand the implications and the meaning of information (cf. Birnbaum et al., 2013). A scientific term or concept only becomes meaningful within the context of a theory – otherwise it would just be a word. The same is true for everyday situations. Our ability to read a situation or to interpret information depends on our broader knowledge and how we make sense of it. Science and everyday life are in this regard not so different; both are intertwined. Scientific work is much more pragmatic and less determined by theory than outsiders would expect (Latour and Woolgar 1979). At the same time, we use scientific knowledge and theories to make sense of our surroundings every day. And some theories or theoretical models are surprisingly versatile, which is why it makes sense to assemble a toolbox of useful mental models (Manktelow and Craik 2004) that could help with our daily challenges and make sense of the things we learn and encounter. Charlie Munger, Warren Buffett’s partner and vice chairman of Berkshire Hathaway, stresses the importance of having a broad theoretical toolbox – not to be a good academic, but to have a good, pragmatic grip on reality. He regularly explains to students which mental models have proven most useful to help him understand markets and human behaviour. He advocates looking out for the most powerful concepts in every discipline and to try to understand them so thoroughly that they become part of our thinking. The moment one starts to combine these mental models and attach one’s experiences to them, one cannot help but gain what he calls “worldly wisdom.” The importance is to have not just a few, but a broad range of mental models in your head. Otherwise, you risk becoming too attached to one or two and see only what fits them. You would become the man with a hammer who sees nails everywhere (cf. Maslow, 1966, 15). Munger writes: “Well, the first rule is that you can’t really know anything if you just remember isolated facts and try and bang ’em back. If the facts don’t hang together on a latticework of theory, you don’t have them in a usable form. You’ve got to have models in your head. And you’ve got to array your experience, both vicarious and direct, on this latticework of models. You may have noticed students who just try to remember and pound back what is remembered. *Well, they fail in school and in life*. You’ve got to hang experience on a latticework of models in your head.” (Munger 1994). A truly wise person is not someone who knows everything, but someone who is able to make sense of things by drawing from an extended resource of interpretation schemes. This stands in harsh contrast to the common but not-so-wise belief that we need to learn from experience. It is much better to learn from the experiences of others – especially when this experience is reflected on and turned into versatile “mental models” that can be used in different situations. When we delegate the storage of knowledge to the slip-box and at the same time focus on the principles behind an idea while we write, add and connect notes, when we look for patterns and think beyond the most obvious interpretation of a note, when we try to make sense of something, combine different ideas and develop lines of thought, we do exactly that: we build up a “latticework of mental models” instead of just “remembering isolated facts and try and bang ’em back.” The beauty of this approach is that we co-evolve with our slip-boxes: we build the same connections in our heads while we deliberately develop them in our slip-box – and make it easier to remember the facts as they now have a latticework we can attach them to. If we practice learning not as a pure accumulation of knowledge, but as an attempt to build up a latticework of theories and mental models to which information can stick, we enter a virtuous circle where learning facilitates learning. Helmut D. Sachs puts it like this: “By learning, retaining, and building on the retained basics, we are creating a rich web of associated information. The more we know, the more information (hooks) we have to connect new information to, the easier we can form long-term memories. \[…\] Learning becomes fun. We have entered a virtuous circle of learning, and it seems as if our long-term memory capacity and speed are actually growing. On the other hand, if we fail to retain what we have learned, for example, by not using effective strategies, it becomes increasingly difficult to learn information that builds on earlier learning. More and more knowledge gaps become apparent. Since we can’t really connect new information to gaps, learning becomes an uphill battle that exhausts us and takes the fun out of learning. It seems as if we have reached the capacity limit of our brain and memory. Welcome to a vicious circle. Certainly, you would much rather be in a virtuous learning circle, so to remember what you have learned, you need to build effective long-term memory structures.” (Sachs 2013, 26) His recommendations for learning read almost like instructions for the slip-box: 1\. Pay attention to what you want to remember. 2\. Properly encode the information you want to keep. (This includes thinking about suitable cues.) 3\. Practice recall. (Ibid., 31) We learn something not only when we connect it to prior knowledge and try to understand its broader implications (elaboration), but also when we try to retrieve it at different times (spacing) in different contexts (variation), ideally with the help of chance (contextual interference) and with a deliberate effort (retrieval). The slip-box not only provides us with the opportunity to learn in this proven way, it forces us to do exactly what is recommended just by using it. We have to elaborate on what we read just to be able to write it down and translate it into different contexts. We retrieve information from the slip-box whenever we try to connect new notes with old notes. Just by doing this, we mix up contexts, shuffle notes and retrieve the information in irregular intervals. And along the way, we further elaborate on the information, which we always retrieve deliberately. ### <a class="pcalibre pcalibre1" id="_Toc475013827"> 12.5 </a> Use the Slip-Box as a Creativity Machine “Creativity is just connecting things. When you ask creative people how they did something, they feel a little guilty because they didn’t really do it, they just saw something.” (Steve Jobs) Many exciting stories from scientific history make us believe that great insight comes in a flash. There is the sudden insight of Watson and Crick that DNA would have to have the form of a double helix or the story of Friedrich August Kekulé, who allegedly dreamed of a snake biting its own tail and suddenly saw the structure of benzene in front of his eyes. But the reason why Watson and Crick or Kekulé had these insights and not a random person on the street is that they already had spent a very long time thinking hard about the problems, tinkered with other possible solutions and tried countless other ways of looking at the problem. Our fascination with these stories clouds the fact that all good ideas need time. Even sudden breakthroughs are usually preceded by a long, intense process of preparation. Being experienced with a problem and intimately familiar with the tools and devices we work with, ideally to the point of virtuosity, is the precondition for discovering their inherent possibilities, writes Ludwik Fleck, a historian of science (Fleck 2012, 126). This is true even for purely theoretical work. Here, too, we need experience until we can “feel our way” around the problems and questions we deal with, even if these things are words, concepts and notes in a file system. What we learn in practice is always much more thorough and complex than what we could put into words. That is why even purely theoretical work cannot be reduced to explicit knowledge, which is consciously available. This is especially true for the use of a slip-box. It is the intuition that comes from the intimate knowledge of a practice that can lead us to new insights. We might not be able to explicitly state why it is more promising to follow one idea instead of another, but being experienced, we somehow know – which is enough. Experimental scientists regularly describe their decision-making process as being based on intuition (Rheinberger 1997), and there is no reason why it should be different in the social sciences. Maybe it is just harder to accept in the social sciences as we try so hard to be more like natural scientists, who *seem* to do without something as vague as intuition. But intuition is not the opposition to rationality and knowledge, it is rather the incorporated, practical side of our intellectual endeavours, the sedimented experience on which we build our conscious, explicit knowledge (cf. Ahrens 2014). Steven Johnson, who wrote an insightful book about how people in science and in general come up with genuine new ideas, calls it the “slow hunch.” As a precondition to make use of this intuition, he emphasises the importance of experimental spaces where ideas can freely mingle (Johnson 2011). A laboratory with open-minded colleagues can be such a space, much as intellectuals and artists freely discussed ideas in the cafés of old Paris. I would add the slip-box as such a space in which ideas can mingle freely, so they can give birth to new ones. Most often, innovation is not the result of a sudden moment of realization, anyway, but incremental steps toward improvement. Even groundbreaking paradigm shifts are most often the consequence of many small moves in the right direction instead of one big idea. This is why the search for small differences is key. It is such an important skill to see differences between seemingly similar concepts, or connections between seemingly different ideas. This even used to be the meaning of the word “new.” “Novus,” in Latin, used to mean “different,” “unusual,” not so much “genuinely new” in the meaning of “unheard” (Luhmann, 2005, 210). To have concrete notes in front of our eyes and be able to compare them directly makes differences, even small ones, much easier to spot. (This is an advantage of the original paper slip-box, as you can spread out multiple notes on a desk instead of just seeing them on a computer screen.) The neurobiologist James Zull points out that *comparing* is our natural form of perception, where our cognitive interpretation is in lockstep with our actual eye movements. Therefore, comparing should be understood quite literally. We even compare when we focus on one thing: “Paying attention does not mean unrelenting attention on one focal point. Our brains evolved to notice details by shifting focus from one area to another, by repeatedly scanning the surroundings. \[...\] The brain is more likely to notice details when it scans than when it focuses.” (Zull 2002, 142f) This is one of the reasons why thinking works so much better when we have the very things we think about in front of our eyes. It is in our nature. ### <a class="pcalibre pcalibre1" id="_Toc475013828"> 12.6 </a> Think Inside the Box “\[C\]reative people are better at recognizing relationships, making associations and connections and seeing things in an original way—seeing things that others cannot see“ (Andreasen 2014). Comparing, differentiating and connecting notes are the basis of good academic writing, but playing and tinkering with ideas is what leads to insight and exceptional texts. To be able to play with ideas, we first have to liberate them from their original context by means of abstraction and re-specification. We did this when we took literature notes and translated them into the different contexts within the slip-box. Abstraction does not have a good reputation at the moment. It is the tangible, the concrete that is cheered for. Abstraction should indeed not be the final goal of thinking, but it is a necessary in-between step to make heterogeneous ideas compatible. If Darwin had never abstracted from his concrete observations of sparrows, he would never have found an abstract, a general principle of evolution across different species, and he would never have been able to see how evolution works in other species as well. Abstraction is also not for theoretical-academic processes of insight only. We need to abstract from concrete situations every day. Only by abstraction and re-specification can we apply ideas in the singular and always different situations in reality (Loewenstein, 2010). Even very personal, intimate experiences, like encounters with art, require abstraction. If the story of Romeo and Juliet touches us, it is certainly not because we are all members of one of two feuding families in Verona. We abstract from time and place, from the particular circumstances until we can meet the protagonists of this story on a general level where our own emotional life can resonate with what we see on stage. The tendency to juxtapose abstraction with being worldly or to associate it with intellectualism and juxtapose it with being solution-orientated is very misleading indeed. Studies on creativity with engineers show that the ability to find not only creative, but functional and working solutions for technical problems is equal to the ability to make abstractions. The better an engineer is at abstracting from a specific problem, the better and more pragmatic his solutions will be – even for the very problem he abstracted from (Gassmann and Zeschky, 2008, 103). Abstraction is also the key to analyse and compare concepts, to make analogies and to combine ideas; this is especially true when it comes to interdisciplinary work (Goldstone and Wilensky 2008). Being able to abstract and re-specify ideas is, again, only one side of the equation. It is not good for anything if we don’t have a system in place that allows us to put this into practice. Here, it is the concrete standardization of notes in just one format that enables us to literally shuffle them around, to add one idea to multiple contexts and to compare and combine them in a creative way without losing sight of what they truly contain. Creativity cannot be taught like a rule or approached like a plan. But we can make sure that our working environment allows us to be creative with ideas. It also helps to keep in mind some creativity-inducing ideas about problem-solving that might be counterintuitive. It is worth it to dwell on this subject a little bit before we move on to the next step: the preparation of the rough draft of the manuscript. The real enemy of independent thinking is not an external authority, but our own inertia. The ability to generate new ideas has more to do with breaking with old habits of thinking than with coming up with as many ideas as possible. For obvious reasons, I do not recommend “thinking outside the box”. On the contrary, we can turn the slip-box into a tool for breaking out of our own thinking habits. Our brains just love routines. Before new information prompts our brains to think differently about something, they make the new information fit into the known or let it disappear completely from our perception. Usually, we don’t even notice when our brains modify our surroundings to make it fit its expectations. We need therefore a bit of a ruse to break the power of thinking routines. In their book with the showy title “The 5 Elements of Effective Thinking”, the mathematicians Edward B. Burger and Michael Starbird collected different strategies to do that (2012). Some are already technically implemented in the slip-box, others are good to keep in mind. For example, they emphasise the importance of feedback loops and the need to find ways to confront ourselves with our errors, mistakes and misunderstandings. This is a built-in feature of the slip-box. Another habit of the effective thinkers they highlight is their ability to focus on the main ideas behind the details, to grasp the gist of something. This, too, is something the slip-box nudges us to do. Another piece of advice is not a feature of the slip-box and might sound banal, but it is crucial: Make sure that you really see what you think you see and describe it as plainly and factually as possible. Double-check if necessary. That this isn’t as obvious as it sounds will become clearer by the fact that the ability to truly see what is in front of one’s eyes is often listed as a trait of experts. And that is easily explained by the fact that our perception does not follow the order of seeing first and interpreting second. It does both at the same time: We always perceive something as something – our interpretation is instantaneous. This is why we have so much trouble not falling for an optical illusion: If we look at a three-dimensional drawing, we cannot see it just as an arrangement of lines and shapes – unless we are highly trained to do so. We don’t even notice objectively missing parts in our perception, like the blind spot in the middle of everything we see. We need a trick to see what we don’t see. As we always immediately see a whole picture of something, everything else, including the reinterpretation of it or the detection of missing bits, is a step that *follows*. The same is true when we read: We don’t see lines on a paper first, then realise that these are words, then use them to build sentences and finally decipher the meaning. We immediately read on the level of meaningful understanding. To *really*understand a text is therefore a constant *revision* of our first interpretation. We have to train ourselves to get used to seeing this difference and to hold back our ingrained urge to jump to conclusions. To be able to see what we see instead of what we *expect* to see is indeed a skill in itself, not like a character trait of being “open-minded.” Those who think of themselves as being open-minded are often even more prone to stick to their first understanding as they believe to be without natural prejudices and therefore don’t see the need to counterbalance them. If we think we can “hold back” an interpretation, we are fooling ourselves. While the constant comparison of notes can help us to detect differences, no technique can help us see what is missing. But we can make it a habit to always ask what is not in the picture, but could be relevant. This, too, does not come naturally to us. One of the most famous figures to illustrate this skill is the mathematician Abraham Wald (Mangel and Samaniego 1984). During World War II, he was asked to help the Royal Air Force find the areas on their planes that were most often hit by bullets so they could cover them with more armour. But instead of counting the bullet holes on the returned planes, he recommended armouring the spots where none of the planes had taken any hits. The RAF forgot to take into account what was not there to see: All the planes that didn’t make it back. The RAF fell for a common error in thinking called survivorship bias (Taleb 2005). The other planes didn’t make it back because they were hit where they should have had extra protection, like the fuel tank. The returning planes could only show what was less relevant. Product developers make the same mistake on such a regular basis, one has to wonder if they do it on purpose. As marketing expert Robert McMath assembled the biggest-ever collection of supermarket products, he realised midway it was becoming almost exclusively a collection of failed products because they make up the vast majority of all products ever produced. He thought a museum would be a great place for product developers to see what already proved not to work so they didn’t have to repeat the same mistake. Alas, rarely does a product developer show any interest in learning from the experience of others. Often, companies don’t even keep track of their own failed attempts, providing McMath with whole series in which one kind of mistake was made in multiple variations, sometimes from each generation of developers in the same company (McMath and Forbes 1999). In his beautifully titled book “The Antidote: Happiness for People Who Can’t Stand Positive Thinking,” Oliver Burkeman describes how much our culture is focused on success and how we neglect the important lessons from failure (Burkeman 2013). Manager biographies are a good example: Even though all of them contain some anecdotes about setbacks, these are always embedded in a bigger story about success (failed managers unfortunately rarely write biographies). If we try to extract a lesson from all these books, we might end up believing that persistence and charisma are paramount for success, even though these are exactly the same ingredients needed to screw a project up big time (Burkeman is referring to Jerker Denrell here). Obviously, the same is true in research: It is very good to know what has already proven to not work if we try to come up with new ideas that do work. One possibility to deal with this tendency is to ask counterfactual questions, like “what if?” (Markman, Lindberg, Kray and Galinsky, 2007). It is easier to learn about the function of money in a society if we wonder how strangers would exchange goods without using money than if we just focus on the obvious problems we have in a society based on money exchange. Sometimes, it is more important to rediscover the problems for which we already have a solution than to think solely about the problems that are present to us. Problems rarely get solved directly, anyway. Most often, the crucial step forward is to redefine the problem in such a way that an already existing solution can be employed. The first question should always be directed towards the question itself: What kind of answer can you expect from asking a question in this particular way? What is missing? Another seemingly banal tip relates to a distinguishing feature of extraordinary thinkers: Taking simple ideas seriously. Consider, for example, the idea of buying stocks low and selling them high. I am sure everyone can grasp that idea. But grasping an idea is not the same as understanding it. If you go and buy stocks on that “insight,” all you can do is to hope that a stock goes up after you buy it, which makes this knowledge about as useful as the tip on the next colour to choose on a roulette table. The next level of understanding is reached when you realise what you buy if you buy a stock: a part of a company. Nobody would sign a contract for a house and believe it is the contract he owns now. But many people treat a stock exactly like this. They don’t really think about what they get for the price they pay: they just assume they made a good deal when the price is lower than the day before. But the only thing Warren Buffett thinks about it is the relationship between price and value – he doesn’t even look at the price from yesterday. He understands that simple is not the same as easy, and that the worst thing you can do is to make a simple task unnecessarily complicated. A stock is a share in a company. The price is set by the market, which means by supply and demand, which touches on the rationality of market participants as well as the question of valuation, which means you have to understand something about the business you are considering investing in, including competition, competitive advantages, technological developments, etc. Making things more complicated than they are can be a way to avoid the underlying complexity of simple ideas. This is what happened during the financial crisis of 2008: Economists developed hugely complicated products, but did not take into account the simple fact that price and value are not necessarily the same. There is a reason why Buffett is not only a great investor, but also a great teacher: He not only has a vast knowledge about everything related to business, he can also explain it all in simple terms. Sometimes the breakthrough in a scientific process is the discovery of a simple principle behind a seemingly very complicated process. Burger and Starbird remind us of the long history of human attempts to fly: We tried to emulate birds by flapping wing-like apparatuses with feathers and all, but in the end, it was about not getting distracted by details and discovering that the subtle bending of the wing is the only thing that counts. Simple ideas can be tied together into consistent theories and build up enormous complexity. This just doesn’t work with complicated ideas. By using the slip-box on a daily basis, we train these important intellectual skills deliberately: We check if what we understood from a text is really in the text by having our understanding in written form in front of our eyes. We learn to focus on the gist of an idea by restricting ourselves in terms of space. We can make it a habit to always think about what is missing when we write down our own ideas. And we can practice asking good questions when we sort our notes into the slip-box and connect them with other notes. ### <a class="pcalibre pcalibre1" id="_Toc475013829"> 12.7 </a> Facilitate Creativity through Restrictions The slip-box imposes quite a few restrictions on its user. Instead of having the choice between all kinds of fancy notebooks, papers or writing formats, or being able to employ the whole range of productivity tools available for note-taking, learning and academic or nonfiction writing, everything is reduced to a single plain-text format and collected in a single simple slip-box system with no frills or features. Even the computer program basically just emulates a wooden box filled with plain, consecutively numbered paper. And even though the digital program lifts the physical restrictions on the length of a note, I highly recommend treating a digital note as if the space were limited. By restricting ourselves to one format, we also restrict ourselves to just one idea per note and force ourselves to be as precise and brief as possible. The restriction to one idea per note is also the precondition to recombine them freely later. Luhmann choose notes in the format A6. A good rule of thumb for working with the program is: Each note should fit onto the screen and there should be no need of scrolling. Standardised is also the way we treat literature and our own thoughts: Instead of using different kinds of notes or techniques for different kinds of texts or ideas, the approach here is always the same, simple one. Literature is condensed on a note saying, “On page x, it says y,” and later stored with the reference in one place. Ideas and thoughts are captured on the slip-box notes and connected to other notes always in the same way in the same place. These standardizations make it possible that the technical side of note-taking can become automatic. Not having to think about the organisation is really good news for brains like ours – the few mental resources we have available, we need for thinking about the actual relevant questions: those concerning the contents. This kind of self-imposed restriction is counterintuitive in a culture where more choice is usually regarded as a good thing and more tools to choose from seen as better than having less at hand. But not having to make decisions can be quite liberating. In his book “The Paradox of Choice,” Barry Schwartz used numerous examples, from shopping to career options to romance, to show that less choice can not only increase our productivity, but also our freedom and make it easier to be in the moment and enjoy it (Schwartz, 2007). Not having to make choices can unleash a lot of potential, which would otherwise be wasted on making these choices. Academic writing should definitely be added to Schwartz’ list of examples in which less choice is better. The formal standardization of the slip-box might seem to be at odds with our search for creativity. But here, too, it is more likely the opposite is true. Thinking and creativity can flourish under restricted conditions and there are plenty of studies to back that claim (cf. Stokes 2001; Rheinberger 1997). The scientific revolution started with the standardization and controlling of experiments, which made them comparable and repeatable (cf. Shapin, 1996). Or think of poetry: It imposes restrictions in terms of rhythm, syllables or rhymes. Haikus give the poet very little room for formal variations, but that doesn’t mean they are equally limited in terms of poetic expressiveness. On the contrary: It is the strict formalism that allows them to transcend time and culture. Language in itself is extremely standardised and limited in many ways. We are restricted to the use of only 26 letters, but what that enables us to do! We can write novels, theories, love letters or court orders – just by rearranging these 26 letters. This is certainly not possible despite the restriction to 26 letters, but *because* of it. Nobody will open a book and wish it contains more types of letters or be disappointed because it is, again, just another variation of the same alphabet.[\[36\]](part0000_split_023.html#_ftn36) A clear structure allows us to explore the internal possibilities of something. Even the act of breaking with convention depends on it. The limitation of the canvas does not make the artistic expressions of painters seem limited, but opens up the possibility of an artist like Lucio Fontana to cut into the canvas instead of painting on it. It is not even true that a more complex structure provides more possibilities. Quite the contrary. The binary code is radically more limited than the alphabet as it contains only two states, one or zero, but it opened up a range of creative possibilities that is unprecedented. The biggest threat to creativity and scientific progress is therefore the opposite: a lack of structure and restrictions. Without structure, we cannot differentiate, compare or experiment with ideas. Without restrictions, we would never be forced to make the decision on what is worth pursuing and what is not. *Indifference* is the worst environment for insight. And the slip-box is, above all, a tool for enforcing distinctions, decisions and making differences visible. One thing is for sure: the common idea that we should liberate ourselves from any restrictions and “open ourselves up” to be more creative is very misleading indeed (Dean 2013, 201).