A question I’ve been asking podcast guests in our preparation sessions is, “What’s something you do as a part of your normal work process that requires some explanation or justification?”

I’ve been shocked by how consistently folks do things that seem to be, well, weird. Laying down while they work. Picking weeds. Striking up conversations with strangers. Taking baths. Going on hikes.

If I asked you to diagram your last breakthrough or epiphany moment, I’m reasonably confident the diagram would contain some off-the-beaten-path element that others, or even you yourself, might consider weird. And here’s the thing: when weighting the various factors that contributed to your breakthrough, you’d be prone to dismiss that element, or at least downplay it.

But my observations is the “accidental” elements are the most consistent ones!

Which begs the question: if the majority of breakthroughs involve something weird, why do we feel the need to apologize? What if we, instead, “wield our weird” proudly, triumphantly, as a tactic for courting serendipity?

I recently asked this question of a Japanese audience, and one woman spoke up: “My last breakthrough came while talking to a stranger on a train. But I’ve never considered “talking to strangers on trains” something I could do deliberately, and incorporate into my ‘process.’”

That speaks to one of the biggest differences I’ve observed between haphazard innovators and routine innovators: the routine innovators are in touch with their unique fingerprint — the double helix of their own weirdness — and proudly stamp it on their work with a flourish. They don’t apologize; they make space. They wield their weird.

What about your work process would change if you started wielding your weirdness with confidence? Less shame? Less explanations? Less vague reasons?

Related: Diagram Your Last Breakthrough
Related: Divergent Diversions

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