Ideas arrive in odd ways: in the margins of a newspaper, halfway through doing the washing up, in a conversation that started about nothing important. Some I keep and scribble in a notebook; others evaporate by the time I reach for a pen. Over the years I’ve developed three quick, forgiving tests I run in my head before I decide whether an idea deserves a second look. They’re not rigorous frameworks — more like little thought-rituals that help me separate curiosity from clutter.
The Stickiness Test: Would I tell it to someone tomorrow?
When an idea surfaces, I ask myself: Would I repeat this to someone else when we meet tomorrow? There’s something clarifying about imagining the idea moving out of my head and into a conversation. If it survives that ritual, it’s probably got a hook.
- Tellability: If I’m excited enough to say it aloud — to a friend, on a walk, over coffee — the idea has a narrative or emotional pull. It might be silly, practical, wistful, or ridiculous. The important thing is that it’s transportable.
- Persistence: An idea that I forget by lunchtime was likely a fleeting impression. One that keeps reappearing in different contexts has more staying power.
- Test it in tiny social experiments: I’ll mention it casually to someone whose reactions I trust. Their curiosity, skepticism, or amusement is informative — not definitive — and often reveals facets I hadn’t noticed.
For example: I once had a half-formed idea about writing short “geo-portraits” of places I’d loved — small essays that weren’t travel guides but moments. I mentioned it to a friend over drinks; they immediately wanted to read one. That small spark of external interest was enough to make me take out my notebook the following morning.
The Friction-and-Feasibility Test: Can it survive the real world?
Romantic ideas are comfortable in theory. The second test is practical: how much friction will the idea meet, and am I willing to overcome it?
- Resources: Time, money, skills. Do I have enough of each to start something modest? If not, is there a clear, affordable first step?
- Obstacles: Legal, social, or logistical barriers that might kill the idea quickly. Some things are charmingly impossible; others just require recalibration.
- Minimum Viable Version: Can the idea be reduced to a simple experiment? What would a one-hour, one-dollar, one-page version look like?
When I was curious about hosting a small salon — bookish people, a pot of tea, five readings — I imagined a grand, beautifully curated evening. Then I reframed it into a one-hour test: invite three friends, pick a topic, meet in a café corner. That low-stakes prototype revealed whether I enjoyed curating and whether others wanted it. Often the right answer is not “do it fully” or “drop it,” but “try a tiny version.”
| Question | Quick signal |
|---|---|
| Resources available? | Yes → pursue a small step; No → redesign scope |
| Major obstacles? | Deal-breakers → shelve or rethink; manageable → proceed experimentally |
The Curiosity Multiplier: Does it expand, or does it end?
I cherish ideas that act like windows rather than dead-ends. An idea worth keeping tends to multiply curiosity rather than terminate it. When I trace it, does it open more questions, connections, or projects?
- Branching potential: A good idea often leads to two or three interesting offshoots. If an idea stops conversation cold, it might be more of a thought-fragment than a seed.
- Cross-pollination: Does it link to other interests? For me, the most compelling ideas sit at intersections — philosophy and daily life, food and memory, design and ethics.
- Long-term magnetism: Will this idea tug at me again in six months? If yes, label it as “keep.”
For instance, I once scribbled “what if forgiveness were taught like a craft?” That line of inquiry branched into practices, historical perspectives, and pedagogical questions. It didn’t yield a neat conclusion, but it kept returning to my desk because it connected to multiple curiosities. I didn’t need to turn it into a book immediately; its value was in the conversations it generated.
Practical steps to apply the tests (a little ritual you can do anywhere)
- Step 1 — Pocket pitch (30 seconds): Say the idea out loud in one sentence. Could you pitch it to a friend? If you stumble, refine or drop it.
- Step 2 — One-hour prototype: Spend sixty minutes making something small related to the idea: a sketch, a paragraph, a social post, a list of questions. The goal is not perfection but clarity.
- Step 3 — Return in a week: See whether you think about it again. If it resurfaces spontaneously, it’s earned a place in your archive.
These steps are deliberately lightweight. They’re designed to honor curiosity without letting every flutter of interest become a project that overwhelms your life. Think of them as a kindness to your attention.
Signals it might be time to let an idea go
- It feels like a performance — more about how it makes you look than what it actually contributes.
- It drains energy every time you return to it — not in the productive “work hard” way, but in the joyless slog of obligation.
- It repeats old patterns without offering new angles. If the idea is just “same as before,” it’s probably not worth preserving.
Letting go can be as creative as keeping. Sometimes an idea’s role is to teach you something: what you value, who you want to collaborate with, or how you like to work. I once abandoned a project after applying these tests; the relief was instructive. It freed attention for ideas that actually wanted to be made.
I don’t treat these tests as rules so much as houseplants: small habits I check on regularly to see whether something needs watering, pruning, or repotting. They keep the garden of my attention manageable and, I hope, full of the sorts of curiosities that are worth nurturing.
