“I think there are two types of writers: the architects and the gardeners. The architects plan everything ahead of time, like an architect building a house. They know how many rooms the house will have, what kind of roof it will have, where the wires will run, and what kind of plumbing it will have. They have the whole thing designed and blueprinted out before they even nail the first board up. The gardeners dig a hole, drop in a seed and water it. They kind of know what seed it is; they know whether it’s a fantasy seed, a mystery seed, or whatever. But as the plant comes up and they water it, they don’t know how many branches it’ll have; they find out as it grows. And I’m much more a gardener than an architect.”

The quote, attributed to George R.R. Martin, whose novel series was adapted into the television series Game of Thrones, applies to nearly any type of work. Perhaps, more specifically, creative work. I don’t want to be on a flight where the pilot flies like a gardener and “sees where this takes us.” I also don’t think the adage should apply to doctors and accountants. On the other side, I cannot stand art, music, or other creative works that feel formulaic or manufactured. In other words, the architect needs to be intellectual and systematic while the gardener needs to be visceral and instinctive. One piques the mind, and the other is driven by the heart. But we digress.

In other words, the architect needs to be intellectual and systematic while the gardener needs to be visceral and instinctive.

I think Mr Martin alludes to the creative process sliding across a spectrum between a soft and a hard approach. Like now, I’m writing my journal entries predominantly as a gardener. It has no preset structure. It’s freeform jazz in the literary form. The most architectural thing I’ve done for content on Zazoozoo is a semi-hard content calendar for the next 12 months. Even that will require some gardening as we go along. Unless it’s long-form reporting where I need to unburden proof and other accuracy through the work of a factual piece, then yes, there will be some blueprint and some scaffolding. That said, there will also be tending and trimming in the writing and editing room.

The skill sets required of an architect and a gardener are also dimensionally different. One turns nothing into something; the other turns something from nothing. They are also wildly contradictory in their staunchness. One subscribes to a utilitarian future, and the other meditates through the flow of the present. But a stubborn quality emanates from both an architect and a gardener. It’s as if they’re not meant to be together. It’s as if, when confronted with creative work, they need to be policed for domestic violence. (Throwing paper and scissors at each other—now, that’s a sight to behold.)

But a stubborn quality emanates from both an architect and a gardener. It’s as if they’re not meant to be together.

Maybe that’s where creative blocks come from. As the architect and the gardener tug and war over creative work, the rope burns in their hands, and the noose at the end tightens around their necks. You feel this as you approach creative work. The architect and gardener in you either repel each other or revolt against you entirely. The longer you stare at a blank page, the more suffocating it feels. The more you twiddle your thumbs, the more Tweedledee and Tweddledum you feel. It’s not that you are incompetent; it’s not that you are indecisive; your inaction can be attributed to the paralysis of the creative mind and heart.

If the architect and the gardener can work together, amazing things can happen. And yet, many struggle to create a space where both can thrive. Instead, we lean toward one and feel stuck when we don’t know how to tap into the other’s power. Or, worse, we stubbornly cling to one and outrightly reject the other. We see this at work, where the architects and gardeners in the office are shoved into a room to solve a problem but instead become the problem because they don’t know how to work together. What happens internally will eventually project itself externally.

In the end, both the architect and the gardener want the same outcome: to express an idea and create meaning.

I don’t think architects and gardeners can’t work together only because of their differing beliefs and ideas. The critique feels too simple, too one-dimensional. We shouldn’t be stuck on what makes them different; we should explore how their unique abilities can complement each other. Art cannot be painted with a purist brush, or we will limit ourselves to what the world has to show us.

At the end of the day, both the architect and the gardener want the same outcome: to express an idea and create meaning. This distinction matters because it shows their roles cannot be self-serving; their purpose is something greater than themselves. They do it differently, and that is okay. In fact, it’s more than okay; they have to be different. I see it this way: the mind and the heart serve the body—without this acknowledgement, this natural understanding, they would serve no purpose.

Since the mind and heart exist to serve the body, I see the architect and the gardener’s raison d’être as serving the work. We need to use every tool in our toolbox for the best outcome. The architect and the gardener each have a place, but together we gain a new lens to see the world—where creative work is shaped both intellectually and viscerally. Create like a gardener and plan like an architect for a body of work that transcends itself. Unless, of course, you are a pilot, doctor, or accountant. You do you.