How to Fly a Horse: The Secret History of Creation, Invention, and Discovery

“In most cases, the truth has been lost. We do not know, for example, who first realized that the fruit of an orchid could be cured until it tastes good. Vanilla is an innovation inherited from people long forgotten. This is not exceptional; it is normal. Most of our world is made of innovations inherited from people long forgotten—not people who were rare but people who were common.” 

Here Ashton begins chipping away at the myth with a story about the discovery of breeding the orchid that produces vanilla. No one could successfully do it outside its native habitat, until a 12-year-old slave boy did so on Réunion island. His “secret” was simply trial and error based on what his master had taught him about pollination. Ashton writes that the only unusual part of the story is that history has remembered the name of the innovator; invention and discovery are actually so common that time often forgets the people involved in them. 

“Creation is so around and inside us that we cannot look without seeing it or listen without hearing it. As a result, we do not notice it at all. We live in symbiosis with new. It is not something we do; it is something we are. It affects our life expectancy, our height and weight and gait, our way of life, where we live, and the things we think and do. We change our technology, and our technology changes us. This is true for every human being on the planet. It has been true for two thousand generations; ever since the moment our species started thinking about improving its tools.” 

This quotation elaborates on how common creation is. It is all around us in nearly everything we sense, so much so that we cease to notice it. The author’s point is that it all came from humans. This builds toward his main point in Chapter 1, that creating is not exceptional but ordinary. 

“Stories of creation follow a path. Creation is destination, the consequence of acts that appear inconsequential by themselves but that, when accumulated, change the world. Creating is an ordinary act, creation its extraordinary outcome.” 

Ashton differentiates between the act of creating and the things that people create. The last sentence emphasizes that the former is ordinary while the latter is extraordinary. His point is that, yes, creations are amazing end results, but what humans do in order to create is part of who we are—a common characteristic, not a rare one. 

“Work is the soul of creation. Work is getting up early and going home late, turning down dates and giving up weekends, writing and rewriting, reviewing and revising, rote and routine, staring down the doubt of the blank page, beginning when we do not know where to start, and not stopping when we cannot go on. It is not fun, romantic, or, most of the time, even interesting. If we want to create, we must, in the words of Paul Gallico, open our veins and bleed.” 

By enumerating the (mostly difficult) ways that creating something affects one’s life, Ashton is stressing his point that creation is hard work. Again, this punctures the long-standing romantic myth of inspiration arriving in a flash of insight. On the contrary, it’s the result of a long, challenging process. 

“We all use the same process for thinking, just as we all use the same process for walking. It is the same whether the problem is big or small, whether the solution is something new or something logical, whether the thinker is a Nobel laureate or a child. There is no ‘creative thinking,’ just as there is no ‘creative walking.’ Creation is a result—a place thinking may lead us. Before we can know how to create, we must know how to think.”

This is a further attempt to show that the process of creating is unremarkable and prosaic for humans. Not only can everyone do it naturally, but the steps are the same for everyone; it requires no special knowledge. In fact, the author argues that “creative thinking” is a misnomer. It’s just regular thinking—and what we call creative is actually the result of thinking. 

“‘To mention all the things the bird must constantly keep in mind in order to fly securely through the air would take a very considerable treatise. If I take a piece of paper, and after placing it parallel with the ground, quickly let it fall, it will not settle steadily down as a staid, sensible piece of paper ought to do, but it insists on contravening every recognized rule of decorum, turning over and darting hither and thither in the most erratic manner, much after the style of an untrained horse. Yet this is the style of steed that men must learn to manage before flying can become an everyday sport. The bird has learned this art of equilibrium, and learned it so thoroughly that its skill is not apparent to our sight. We only learn to appreciate it when we try to imitate it.’ That is, when we try to fly a horse.”

This shows the source of the book’s title. The first (long) quotation is from Wilbur Wright, referring to how he and his brother solved the problem of human flight. They observed birds in flight, buffeted by the wind, and understood they had to likewise solve the problem of maintaining an aircraft’s balance as the first step. Ashton uses this to illustrate the process of creation that everyone goes through (see following quotation). 

“As Karl Duncker showed, all creation, whether painting, plane, or phone, has the same foundation: gradual steps where a problem leads to a solution that leads to a problem. Creating is the result of thinking like walking. Left foot, problem. Right foot, solution. Repeat until you arrive. It is not the size of your strides that determines your success but how many you take.”

Ashton outlines the process of creation at its most basic level. This process is the same whether it’s our Aunt Sally or Albert Einstein creating something. When we meet a problem, we work on it until we find a solution; we then progress until we meet another problem and solve it. This repeats until we reach the ultimate objective. Solutions don’t come in giant leaps but rather in many small steps. 

“Faith is how we face failure. Not faith in a higher power—although we may choose that, too—but faith that there is a way forward. Creators redefine failure. Failure is not final. It carries no judgment and yields no conclusions. The word comes from the Latin fallere, to deceive. Failure is deceit. It aims to defeat us. We must not be fooled. Failure is lesson, not loss; it is gain, not shame. A journey of a thousand miles ends with a single step. Is every other step a failure?” 

Ashton writes that failure is inevitable in the creating process. This stops some people from continuing, but it shouldn’t since all successful creation involves earlier failure. Failure is actually instructive, and those who persevere have faith that they will ultimately succeed. The line with the phrase “journey of a thousand miles” is a play on a famous quotation by the Chinese philosopher Laozi, who said that such a journey “begins” with a single step. Here Ashton focuses on the end of the journey, emphasizing that all the preceding steps were important.

“Dyson faced many problems. He had to make the world’s smallest cyclone. It had to be capable of extracting house dust particles about a millionth of a meter wide. And he had to make it suitable for home use and mass production. It took more than five thousand prototypes, constructed over five years, to create a working cyclone-based vacuum cleaner. He says, ‘I’m a huge failure because I made 5,126 mistakes.’” 

To illustrate the notion of creation as a series of many steps, Ashton uses the example of inventor James Dyson, who invented a new kind of vacuum cleaner. Instead of using suction and a filter, he employed the dynamics of a cyclone in which air spins at a high speed until any particles in it separate out and fall downward. It worked—but only after more than 5,000 iterations. Instead of giving up, Dyson persevered and, as a result, is now worth $5 billion. 

“The vast majority—98 percent—of teachers say creating is so important that it should be taught daily, but when tested, they nearly always favor less creative children over more creative children. The Getzels-Jackson effect is not restricted to schools, and it persists into adulthood. Decision makers and authority figures in business, science, and government all say they value creation, but when tested, they do not value creators.” 

In addition to failure along the way to success, creative people meet resistance when they introduce something new. This is quite common, although it’s not what the conventional wisdom holds. Many studies, like the one referred to in the quotation, bear this out. Ashton argues that new ideas sometimes receive hostility for the same reason that people introduce them: to protect the human species. He writes that if people accepted new things unreservedly it could lead to harm; thus, skepticism is healthy until something new receives verification. 

“Creation is attention. It is seeing new problems, noticing the unnoticed, finding inattentional blind spots. If, in retrospect, a discovery or invention seems so obvious we feel as if it was staring us in the face all along, we are probably right. The answer to the question ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’ is ‘beginner’s mind.’”

In this quotation, Ashton is using the term “beginner’s mind” as found in a book by Japanese Zen monk Shunryu Suzuki, called Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind. The term, shoshin in Japanese, refers to the ability to ignore all of one’s assumptions to see something with fresh eyes. Experienced people can overlook things due to selective attention, but a true expert can use both to their advantage.

“Paradigms are a form of selective attention. What changes during one of Kuhn’s ‘scientific revolutions’ is what scientists see. In Kuhn’s words: ‘During revolutions scientists see new and different things when looking with familiar instruments in places they have looked before. What were ducks in the scientist’s world before the revolution are rabbits afterwards.’”

This refers to the famous book The Structure of Scientific Revolutions by philosopher and historian Thomas Kuhn. Kuhn argues that there are different eras in science when one set of theories (or assumptions) supplants another. He called these sets of theories “paradigms,” which are a kind of lens through which scientists view the world. When research indicates that these theories are no longer valid, there is a “paradigm shift” and new theories take their place. Because it changes the assumptions we use to view the world, it totally changes how we see things. Something that once mattered might be now unimportant, and vice versa. Ashton compares this to selective attention, what experts use to quickly size up a situation based on what is important and what is not.

“How many people are holding us up? A human generation is about twenty-five years long. If it was not until fifty thousand years ago that our transition to Homo sapiens sapiens—creative people—was complete, then everything we make is built upon two thousand generations of human ingenuity. We do not see further because of giants. We see further because of generations.”

This quotation is part of Ashton’s discussion of whether or not we should give credit to individual people for scientific discoveries or inventions. One of the book’s themes is that everyone borrows so much from so many other people that specific credit is not really possible or fair. To go one step further, he argues that because creating is so inherent in all of us, we don’t build upon previous “giants” (i.e., individuals) in a given field but rather upon entire generations. 

“When Rosalind Franklin started analyzing DNA using X-ray crystallography, she was inheriting a technique pioneered by Dorothy Hodgkin, who was inspired by Polly Porter, who was a protégée of Florence Bascom, who broke ground for all women in science, following work by William Bragg, who was inspired by Max von Laue, who followed Wilhelm Röntgen, who followed William Crookes, who followed Heinrich Geissler, who followed Robert Boyle.”

Here Ashton takes the idea from the previous quotation and gives a specific example. Rosalind Franklin’s work in genetics, he shows, had a direct lineage back through specific people in previous generations. The passage from which this derives shows an even more complex picture, with the author tracing the origins of Franklin’s research back to the work of Johannes Kepler in 1610.

None of this would have happened, or it would have happened later, if women were still barred from science—not because they are women but because they are human and, thus, as likely to create, invent, or discover as anybody else. The same is true of people who are black, brown, or gay. A species that survives by creating must not limit who can create. More creators means more creations. Equality brings justice to some and wealth to all.”

This refers to Rosalind Franklin’s work on DNA being able to help identify mutated genes that make Ashkenazi Jews more susceptible to certain types of cancer, allowing those with the genes to begin preventive treatment. (Ironically, Franklin herself was from this ethnic group and died young from ovarian cancer.) The author is saying that had scientific institutions continued to limit the role played by women, and thus prevented Franklin from opportunities to do research, more lives would have been lost to cancer. Ashton strongly believes that no limitations should inhibit anyone, for any reason, in their creative work.

“The number of individuals who know how to make a can of Coke is zero. The number of individual nations that could produce a can of Coke is zero. This famously American product is not American at all. Invention and creation, as we have seen, is something we are all in together. Modern tool chains are so long and complex that they bind us into one people and one planet. They are chains of minds: local and foreign, ancient and modern, living and dead—the result of disparate invention and intelligence distributed over time and space. Coca-Cola did not teach the world to sing, no matter what its commercials suggest, yet every can contains humanity’s choir.”

Here the author uses Coca-Cola as an example of how complex technology is. He traces everything that goes into making a can of the soft drink, showing the involvement of every continent except Antarctica and knowledge garnered over centuries. This illustrates the fact that it is impossible to know in advance all the consequences of a new technology. 

“We will always make things better. We will never make them best. We should not expect to anticipate all the consequences of our creations, or even most of them, good or bad. We have a different responsibility: to actively seek those consequences out, discover them as soon as possible, and, if they are bad, to do what creators do best: welcome them as new problems to solve.”

This is Ashton’s response to those who want to limit technology because of its sometimes harmful results. As he shows with the example of Coca-Cola, because of the complexity involved, it is impossible to predict all the consequences of a new creation. Producing a seemingly innocuous drink like Coke can have negative repercussions, such as environmental issues in areas that mine bauxite to make aluminum cans, and obesity related to the high-fructose corn syrup used. On the other hand, Ashton argues that more education and greater literacy resulted from automation during the Industrial Revolution in the 19th century, a result unforeseen by the “Luddites” who protested it. We cannot stop creating; instead, we should remain vigilant and meet any resulting problems as the creators we are—by solving them.

“Robert Johnson’s story blends these two mythic archetypes to illuminate a deeper truth: there comes a point in every creative life, no matter what the discipline, when success depends upon committing completely. The commitment has a high price: we must devote ourselves almost entirely to our creative goal. We must say no to distraction when we want to say yes. We must work when we do not know what to do. We must return to our creation every day without excuse. We must continue when we fail.” 

Ashton uses the legend of blues guitarist Robert Johnson as indicative of what a truly creative life entails. Johnson purportedly made a deal with the Devil at a country crossroads, gaining supernatural musical skills in exchange for his soul. His song “Cross Road Blues” contributed to this legend, but Ashton explains that the “crossroads” imagery comes from two cultural myths (referred to in the first sentence). In his interpretation, the crossroads Johnson actually faced was whether to fully commit himself to his music after his wife tragically died young. All creators face such a decision, and full commitment takes a toll of its own. 

“Much of the paralysis of writer’s block comes from worrying what others will think: write-something-I-think-is-good block is often rooted in write-something-somebody-else-will-think-is-good block. Woody Allen’s indifference to other people’s opinion about his work is one big reason why he is so productive.” 

This quotation comes from Chapter 7, which addresses motivation. A common problem for writers and other creators is feeling blocked. Ashton writes that this plays into the myth of creation as external—stemming from a magical flash of insight. His main theme, of course, is that this does not exist. The source of creation is internal, he reminds the reader, and comes from hard work. He thus argues that writer’s block is not being physically unable to produce something; it’s merely being too self-conscious and worrying about what others will think. 

“The best way to begin is the same as the best way to swim in the sea. No tiptoes. No wading. Go under. Get wet and cold from scalp to sole. Splutter up salt, push the hair from your brow, then stroke and stroke again. Feel the chill change. Do not look back or think ahead. Just go. […] The first beginning will feel wrong. We are not used to being with ourselves uninterrupted. We do not know the way first things look. We have imagined our creations finished but never begun. A thing begun is less right than wrong, more flaw than finesse, all problem and no solution. Nothing begins good, but everything good begins. Everything can be revised, erased, or rearranged later. The courage of creation is making bad beginnings.” 

This is Ashton’s advice for how to go about creating. If creation does not come from a magical flash of insight, as he argues, the question becomes, Where does it come from? His answer is by just plunging in. People often expect something good to arrive fully formed—already good. However, Ashton writes that good only comes from revising something that starts out average or even bad. The only way to get there is to jump in, produce anything to begin working on, and then begin the step-by-step process inherent in all creating. 

“In a creative partnership, the alternating nature of ordinary conversation and the problem-solution loops of ordinary thinking combine: partners use the same creative process as individuals but do their thinking aloud, seeing problems in each other’s solutions, and finding solutions to each other’s problems.” 

Ashton argues on the one hand that the best creating comes from individuals, but then acknowledges that partnerships are often extremely creative and productive. The reason, he explains here, is that a pair often act like a single person. The same steps in an individual’s process get divided between the partners, allowing them to work closely in tandem.

“Talking while acting is useful, but talking about acting is not—or, at least, not often, and not for long. This is why ‘Show me’ is such a powerful thing to say. ‘Show me’ stops speculation and starts action.” 

“Talking while acting” refers to research that Ashton presents in an earlier chapter showing that talking through the steps in the creating process is useful. However, “talking about acting” refers to meetings within organizations. His belief is that in our culture “talking” and “doing” are two separate things, so any time spent talking results in a lack of doing. Thus, most organizations get bogged down in too many meetings, worrying about planning and hierarchy, which sharply curtails their creative output. The best way to test ideas is to implement them, which is what “show me” refers to.

“Organizations are a competition between compliance and creation. The leaders of our organizations may ask us to create sometimes, but they demand that we comply always. Compliance is more important than creation in most organizations, no matter how much they pretend otherwise. If you comply but do not create, you may be promoted. If you create but do not comply, you will be fired. When rewards are given for compliance, not contribution, we call it ‘office politics.’ We are required to comply not with what the organization says, but with what the organization does.”

This quotation has to do with the “hidden curriculum” of organizations. Researcher Philip Jackson coined the phrase to mean the disconnect between what organizations say (or profess to want) and what they do (their actual behavior). Ashton argues that this creates, in effect, two masters for employees to serve: compliance and contribution. The former always takes precedence. If the disconnect between saying and doing becomes too large, contribution suffers—another reason that organizations are often not very creative.