Imagine sitting down to write a short story and telling yourself that you cannot use the letter E. No “the,” no “he,” no “she,” no “here,” no “there.” Every sentence must avoid the most common letter in the English language. At first it sounds impossible, like trying to swim with one arm tied behind your back. But this is exactly the kind of arbitrary constraint that can force your brain to find new paths, make unusual word choices, and produce work you never would have written otherwise.

The idea of imposing artificial limits is nothing new. Writers, painters, and musicians have used self-imposed rules for centuries to break out of comfortable habits. The French novelist Georges Perec wrote an entire 300-page novel, La Disparition, without using the letter E. He then followed it up with a novella in which E was the only vowel allowed. These are extreme examples, but the principle works at any level. When you remove a common tool from your kit, you must invent something else to take its place.

Start small. Instead of trying to write a whole novel, challenge yourself to write one paragraph of a scene using only words that contain no E. You will quickly discover that many ordinary words become unusable. “The” is gone. “Because” is gone. “Every” is gone. You reach for “a” or “an” but soon run out of articles. So you start rearranging sentences. “The cat sat on the mat” becomes “A cat sits on a rug.” But “sits” has an I, so maybe “a cat sits on a mat” still works if you keep “sits” – but “sits” has no E, good. Now you notice “cat” is fine, “mat” is fine. But what about plural? Cats? No E. Mats? No E. You realize you can say “cats sit on mats” without a single E. That is a breakthrough. You begin to see your language differently.

This kind of constraint forces you to think about synonyms and rephrase ideas. You might normally write “He walked slowly down the street.” But “walked” contains an E. So you say “John strolled along the road.” “Strolled” has no E. “Road” has no E. You now have a sentence that sounds a little different, which can change the mood of the scene. “John strolled along a road” feels more formal, maybe more literary. This shift could lead to a whole new tone for your story.

More importantly, the constraint makes you stop writing on autopilot. When you cannot rely on the first word that pops into your head, you must actively search your vocabulary. That search activates parts of your brain that normally stay quiet during routine writing. You start noticing how words are built, which syllables contain E, which alternatives exist. You might discover that you overuse certain phrases like “there was” or “here is” – both full of E – and that you can replace them with “a” or “this” or simply restructure.

Musicians do the same thing. John Cage composed a piece for prepared piano where he placed screws and bolts between the strings, creating entirely new timbres. The constraint was physical, not just conceptual, but the effect was identical: it forced a different kind of creation. A painter might limit herself to only three colors. A filmmaker might shoot an entire scene in a single take with no cuts. Each arbitrary rule shuts down one set of possibilities and opens up another.

The key is that the constraint must be truly arbitrary. It cannot be a “good idea” or a rule that makes sense logically. It must feel like a stupid, pointless restriction. That is exactly why it works. Your rational mind will resist: “Why would I avoid the letter E? That’s inefficient.” But creatives have never been in the business of efficiency. You are in the business of discovery. By putting up a wall, you force yourself to climb it, dig under it, or find a crack. That effort produces originality.

Try it today. Pick a random letter – maybe the most common one, maybe a vowel, maybe a consonant. Write for ten minutes without it. Do not worry about quality. Just struggle with the constraint. You will produce something awkward, and that awkwardness is where the creativity hides. After the ten minutes, read what you wrote. You will likely find phrases that surprise you, images you would never have conjured otherwise. That surprise is the point. The constraint did not limit you; it liberated you from your own habits.

Over time, you can mix constraints. Write a scene where no character can use the word “said.” Write a poem where every line must start with a color. Write a dialogue where one character never uses verbs. The possibilities are endless because the constraints themselves are arbitrary. The only rule is that the rule must feel unnatural. The more awkward it is, the more your brain will have to stretch to meet it.

In the end, arbitrary creative constraints work because they force you to stop relying on your automatic responses. They turn writing, painting, or composing into a puzzle. And puzzles demand active problem-solving, which is exactly what creativity requires. So next time you feel stuck, take away your most comfortable tool. Remove the letter E. See what appears in its place.