Imagine trying to write a paragraph, a short story, or even a sentence without using the letter E. It sounds impossible. E is the most common letter in the English language, appearing in nearly every other word. Yet the French writer Georges Perec famously wrote an entire 300-page novel, La Disparition, without using the letter E at all. He called this a lipogram, and he did it not to show off, but to see what would happen when he took away his most comfortable tool. That same principle works for anyone trying to jumpstart their creative process: impose an arbitrary constraint that forces you to abandon your usual habits, and watch your brain find new paths.

The reason this works is simple. When you have unlimited options, your mind tends to settle into patterns. You reach for the same words, the same shapes, the same chord progressions, because they are safe and proven. A constraint strips away those crutches. It forces you to look at the problem sideways. Without the letter E, you cannot write “the,“ “are,“ “be,“ “he,“ “she,“ “we,“ “see,“ “free,“ or “create.“ You suddenly have to think about sentence structure differently. You discover that you can say “I am” instead of “I be.“ You find that “a man” works where “the person” would have been easier. And in that struggle, you stumble onto phrases and images you never would have considered otherwise.

This technique is not limited to writing. Painters have long used the exercise of limiting their palette to three colors. A photographer might shoot an entire project using only a 50mm lens, forcing him to move his feet instead of zooming. A musician can try writing a song using only three chords, or even two, and discover that the melody and rhythm carry the emotion. A chef might decide to cook a meal using only ingredients that are all white: cauliflower, potatoes, onions, fish, garlic. The constraint itself becomes a game, and games are fundamentally creative acts. They impose rules, and rules generate tension, and tension demands a solution.

What makes arbitrary constraints especially powerful is that they do not come from logic or necessity. You are not limiting yourself because you lack resources. You are imposing a limit for the sheer challenge of it. That artificial difficulty triggers a different part of your brain. Instead of planning, you start playing. Instead of worrying about quality, you focus on solving the puzzle. And in the process, you produce work that feels fresh, even strange, because it was born out of resistance rather than ease.

It is important to pick a constraint that is both specific and frustrating. A vague constraint like “write better” does nothing. But “write a story that never mentions time” will change how you describe sunsets and seasons. “Draw a portrait using only straight lines” will force you to see angles and shadows you normally ignore. “Build a website using only black and white” will teach you about contrast and hierarchy in a way that color never could. The more arbitrary, the better. You are not trying to make something practical; you are trying to make something new.

The common objection is that constraints limit creativity, not boost it. But creativity is not about having infinite choices. It is about making meaningful choices within a frame. A blank page or a blank canvas is terrifying precisely because it offers no direction. A constraint gives you a starting line. It tells you what not to do, which is often more useful than being told what to do. The writer who cannot use the letter E will spend an hour searching for the right word, and in that hour she will generate dozens of possibilities, each one a small creative leap. Most of them will be discarded, but one or two might be brilliant.

To try this yourself, pick a project you already care about. Then take away something you rely on. If you are a graphic designer, ban yourself from using any font that has serifs. If you are a copywriter, write a headline without using any adjectives. If you are a filmmaker, shoot a scene with no dialogue. The first attempt will feel clunky and awkward. That is the point. Push through the awkwardness. Let the constraint guide you into territory you would never have visited on your own. What emerges will not look like your usual work. That is exactly what you want. Because the goal is not to do what you already know how to do. The goal is to discover what you did not know you could do.