Follow the Wisp, Honor the Compass
For most of my life, I've assumed there was something slightly wrong with how I work.
I would create a plan.
Then I'd get excited about something else.
I'd start a project.
Then I'd become fascinated by a different part of the project.
I'd make a task list.
Then I'd find myself working on item number eight instead of item number one.
Every productivity book seemed to suggest that successful people followed the plan.
Meanwhile, I kept following the interesting thing.
For a long time, that felt like a weakness.
Lately, though, I've started to wonder if it might actually be a strength.
Not because plans are bad.
Plans matter.
Direction matters.
Goals matter.
But I think there's a difference between having a compass and forcing yourself to walk a perfectly straight line.
Recently, I've been building Narrative Realmwalkers.
If you looked at my activity over the last few weeks, it would probably seem chaotic.
One day I worked on the guidebook.
The next day I built quest cards.
Then I created videos.
Then I spent hours designing a website.
Then I worked on a shadow bestiary.
Then I created character sheets.
Then I wrote campfire reflections.
Then I started experimenting with audio.
From the outside, it might look like I can't decide what to work on.
From the inside, something very different is happening.
Everything belongs to the same world.
No matter where I wander, I keep ending up in Narrative Realmwalkers.
The website helps the project.
The videos help the project.
The guidebook helps the project.
The shadows help the project.
The campfire stories help the project.
The quest cards help the project.
The wisps help the project.
Even when I'm not following the original plan, I'm still moving in the same direction.
That's when a phrase appeared in my mind:
Follow the wisp, honor the compass.
The compass provides direction.
The wisp chooses today's path.
The compass says:
"We are building something meaningful."
The wisp says:
"Today let's play with audio."
The compass says:
"We are helping travelers become more alive."
The wisp says:
"Today let's create a campfire story."
The compass says:
"We're headed north."
The wisp says:
"Let's take this trail for a while."
Neither one is enough by itself.
Without a compass, you wander.
Without a wisp, the journey becomes work.
And that's another realization I've been having lately.
Fun isn't a distraction from the project.
Fun is part of the project.
I don't want to build something that feels like homework.
I don't want to wake up and stare at a production schedule that drains all the joy from creating.
If I feel inspired to make a few Wisp videos, that's not failure.
If I want to spend a day improving the website, that's not avoidance.
If I suddenly become fascinated by a new shadow, a new quest, or a new campfire story, that's not wasted time.
That's exploration.
That's play.
That's curiosity doing what curiosity does.
And perhaps most importantly, that's how I continue showing up.
Because the days I force myself to create are often the days I create the least.
The days I follow genuine curiosity are usually the days I look up and realize I've spent hours building something valuable.
Maybe some travelers thrive on schedules.
Maybe some travelers love detailed roadmaps.
There's nothing wrong with that.
But I've learned that I am, and perhaps always have been, a wisp follower.
The trick isn't resisting that nature.
The trick is giving it a compass.
As long as the compass remains true, the path can wander.
As long as the destination remains meaningful, exploration is allowed.
As long as the caravan keeps moving, it doesn't really matter which trail I walked today.
So these days, when a new idea appears and sparks my curiosity, I try not to fight it.
I simply ask one question:
Does this serve the journey?
If the answer is yes, I follow the wisp.
And I trust the compass to keep me headed home.