Miki works with her hands. I work with words. Miki sees things in forms, textures, and dimensions. I see things in sentences, subtext, and rhythm.
Our worlds overlap in some ways—both of us are creating something from nothing—but the methods, the instincts, the very way we go about it? Night and day. And yet, we live in the same house and occupy the same space, but we try not to step on one another's toes in the process.
Easier said than done.
A Difference in Approach
Miki has a habit of starting projects without preamble. No announcement, no outline—just action. I’ll walk into the room and find her in deep concentration, surrounded by a pile of wood shavings, screws, and some unidentified power tool that looks like it could take my hand off if I breathed the wrong way.
Me: “Uh… what’s happening here?”
Miki: (without looking up) “I’m making something.”
Me: “Oh. What are you making?”
Miki: (still not looking up) “I’ll show you when it’s done.”
This is Miki’s philosophy in a nutshell: trust the process. No over-explaining. No need to justify. Just build.
On the other hand, I can’t do anything without first explaining it in detail to someone—myself, a friend, a wall, my laptop screen.
When I write, I stare at the page, rework the same paragraph six times, delete it, restore it, then go down a rabbit hole over whether a comma or semi-colon is the best punctuation choice. There is doubt. Hesitation. I need to get the` rhythm and flow just right before I hit send.
Miki has no such qualms. If she wants to build a bench, she builds a bench. It might start as a pile of old wood and screws, but by the time I look up from my laptop, it’s suddenly a damn bench.
Which brings me to the kitchen tiles and cabinets.
Clashes and Creative Differences
You might think this means we balance each other out. And, in the big picture, sure. But in the moment? It’s more like an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object.
Like when Miki announced that she decided to build our kitchen from scratch.
Me: “Wait—you’re going to build cabinets and do tiling and shit?”
Miki: “Yes.”
Me: “Really?”
Miki: (without looking up) “Yes.”
Me: “…You know we can buy cabinets and hire someone to do the tiling, right?”
Miki: (finally looking up at me, eyes full of silent judgment) “Yes.”
Now, I should have left it at that. I should have trusted Miki. But I couldn’t help myself.
Me: “So, what’s the plan? Do you have measurements? A sketch? A blueprint?”
Miki: (already sawing a plank of wood) “I have it in my head.”
Me: “Okay, but do you also have it, like, on paper?”
Miki: (pausing to give me the look™) “I don't need paper for this!”
At this point, I had two choices:
Keep questioning and risk being handed a drill and told to help.
Walk away and accept that my kitchen was being built on pure Miki instinct.
I chose option 2.
And sure enough, a few days later, the kitchen cabinets and the tiling were done. No gaps, no uneven doors, no weird angles—just solid, beautiful craftsmanship that looked straight out of a high-end design catalog. Made entirely from Miki’s brain.
Me: “…You really didn’t write anything down?”
Miki: “Nope.”
Me: “Not even a rough sketch?”
Miki: (shrugging) “Didn’t need it.”
At this point, I had no choice but to stand there in quiet admiration. Because while I might be the one with the words, Miki is the one who brings ideas to life without ever second-guessing.
And, as always, I had to eat my words.
Creation Without Explanation
Miki builds things without a blueprint. I need an outline most of the time, especially for news articles. I need an idea to be fully formed before I commit. She lets the idea form itself.
It’s a difference in philosophy, but it’s also a difference in trust—trusting intuition, trusting skill, trusting that what you create will find its shape along the way.
And, admittedly, I’ve learned from her. I’ve tried writing without overthinking. I’ve tried trusting the first draft. And sometimes? It works!
(Other times, it’s a disaster, and I wish I had a delete button for real life.)
But that’s what happens when an artist and a writer share a life. You pick up a little from each other. You argue about how things should be done. You challenge each other’s instincts.
And, in the end, you create something bigger than either of you could have alone.
Here’s Miki, in her element—doing what she does best while I try to stay out of her way.
(Spoiler: I usually fail.)
How do you and your partner/friend/collaborator approach creativity differently? Do you ever get into creative conflicts? Tell me about it in the comments!
PS: For more on Miki and Baye and building a home and a life in Japan, check out the new book: Words by Baye, Art by Miki
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