Sharon Collyer asked me this on Facebook the other day: “Jodi, how do you come up with these things? 😁 you must have some great brainstorming sessions.”
I told her I seriously think an unused part of my brain unlocked after my stroke. She probably thought I was joking.
I wasn’t entirely joking.
What Actually Changed: I Stopped Being Afraid
Here’s the real answer: I could have died, and I didn’t. After that, the fear that normally governs decision-making just… left.
Before the stroke, I was a careful planner. I’d worked in nonprofit leadership… environments where you measure impact, justify budgets, do things the proven way. I wasn’t reckless, but I also wasn’t particularly brave. I made safe choices because that’s what responsible organizations do.
After? I’m still strategic. I still care about sustainability and impact. But the internal calculation changed completely. The worst-case scenario of trying something weird… a failed event, a program nobody shows up for, looking foolish in a small town… became irrelevant. I’d already survived the actual worst-case scenario.
So now when an idea arrives, I don’t spend weeks testing it against fear. I spend maybe an hour figuring out if it’s financially viable and serves the community, and then we just try it. Because what’s the real risk? That it doesn’t work? Fine. We’ll learn something and try the next thing.
That’s what changed. Not that I got smarter or more creative. I just stopped letting fear make my decisions.
There Are No Brainstorming Sessions
Here’s what people imagine: I’m sitting in meetings with a planning committee, whiteboard covered in ideas, everyone throwing out suggestions, voting on the best ones. Very official. Very organized.
Here’s the reality: Most ideas emerge from regular conversation. Sue Bernard mentions a Willie Nelson tribute night would be neat, and I agree and run with it. She earned shoutouts and VIP seats for being the catalyst. Or a musician tells me that after all these years, he wishes he could just pay his bills with music, but that’s not the reality here. Or I’m trying to figure out how to show movies without a licensing budget, discover public domain films are available free, and start thinking about how to tie that into live music.
The ideas don’t come from brainstorming. They come from paying attention and problem-solving in real time.
Then there’s the other kind… the ones that arrive because we’re trying to figure out how to make something work. We want to do a Tom Petty tribute with 15 local musicians who all love his music. How do we make that financially viable? We promised $10 a song, figured we’d split whatever came in at the door. Turned out the community showed up so hard we paid $50 a song instead.
The constraint forces the innovation. The conversation reveals the need. Then I talk it through with Scotty or my mom (Chris)… not a formal pitch, just “what if we tried this?”… and if nobody immediately sees why it’s impossible, we start figuring out logistics.
No whiteboards. No committees. Just listening, then trying stuff.
Why Being Small Works (Even When It Feels Like It Shouldn’t)
Rural Southwest Colorado. Small-town budget. A venue that seats maybe 75 people if we’re packed. Volunteer capacity that’s basically me, Scotty, and my mom plus whoever shows up to help that week (thanks, Robert).
Most arts organizations would look at these as problems to overcome. Get more funding. Build a bigger space. Hire staff. Scale up.
But I think the constraints are exactly why the programming works.
We can’t afford to bring in big touring acts, so we showcase local talent and they get paid fairly instead of splitting a door with eight other artists. We can’t seat 300 people, so events feel intimate and everyone actually talks to each other. We don’t have staff, so the community has to show up and participate… which means they’re invested, not just consumers.
The limitation isn’t the obstacle. It’s the framework that makes everything else possible.
When you accept you’re working in a small pond, you stop trying to be the ocean. You figure out how to make the small pond incredibly vibrant. You keep the creative dollars local. You build something that fits the actual community you’re in, not the imaginary bigger one you wish you had.
I’m not romanticizing poverty or pretending we couldn’t do more with more resources. But scarcity has sharpened every idea into something that has to actually work here, now, with what we have. And that focus creates better programming than abundance ever could.
What Actually Happens When An Idea Shows Up
So an idea arrives. Here’s what I ask myself:
Does it serve the community or just sound cool? I’ve learned to kill ideas that are more about me being clever than about meeting an actual need. If I can’t point to who this is for and why they need it, it dies here.
Can we actually do it? Not “is it perfect”… can we execute a version of this with our space, our budget, our capacity? Sometimes the first version is scrappy. That’s fine. We’ll refine it if it works.
Does the math work? How much does it cost? How do we cover it… ticket sales, wine sales, sponsorship, grant money? If artists are involved, are we paying them fairly? If it’s free to attendees, what’s subsidizing it? I won’t do exploitative programming, and I won’t bankrupt us. The numbers have to close.
If it passes those filters, we set a date and start telling people. No pilot program, no focus groups, no six-month rollout plan. We just do it.
And sometimes it works great. Music & Mimosas started off awesome… people loved it… then just fizzled out after a year. That’s fine. We learned something. Sometimes we make decisions that don’t align with what other people think we should do… like choosing to support our own culture, or being allies in ways that matter to us even when it’s not popular. Those decisions keep us true to our morals and ethics, even if they cost us some audience.
The process isn’t complicated. It’s just honest questions plus willingness to try things and let some of them fail. Most organizations get stuck because they’re trying to eliminate risk. We accept that some things won’t work, and that’s part of doing things that actually matter.
So Sharon, Here’s the Real Answer
I almost died, so I stopped being scared of looking stupid. I pay attention to what the community actually needs instead of what I think sounds impressive. I let constraints sharpen ideas instead of killing them. And I move fast because waiting for perfect is just another form of fear.
It’s not brainstorming sessions or genius or some special creative gift. It’s just what becomes possible when you stop letting fear run the show.
The stroke didn’t unlock an unused part of my brain. It unlocked permission to try things. Turns out that’s all most ideas need… someone willing to actually attempt them.
Thanks for asking the question. It made me realize I should probably write this stuff down more often.