The Yes Filter: Nine Checks Before I Take On a Creative Project in 2026

I have a spreadsheet called maybe. It is not a glamorous system. It is a list of projects that sounded exciting for about forty-eight hours and then sat there, quietly, like a gym membership. Some of them turned into good work. Most of them did not. The ones that did usually survived a few blunt questions first.

This is not a productivity sermon. I am not here to tell you to batch your emails or colour-code your ambitions. But if you make things in the UK in 2026 — records, zines, events, collaborations, whatever shape the work takes — you are probably being asked to say yes more often than you can honestly manage. The trick is not saying no to everything. It is saying yes on purpose.

What follows is the filter I use now. It is opinionated, imperfect and occasionally ignored. I have made glorious wrong turns with it. I have also avoided a few beautiful-sounding projects that would have eaten six months and returned nothing but a vague sense of having been busy.

1. Would I still want to do this on a wet Tuesday in February?

Launch energy is a liar. It arrives with a nice email, a promising conversation and the flattering sense that someone has noticed you. The real question is whether the work still appeals when the heating is on, the deadline is close and nobody is clapping. If the answer is only yes when there is an audience, it is probably a performance of a project rather than a project.

2. Who is it actually for?

I do not mean a demographic. I mean a person. Can I picture one real listener, reader or viewer who would be glad this exists? If the only answer is 'the algorithm' or 'people who like good things', the idea needs more shape. Selected work gets stronger when it is made for someone specific enough to disappoint.

3. What is the smallest honest version?

Most projects arrive disguised as their most expensive version. A ten-track album, a tour, a printed book, a six-part series. Before I commit, I try to find the smallest version that still tells the truth. Sometimes that is a three-song demo. Sometimes it is a single night in a small room. If the idea only works at maximum scale, it is probably a fantasy wearing a lanyard.

4. Is this false momentum?

False momentum is the feeling that something is moving because people are replying quickly. It looks like a group chat with forty messages, a shared folder with a colour-coded timeline and a lot of enthusiasm from someone who has not yet checked their diary. Real momentum has boring evidence: a date, a budget, a decision-maker, a deposit. Without those, it is a nice atmosphere.

5. What will it cost in attention, not just time?

Time is the easy unit to count. Attention is the one that runs out. Some projects take two hours a week and leave my head clear. Others take twenty minutes and follow me around for three days. I have learned to ask which kind of cost I am signing up for. A small collaboration with the wrong rhythm can cost more than a large one with the right people.

6. Does it make the work better, or just busier?

This is the question I forget most often. A project can be good in isolation and still make the wider body of work worse. It can pull focus, blur the story or turn a clear practice into a series of favours. I want each yes to sharpen something, not just add another line to the list. If I cannot explain how it strengthens the whole, I wait.

7. Can I leave later without wrecking a relationship?

Not every project needs an exit clause written into a contract, but it helps to know where the door is. Is there a natural checkpoint? Is the other person reasonable? Would saying 'this is not working' be treated as a betrayal or a conversation? If the answer is betrayal, I am much less likely to start. The UK creative scene is small enough that how you leave matters as much as how you arrive.

8. Will it exist after the launch?

Launch day is a strange little festival. There are posts, messages, a spike of attention and then a long quiet stretch where the work has to stand up by itself. I ask whether the thing will still be useful, watchable or listenable in six months. If it only exists to be announced, it is probably content rather than work. No shame in content, but I try not to confuse the two.

9. What would make me proud of this in a year?

Not pleased. Not relieved. Proud. The answer might be that it was made well, that it was honest, that it did not waste anyone's goodwill or that it gave someone else a start. If I cannot find a version of pride that survives the novelty wearing off, the project is probably borrowing excitement from somewhere else.

The point is not purity

None of this is a licence to become a hermetically sealed artist who only says yes to perfectly aligned opportunities. Some of the best things I have done looked messy on paper. They had unclear budgets, odd timings and people I did not know well. The filter is not there to remove risk. It is there to remove drift.

So in 2026, I am trying to keep the maybe list honest. If a project passes six or seven of these checks, I will usually find a way. If it passes two, I will usually find a polite email. The difference between a good year and a frazzled one is often not talent or luck. It is the quality of the yes.