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From Creative Cocoon to Creative Bubble
Discovering the textures of the book writing process
My first book of poetry is (if all goes well) going live next week. It feels unreal, but this is not what this post is about. While I was writing it, I was in what I jokingly called “the creative cocoon”. For a couple of months, I lived, breathed, fed, and fueled that book. The outside world barely existed. I have no idea how I did my job. I know I did no form of sports. I must have eaten, but can only remember copious amounts of chocolate and the occasional bowl of pasta prepared in such haste I redefined al dente.
The word cocoon suggests calm and quiet. It feels the opposite of chaotic, and yet it was: A storm in a teacup, a pirate ship in a glass bottle, self-contained chaos. It was also incredible. It’s hard to explain, but it was like a very specific type of adrenaline. More effective than caffeine, just as addictive.
I would go to bed late, and still somehow spring off the mattress the next day, eager to get to it. I scribbled words, edits, and ideas on Post-its that quickly covered every surface. I obsessed and over-obsessed, exhausted myself, and started again. I always have a writing project or three, but I can’t remember the last time I was so consumed by something.
