George Carlin famously said, "Write stoned, edit sober." He was right. When he indulged, he accessed subconscious ideas that might not bubble to the surface when he wrote.
I used to blast loud music when I wrote. Not just in the background—I'm talking about full-volume, room-filling sound. Rock, jazz, ambient electronica—whatever could drown out the chaos of the outside world and, ironically, the chaos of my thoughts. It was almost like I was trying to outpace my brain, out-shout my inner critic, by enveloping myself in noise. For a long time, this method seemed to work. The music became a kind of armor, a protective layer that allowed me to slip past distractions and into a state of focus.
But over time, that need changed. My process evolved.
Now, I prefer silence. A quiet writing room, sunlight pouring in through the blinds, the subtle hum of life outside—these are my companions. Where I once needed a carefully curated soundtrack to enter a creative state, now I welcome stillness. The trance-like state I once had to wrestle into existence through sound arrives more gently these days. Sometimes all it takes is sitting in my chair, opening a document, and breathing deeply for a few moments. I no longer need to fight for focus; I prepare a space that invites it.
This transformation didn’t happen overnight. It was gradual and layered, shaped by my understanding of a concept I stumbled upon in a remarkable book: Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. That book helped me understand what I had been doing all along—and more importantly, it showed me that I could do it better.
When I taught writing, I tried to convey this idea to my students. Some picked up on it, and I think I sold a few copies of Mihaly's book, but I'm sure most didn't get it until they tried.
Understanding Flow
In Flow, Csikszentmihalyi explores the psychology behind deep engagement—the kind of complete absorption that artists, athletes, writers, and even surgeons experience when they are at the height of their capabilities. When in flow, self-consciousness disappears, time distorts, and actions and awareness merge. The experience is so enjoyable that people often do it for its own sake, even when the activity is challenging or demanding.
Sound familiar?
When I first read the book, I had an immediate sense of recognition. Yes, I’d felt that state before. It was what I chased when I turned the music up and locked myself in my room. It was what I craved every time I sat down to write—a sense of total immersion where the words seemed to come from somewhere deeper, where they surprised even me.
But Flow also challenged me to question my process. Was the noise necessary, or was it a crutch? Was I truly optimizing my environment and mindset for flow, or just masking distractions?
Creating Conditions for Deep Work
As Csikszentmihalyi explains, flow arises when there's a balance between the task's challenge and the individual's skill. Too easy, and boredom sets in. Too hard, and anxiety creeps in. The sweet spot is that narrow space in between, where the task stretches you but doesn’t overwhelm you.
For writers, this often means writing at the edge of our abilities—not playing it safe with comfortable topics or familiar phrasing but digging deeper—emotionally, intellectually, and artistically. That effort can be taxing, but it can also be exhilarating.
Over time, I realized that music helped me reach that state not because of its intrinsic value but because of what it blocked out. It filled the space where doubt and distraction might otherwise echo. But as I grew more confident in my voice and more practiced in sitting with the discomfort of writing, I no longer needed that noise shield. I could face the silence—and eventually, I welcomed it.
The Shift to Silence
There’s a misconception that silence is boring, even oppressive. But for me, it has become fertile ground. In the absence of external sound, internal rhythms emerge. I can hear the cadence of a sentence more clearly. I can detect the emotional shifts in a paragraph and sense when something is off or out of sync.
Silence isn’t the absence of stimulation—it’s the presence of space. Space to think, to feel, to revise, to dream. And in that space, I find myself entering flow more quickly and more deeply than ever before.
This shift also coincided with a larger change in how I view writing. Where I once saw writing as a battle to be fought—against the clock, against distraction, against perfectionism—I now see it more as a conversation. Sometimes it’s with the self, with the subject, sometimes with the imagined reader. And like any good conversation, it requires attentiveness. That attentiveness is much easier to cultivate in quietude.
Flow in Creative Practice
Reading Flow validated my experiences and gave me a framework for refining them. It helped me recognize patterns in my creative process: the rituals that worked, the environments that helped, and the thoughts that led to breakthroughs.
For instance, I learned that I write best in the late morning, after coffee, but before the distractions of the day pile up. I also learned that certain physical conditions—like a clear desk, a slightly cool room, and a comfortable chair—seem to reduce friction between intention and action. These details may seem small, but they matter in the economy of flow.
Csikszentmihalyi emphasizes that flow is not an accident; it can be designed. We can shape our environments, our schedules, and even our expectations to make flow more likely. This doesn't mean forcing it—trying too hard can actually block flow—but it does mean being intentional.
I stopped waiting for inspiration to strike. Instead, I started building routines that made flow possible—and sometimes inevitable.
Flow Beyond Writing
Interestingly, I also began to notice flow in other parts of life. Cooking, walking, and even cleaning—when approached with mindfulness—could become immersive experiences. I wasn’t just chopping vegetables; I was absorbed in the rhythm, the colors, the scent, and the textures. I wasn’t just folding laundry; I was smoothing out the day’s edges, giving shape to disorder.
It might sound romanticized, but it’s not about glamorizing chores—it’s about being present. When you’re fully present, even mundane tasks can offer meaning. And the more I practiced being present daily, the more easily I could enter that state when I sat down to write.
In this way, flow became more than a tool—a way of being.
Challenges and Disruptions
Of course, it’s not always smooth. There are days when the words won’t come, distractions pull me out of the zone, and the flow state feels more like a distant memory than a reachable goal. Life has a way of intruding, and that’s okay. Part of embracing flow is accepting that it can’t be forced. It’s not a switch to be flipped; it’s a current to be caught.
Some days, that means stepping away. Other days, it means writing through the resistance. I've learned to trust that flow returns. The more consistently I show up, the more reliably it does too.
And yes, sometimes I still put on music. But it’s different now. It’s not armor; it’s ambiance. It’s not to block things out, but to bring something in—a mood, a memory, an energy. And sometimes, silence still feels more powerful than any song.
Final Thoughts
Reflecting on my writing journey, I see a path from chaos to clarity, from noise to nuance. Music was once a necessary part of my process—an entry point to the creative realm. But as I grew into my craft, I found that the real magic wasn’t in the sound, but in the stillness that allowed the deeper parts of me to speak.
Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience gave me the language to understand that shift. It helped me recognize that what I was experiencing was part of something broader—an optimal state that artists have touched throughout history. It isn’t reserved for the lucky or the gifted. It’s accessible to anyone willing to be present, challenged, and fully engaged.
So, whether you write in silence or to the rhythm of your favorite playlist, whether your desk is spotless or covered in coffee-stained notes, remember: flow is less about the setting and more about the surrender. Less about control, more about trust.
And when it comes, ride it. Follow it. Let it carry you past the edge of effort into the space where creation feels like discovery.
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