Café, Croissants, and Creativity: the slow art of writing in a fast world... on cafés, creativity, and why slowing down matters, especially in the age of AI …
There’s a particular table at La Coupole in Paris where the morning light hits the croissant just right, where my spiral notebook opens without resistance, and where time loses its urgency. I’ve drafted entire chapters there. Sometimes nothing at all. But always, it’s a good writing morning – or, at least, a good thinking morning. In a world that glorifies speed, word counts, algorithms, and productivity hacks, I’ve come to realize I write best when I slow everything down. Writing becomes less about output and more about connection to the story, to myself, to the people and events around me, and to the moment I’m living, right here, right now. A croissant takes time. So does a storytelling. Living in Paris has taught me to take my time. Here, people linger over conversations, coffee, and yesterday’s thoughts. I’ve learned to do the same with my writing. Drafts stretch over days. Edits are mulled over for months. I’ve started thinking of writing like making croissants: layers, rest, pressure, rest again. Each morning I walk to the café, have breakfast, and write by hand. Free writing or note taking by hand, edits on the computer. I know many writers have a goal to write a specific number of words a day. I don’t have word goals. No outlines. Just presence. The flaky croissant crumbs collect in the margins of my notebook. There’s something sacred about staring out the window in between ideas and sentences or listening to the murmur of conversations I half understand. My stories become less forced, and more in the flow. Slowing down has taught me that writing isn’t linear. Some days the breakthrough comes not on the page but during the walk home. Ritual matters to me: a walk, a specific table, a warm cup of coffee: my preferred pen with the crown on top. When I rush, I ‘m not focusing on what I’m really trying to say. When I slow down, the real stuff – the real feelings – rise like dough, like steam. Many of us now use AI to brainstorm, draft, or structure our writing. And there’s no shame in that. It can be a co-creator, a jump-starter, or a map for creating the structure of a book or piece of writing. But here’s the truth I’ve come to realize: AI can give you words, but not wisdom. AI can give you form but not feeling. AI can give you evocative words but not emotion. Real wisdom, feeling, and emotion comes from silence, waiting, thinking, and rewriting the same sentence three times until it feels right. When we let AI handle too much of the pace, we risk bypassing the emotional meat or marrow of what we're trying to say. The work becomes efficient and productive, but maybe the soul of the writing doesn’t always have time to catch up with the syntax. That’s why I still draft with in a café with a croissant. That’s why I walk around the block to clear my head or to wait for the flow. I believe in infusing my writing with friction, pause, and reflection to illuminate, not replace, the human input behind the written page. Stories don’t just come from intelligence, artificial or otherwise. Stories come from lived experiences, accumulated small moments, overheard conversations, sightings while daydreaming, and lingering with discomfort until clarity arrives. Yes, write with AI if it helps, but slow it down. Bake yourself into your own story because every story needs a personal handprint, a signature sound, a tailored tone. In the end, only you know what it means to tell your story. The stories in you are not meant to be rushed. They are meant to be kneaded, and baked, with room and time to rise.
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