Prompt 187. Tapping the Flow State

A metaphorical diaper caddy, a 100-day project & a prompt

Daydreaming in my hospital room. Photo by Kate Sterlin

Hi friend,

And so the roller coaster continues. After a few days of frighteningly low blood pressure, I narrowly avoided being readmitted to the hospital on Thursday. The next day, my dear pal and Isolation Journals comrade Carmen arrived in New York after a 10-day quarantine and a nearly 1,800-mile drive from Texas. We were so happy to be reunited—it was the first time we’d seen each other in person since I learned of my relapse—and we spent the evening catching up and daydreaming about our 100-day projects.

As some of you already know, starting on April 1, we’re committing to one creative act a day for 100 days and inviting all of you beautiful souls to join us. There are so many shapes such a project can take—from writing a daily childhood memory to collaging, piano playing, or walking in nature. It just needs to feel exciting, a little challenging, but most of all sustainable, so you’re able to keep it up over the course of 100 days.

If you’re anything like me, the motivation part can be tricky, especially after the initial thrill wears off. For those who want an extra dose of accountability, paid subscribers will have the option of getting regular pep talks from me, along with check-ins and opportunities to have your work featured. (As a reminder, if a paid subscription feels out of reach, just email me. No questions asked—I’ve got you.)

I digress. Anyway, so there we were talking late into the night, and Carmen said she was struggling to let go of the idea that, whatever project she chose, it needed to build toward something. But here’s the thing about a 100-day project: the whole point is to get into a more liberated, playful creative flow state—not to reinforce the pressure of constant striving, or the compulsion to be productive, or to create some kind of grand masterpiece. Of course, something will come of your 100-day project. Whatever you choose, it will be useful in ways you can’t even begin to predict, I promise. But going in with an end goal destroys the magic. Instead, the project is a process, a journey sans predetermined destination.

I’m reminded of one of the wonderful strangers I met during my 15,000-mile road trip—a retired psychologist-turned-sculptor named Rich in Northern California. While I was there, Rich shared his theory that when we travel, we take three trips. The first trip is of preparation and anticipation, packing and daydreaming. The second is the trip you’re actually on. And then, there’s the trip you remember. As he said, “The key is to try to keep all three as separate as possible. The key is to be present wherever you are right now.”

It’s the first day of spring, and whether you’re planning on joining the 100-day project or not, we’re all in a place of daydreaming and anticipating and preparing for something new. So today I have a prompt to help ease you into a season of creativity and growth.

Sending love,

Suleika

P.S. Thanks to everyone who submitted names for my new walker, which is getting a makeover today—rhinestones here we come! So far I’ve gotten everything from Big Bertha and Lebron to Alice, as in Alice Walker. I love you. That is all.

P.P.S. Quick reminder that the Hatch, our virtual creative hour, is meeting today from 1-2 pm ET! Carmen will share a little craft lesson at the beginning, followed by an hour of silent writing or painting or interpretive dancing or whatever your heart desires. Paid subscribers can find the link to join here!

P.P.P.S. A few days ago, I sent out another installment of Dear Susu—Part 2 of “Love in the Time of Cancer.” In it, my mom Anne Francey helped me tackle the question “How do we get through?” It’s wise and funny (like my beloved maman), and it’s not to be missed. Become a paid subscriber to read it!

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The Isolation Journals is my newsletter for people seeking to transform life's interruptions into creative grist. Both free and paid subscriptions are available. The best way to support my work is with a paid subscription, where you get added benefits like access to my advice column Dear Susu, an archive of interviews with amazing artists, behind-the-scenes tidbits from me, our virtual writing hour the Hatch, and other opportunities for creative community.

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View of my hospital room-turned-painting studio, with my gray felt diaper caddy on the bedside table. Photo by Kate Sterlin.

Prompt 187. The Diaper Caddy by Suleika Jaouad

In the past decade, I’ve spent countless hours dreaming about the ideal creative space, procrastinating on Pinterest, flipping through design magazines and coffee table books, and fantasizing about floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with one of those gloriously romantic rolling library ladders. But not all of us have a perfectly curated, luxuriously private workspace—and honestly I’ve come to believe it’s not a necessity, and maybe not even the ideal.

I just spent five weeks in confinement in a hospital room, which is arguably the least inspiring place. Between the fluorescent lighting, the incessant interruptions, the beeping of monitors, and the limited space, nothing about it makes you want to write the next great American novel, or to compose music or to break out a box of oil paints. Yet there’s a long lineage of artists and writers who, in the midst of illness and upheaval, did just that—from Henri Matisse, to Audre Lorde, to Charles Mingus, to Frida Kahlo. They used their limitations as a springboard and turned their circumstances into fodder for new creative pursuits.

Before I entered the hospital, I bought a gray felt diaper caddy, and I began to fill it. I tucked in an art book my mom gave me, and a novel and a coloring book too. I put in four journals, all for different purposes, and a pad of watercolor paper. I filled the pockets on the sides with my staples, like my favorite fountain pen, and also some things I don’t normally use, like colored pencils, paint brushes, and watercolors.

There were other things that weren’t as much tools, as things I used to set the mood, like a facial oil I really love, and a little vial of essential oil sent to me by a friend—it’s called goddess oil, and it smells like a dream. I wasn’t allowed real candles in the hospital, but another friend hooked me up with some very real-looking fake ones—made of actual wax, softly scented of vanilla, with a flickering LED light for a flame.

I placed the caddy on my beside table, within arm’s reach, and put it to use that first night in the hospital. It was the middle of the night, and I couldn’t sleep, worried about all that might go wrong in the coming weeks. But to my surprise, I didn’t reach for my usual journal and the fountain pen. Instead, I found myself painting a self-portrait: me dozing peacefully in a hospital bed, floating through a starry midnight sky, with the Manhattan skyline faintly visible in the background. I found it strange that I was drawn to try something I hadn’t done in years—I really hadn’t painted since I was a young child—but it was thrilling, and I wanted more. So I kept on, painting a new portrait every few days, so that by the time I left the hospital, I had a whole series of ten watercolor fever dreams.

It’s an important lesson, and a liberating one too: You don’t have to have the perfect writerly cabin in the woods or some beautifully Zen set-up in the corner of your house. You can make yourself a toolkit, and you can bring it with you wherever you go. Then, wherever you are, begin, create.

Your prompt for the week: 

Ask yourself: What rituals, objects, or tools inspire you to create? Books and notebooks? Art supplies? Paintings or photographs or post-its with a favorite quote? A playlist of music? Your softest sweats? A calendar to mark off each day you make it to the page?

Fill your metaphorical diaper caddy—or a literal one if you so choose—with whatever it is that will get you into a creative flow state.

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If you’d like, you can post your response in the comments below, in our Facebook group, or on Instagram by tagging @theisolationjournals.

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For more paid subscriber benefits, see—

• The latest Dear Susu, Love in a Time of Cancer (Part 2), on how we make it through

• Our Studio Visit with Lena Dunham, on asking for what we need and the spiritual dividends of pain

• A beautifully messy, oh-so-human community discussion: 25 Things About Me

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Have a question for Susu?

Just send an email to suleika@theisolationjournals.com with the subject line “Dear Susu.” Include your query, any necessary context, and a little info about yourself too. (If you wish to remain anonymous, that’s more than fine—just let me know or offer up a pseudonym.) I’ll answer as fully and thoughtfully as I can.