The (flight) path of a wandering idea
The messy, mildly absurd process of turning a thought into a chapter
I am in that odd in-between stage of getting a book (Accidentally Wise) published. The writing is done. Typesetting is underway. Regrets are optional.
This post is a behind-the-scenes peek at one of the chapters—born in an airport lounge, shaped mid-flight, and somehow still made it into the book.
You would think a chapter about imagination would be born somewhere inspiring—a cabin in the hills, a long walk through misty woods, maybe a conversation with a wild-eyed inventor holding a hand-drawn patent for teleportation socks.
Instead, mine began in an airport lounge, under fluorescent lights, while someone behind me loudly explained cryptocurrency to a visibly trapped intern. This was Bangalore, January 2025. I was en route to San Francisco on a flight long enough to reconsider most of my decisions, including writing a book.
Around that time, my mornings involved jet-lagged stargazing and questioning the meaning of life while brushing my teeth at 4:30 AM. It sounds poetic. It was mostly dehydrated. And it turns out, writing about innovation while slowly drying out like in-flight okra is a very specific kind of creative challenge.
Somewhere mid-air, I gave up on trying to sound profound and let my brain wander. That is when the chapter finally took shape.
Here is a little teaser:
“Creative breakthroughs happen when you mix wild curiosity with permission to be wrong—repeatedly. You try. You fail. You try again. Eventually, something sticks. This is how smartphones came to be. It is also how my kitchen came to smell like burnt coconut for three days after my ‘baingan bharta’ experiment. Risk and reward. Mostly risk.”
That section—burnt bharta and all—survived the final edit. But what you do not see is the mess that came before it. The false starts. The deleted Einstein quotes. The version that sounded like it wanted a job at one of the Big Four (or Five, Six, Seven—however many there are now).
The real story—the one I wanted to share here—is not about the chapter. It is about how hard it was to write the first few words. How imagination rarely arrives like a lightning bolt. More often, it creeps up on you in the form of a strange idea you are too tired to dismiss. An idea that nudges you mid-flight and says, “Hey. What if you just… tried?”
Creative work, I am learning, is mostly just this: tolerating your own terrible drafts long enough for something better to sneak in. Allowing yourself to write nonsense until the nonsense reveals a voice that feels like yours. Mine turned out to be dry, suspicious of productivity hacks, and very concerned about burnt baingan bharta.
At one point, I genuinely believed this chapter (and possibly the entire book) needed to sound smart. That it had to “teach” something, preferably with a quote, a framework, and a mildly condescending tone. But every time I tried to write from that place, I lost the thread. It was only when I wrote for myself—confused, dry-skinned, low-key disoriented in flight—that something real emerged.
And even now, I do not know if it resonates. The book is not out yet. No one has said, “Wow, that metaphor about socks really spoke to me.” They might never say that. Which is fine. Sort of.
Because writing is, at its core, the ultimate leap of faith. You write as if someone might care. You imagine that this odd thing you have built—this Frankenstein of humour, honesty, and jet-lagged introspection—might find its way to someone who nods and says, “Same.”
So next time an idea shows up—while packing, showering, or silently judging someone’s airport meal—invite it in. Let it sit beside you. Offer it electrolytes.
You never know. It might just stick. And if not, you will at least have a half-decent story to tell from Gate 23A.
PS: Audio summary generated by Google NotebookLM