Writing by Design: The CODEX Method

The blank page felt like an accusation. Each cursor blink was an interrogation light of all the ideas trapped in my head, the half-formed thoughts that refused to crystallize. I had documents full of fragments, drives full of abandoned drafts—not because I had nothing to say, but because I had too much. Every idea felt urgent, every thought a loose thread that, when pulled, unraveled into chaos.

For years, the solution was brute force. If I just hammered at the keyboard hard enough, masterpieces would fall out. But force only created more fragments—bright shards of insight with no way to piece them together. I wasn’t lacking ideas; I was drowning in them.

That’s where CODEX came in. CODEX is a framework, but also a kind of paradox. It has five phases, simple on the surface: Curate, Outline, Draft, Edit, Express. Structure sounds like the death of creativity. But the opposite turned out to be true: when I created spaces for my thoughts to inhabit, they came alive, the words started breathing again.

Curate is the gathering room, like a medieval scriptorium before ink touches page. Just as scribes collected their materials—vellum, pigments, gold leaf—I gather resonant ideas. Early in my writing life, I rushed to mirror back a single borrowed thought, like a scribe trying to illuminate with only one color. But when I pause—to collect varied sources, to let ideas cross-pollinate—something alchemical happens. Each thought becomes a pigment, each reference a different texture. The remix isn’t just combination; it’s transformation.

Outline is the ruling of lines, the careful preparation before text begins. Medieval scribes scored their parchment with guidelines—invisible to the final reader but crucial to the work’s harmony. My outlines are similar: light marks that suggest direction without commanding it. A thesis here, a stance there, just enough structure to keep the words flowing straight without caging them.

Then comes Draft—the laying down of text. Medieval scribes called this the “textus”—the first full writing, imperfect but essential. Like them, I work in a kind of focused trance, letting the words flow without judgment. This is where the basic text takes shape, rough but real, like letters pressed into fresh parchment.

Edit is where marginalia flourishes—and where time travel happens. Medieval manuscripts lived through their corrections, with scribes annotating in different colored inks: red for errors, blue for references, black for additions. My editing process is similar, but with a twist: I’m not just marking up margins; I’m collaborating across time. Each edit is a conversation between my present and past selves, each revision a chance to reach through time and tap my earlier self on the shoulder: “hey, you were onto something here, but what if…” The manuscript grows clearer not just through correction, but through this strange dialogue between selves.

Finally, Express—the binding that makes a true codex. A medieval book wasn’t finished until it was bound, its pages gathered and sewn, its cover crafted to protect the work within. Express is my binding phase: deciding how this piece should live in the world. Maybe it’s a newsletter, maybe a private journal entry, maybe something shared with trusted readers. But like those ancient manuscripts, it’s not truly complete until it’s bound into its final form.

I’ve learned that process isn’t the enemy of originality. It’s the very thing that makes originality possible. The blank page doesn’t look so smug anymore. It’s just the first step in a longer ritual: gather, order, write, refine, release.

In the end, every essay is its own codex—scraps turned into something coherent, personal, maybe even lasting. Without CODEX, I’d still be hoarding half-finished paragraphs like a medieval scribe who never bothered with binding. With it, I make books out of my scraps. And that feels like freedom.