Carrie Bradshaw taught me how to sit down and write.

Anytime I sit down to write, I have three things in mind: where I’m going to work, the first sentence I’m going to write, and what I’m going to wear. Right now, I’m writing this in bed, with a cup of coffee and a big linen button-down I got from my dad’s closet. The dark blue fabric has faded to a dustier shade. The elbows have shredded into holes big enough to put my arms through.

Other than the writing itself, the clothes have become a crucial part of my ritual. It all started when I was in journalism school, searching for a routine that worked for me. I read constantly about the habits of literary giants, hungry for the secret to genius: Toni Morrison waking at 4 a.m. to write before the sun came up, Joan Didion reserving an hour before dinner with a stiff drink to edit her work, Virginia Woolf retreating to her toolshed at her country house in East Sussex until noon.

But none of these disciplined routines resonates with me as deeply as Carrie Bradshaw in her apartment, cigarette in hand, at her desk by the window. And of course, because this is Carrie, it is her writing wardrobe that first catches my attention.

Partly it is the romance – silk tap shorts, a sheer pink nightgown with a black bra underneath, an open-front lace top to brave the New York heat. Or maybe it was the whimsy – a terry cloth Cookie Monster tank top, men’s white briefs, a coveted SS2000 Chloé graphic tee – that speak to me. But really, it’s the intentionality of these outfits and what they reveal about her approach to the physical act of writing.

Carrie takes her work seriously enough to curate a wardrobe for it, even when no one is around to see it. This isn’t vanity. It’s a professionalism of a different sort, an understanding that how we dress for creative work can be part of the creative process itself.

HBO’s And Just Like That… ended Thursday night, and we’ve said goodbye to Carrie again, perhaps for the last time. In the show’s final scene, Carrie is at her desk once again in a hot pink tulle skirt, writing the epilogue of her life. As the finale aired, I couldn’t help but wonder if, in all the decades she was on our screens, we may have overlooked Carrie the writer. Someone who actually had something meaningful to say about the modern creative life.

Yes, there are elements of her career that are unrealistic and unattainable. The idea of securing a prime newspaper column, a spacious West Village apartment, and a limitless fashion budget on the back of musings about dating in your thirties is, and always was, a fantasy. As the series progressed through later seasons and movies, Carrie’s writing persona became increasingly disconnected from reality.

One still from the first Sex and the City movie shows Carrie at her desk wearing an elaborate feathered sweater, her hair perfectly styled. This image has been memed countless times because it represents everything that made later-era Carrie unrelatable. Her private creative moments have become performative.

But before the glamorous fantasy took over, the initial seasons offer something more authentic. Early Carrie doesn’t wake up before the sun to write. She has no sacred routine or mandatory quirks that define her writing space. Instead, she opens her laptop whenever inspiration strikes, respecting the need for clothes that meet the moment.

When she’s between social obligations, she writes fully dressed in heels and whatever she’s wearing that day. There is an urgency to capture her thoughts, a recognition that creativity doesn’t wait for perfect conditions. When she has time to transition from public to private, she shows up in something easy, refusing anything too fussy that gets in the way of her curiosity.

At the time, surrounded by smart journalists with intimidating resumes, I was terrified of writing. But watching Carrie sitting on her floor in a Rolling Stones t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, feels like a challenge to the romanticized notion of the brooding artist with elaborate rituals.

She shows me that professional writing can be integrated into real life, that the creative process can just be a breezy outfit, a desk, and a window. Each outfit is a way of honoring the work without making it precious or untouchable.

In retrospect, Carrie Bradshaw may have been one of television’s most realistic portrayals of contemporary creative work: messy, immediate, and woven into the fabric of daily life. Before she’s a fashion icon or a problematic romantic lead, she’s a writer who understands that sometimes the best ritual is no ritual at all, just the commitment to herself and her work.

Watching that final scene reminds me of why I still think about Carrie when I get dressed to write. I’m sitting now on my kitchen counter, having a glass of wine in a ribbed tank and a black maxi skirt. I chose the skirt because it makes me feel glamorous. It felt like the right thing to wear to send Carrie off, a reminder that the clothes I choose for my creative work, like the words themselves, should feel intentional, comfortable, and entirely my own. Even if no one else will ever see me in them.