My Creative Process (Unfortunately)
*Disclaimer: This only applies to my own creations. If it’s someone else’s story or script I am transported into a higher state where I beautiful mind every detail I hear into something that somehow tells the story they’re trying to tell in a more interesting, funny or succinct way. That comes naturally to me. I only beat the shit outta myself when it’s my own premise.
People are often telling me I’m one of the most productive people they have ever met. I think this is interesting because there hasn’t been a day of my life I ended with “wow, I got the most immense body of work done today. Let’s rest tomorrow.” Which answers the riddle of how I manage to plug out an abnormal amount of semi-decent material on a regular basis.
Besides having ADHD and anxiety that keeps my mind constantly racing with tangents and worries, I’ve always seen my life in story form. Will this dumb decision be fun to tell later? What would be the most ridiculous or dramatic thing I could say to this individual? I act as if a camera is on me at all times, even when alone. I’m writing my days out whilst I do them.
So every night I make a list of to dos for the next day, which I take from the weekly to dos that I color code in my planner. Sometimes they shift around or I must transfer the unfinished business to the next week, which is enough to give me a stroke. If I don’t do this list nightly and journal out all my irritations from that day and nerves for things to come I will stay awake all godforsaken night thinking of them and playing out worst case scenarios.
I wake up in the morn, preferably after 10 AM because I stayed up swirling in half sleep scenes I’ve yet to write. Fun fact I wake up between 40-90 times a night per a sleep monitoring test I hadta strap on my fucking noggin, so I rarely hit REM sleep which u need to process trauma, which I have a shitton of. Disassociation for the win! I will surely die a young death from stress, but back to making this day my bitch.
I need coffee. I have convinced myself that without at least two energizing drinks a day I will be useless. I avoid any tasks that involve me calling someone or something I’m unfamiliar with doing. I will procrastinate that shit til I finally dare ask someone to help me with it. Then it’s time for writing stuff. I pop my adderall to focus. My words are not compelling until after 3 PM. So I consume some other art like reading, music vids or TV til then.
Next thing you know I’m screaming at the screen in awe of how something was put together, things like “This coloring! Fuckin A man!” “The angle of this shot! I’m dead.” or “They would choose this song.” Then I’m weeping at some characters growth and development and remember why the fuck I’m doing this in the first place.
I get the spark and I outline what I need to do and ideas for it. I will not eat at all during this time, because it’s too distracting. Except for candy and chips, those are acceptable and I’m sure very energizing for my endeavors. Once I’m done I shall reward myself with food and perhaps weed. I drink too many liquids and each time I get up to pee I veer off and do some strange task “I’ve been meaning to do.”
I’ll come up with one genius idea and write a couple script pages and then a scene from a show on in the background will trigger how horny my adderall is making me and I’ll convince myself it’s time to watch just a smidge of porn and get off. I’ll wrestle with this idea for a bit, but I won’t be able to move on in my story if I don’t because now it’s all I can think about. Then some weirdo from my pasts “cum face” will flash into my mind and I’ll need that vision outta my brain pronto and a new one to replace it. Better make it girl on girl because dudes look dumb and disgusting when they get off. It shall be just a quickie.
It will not be a quickie because I might just be the only person in the land who doesn’t fast forward through the dialogue and story set up. It’s the writer in me, ha! So I’ll always be on the verge of cumming but not allow myself to because now I’m binging all 11 episodes of some festish channel or another. But I always skip any of them where I don’t think the people look pretty, because I’m “shallow as a shower,” per Cute Is What We Aim For. I look at the time and 3 hrs have went by so I’ll do a mediocre force cum outta anxiety for the day wasted.
Then I’ll begin freaking the fuck out and hitting my vape which will give me a headache, along with picking my scalp basically to my bone. My hair will get all matted and dreaded due to this. Now I’ve lost the edge of being on the creative brink and I’ll curse my damn libido, shoulda just fucking held out.
I’ll convince myself I need wine to get back on track. Which on an empty stomach will make me ill. I’ll take a lap around the apartment and if I hit a mirror I’ll begin to pick every single pore I have or pluck any stray hair I see out of place. This seems like the perfect time to perform a surgery on myself with sharp tweezers and get out that ingrown that’s been bothering me. During these acts I bite my tongue in concentration, and because I like to distract myself from one pain by causing another in a different part of my body. Isn’t that a cute trait?
Then I’ll put my hair on top of my head and put my contacts in if they aren’t already because if one fuckin hair touches my face while working I will pull a Britney and shave this thick Latina mane ALL OFF. I put everything on night mode because my eyes now look like I ate the amount of edibles I picture Seth Rogen consuming in a day. I cheerlead myself outloud and sometimes look at the ceiling to visualize the scenes, or act out my characters dialogue to hear what the funniest tone or punch line would be.
No one can be around me or in the house or I cannot think. I take breaks by petting or kissing my cat who will undeniably be so close to me that him plus my laptop is enough to give me a heat stroke. I cannot touch my phone or I will get lost in the apps. IMDB is necessary for character comps, but the rabbit hole I fall into has me trapped in Wonderland for hours. I’m constantly Googling synonyms for words as not to overuse any, plus what certain things mean in Spanish. This has been forced upon me by the old white dudes of Hollywood who claim I don’t write Latinx enough. Eye roll.
I realize I haven’t eaten a meal all day and now it is way the hell too late. The immense headache and body aches take over and now I’m Googling side effects of adderall and if I have arthritis. Then I remember I just ended my period and convince myself that maybe I forgot to take my tampon out and then shoved my vibrator up there, and now my vag has eaten the cotton and I for sure have Toxic Shock and should go to the emergency room immediately. So I try and recall the last time I put one in or took it out, but then catch a glimpse of the lack of completion on my page and snap outta it. If I die, someone better publish/make this fuckin show.
So I continue with the wine because now I’m a brilliant buzzed genius and everything I write will definitely go down in history. I do this until my eyes barely stay open and then saunter off to the bathroom for before bed prep. I skip half or all the skincare, but never forget my night guard or I will wake up with half my teeth busted off from grinding. After journaling I hit my weed pen far too many times as a game of catch up, then lay there waiting for some sleep angel to take me away.
My cat joins me and we spoon and he purrs so cute I can barely stand it. As soon as my high hits, he senses it and abruptly stops purring and darts his head around convincing me he’s seeing spirits behind me. So I take out my phone and put my flashlight on to scan the room, but I’m almost legally blind so I STILL see shit moving around like orbs. At my scaredest this feline passes out immediately and happens to have sleep apnea. His snoring is so loud I cannot rest and when he stops breathing I think I’m gonna awaken to a floppy fat perished animal I’m snuggling into, so I wake his ass up. We do this a few more times, just for sport while I think of all the people who could possibly hate me for something I said or did in the past year or ten. Then I enter the portion of half sleep where I play out everything I just wrote.
Often a grand complication to my tale will come to me and I force jolt myself to my phone to write it down in this very same notes app. Which is precisely what I’m doing now.
With much love and angst –
K. Broch (like the old ladies pin)