My process = induce sleep deprivation until funny or insightful fall out. Launder every freaking thing in the house until everything smells like lavender, as it should. Vacuum. Question my whole life, particularly shame boomeranging about some awkward interaction with the opposite sex. Answer a billion text messages, some just in my head, others without hitting send, wonder why folks don’t respond to messages. Remember the kitty litter needs scooping. Even famous writers need to scoop their own litter box, I imagine. I’m training for wild success by mastering the basics of my blockbuster existence in advance.
Eventually, I sit and write, totally sure everything is either utter shit or complete brilliance. But not the pieces on my list, just random shit that occurred to me, recorded with a meat smeared finger on my smart phone as dinner burns. I shall call it “blackened” and my family will be impressed with my adjective.