Originally published on The Brevity Blog
My ADHD brain frustrates me every single day. Scouring the house for my perpetually missing phone and purchasing replicas of the same temporarily misplaced item drain my money, time, and energy. These extra costs—known as the “ADHD tax” in the neurodivergent community—come with having impaired executive function. But when it comes to writing, my ADHD brain is (mostly) a boon. As clichéd as it may sound, having ADHD helps me think outside the box. I can come up with creative ideas, often at a rapid-fire pace.
It’s now common parlance for those with ADHD to regard their neurodevelopmental disorder as also conferring superpowers; an attitude I readily embrace. Where a neurotypical mind may get stuck, my neurodivergent brain sees solutions. I use the powers of my associative mind—one of my favourite aspects of having ADHD—to make connections that are not always obvious. My brain makes these leaps almost instantaneously, and I must furiously jot them down before they are lost. Then the real work begins. I edit my work over several drafts, teasing my arguments into a coherent text.
The associative powers of my brain make it hard to organize my work into bite-sized sections. I see the interconnection between seemingly disjointed concepts. I want to lump everything together into dense paragraphs—the antithesis of the modern reader’s tendency to skim and scroll. How can I demarcate what in my mind appears to be subtle or seemingly non-existent differences in my argument? I flip the switch and turn on my ADHD brain’s incomparable ability to hyperfocus. I raise the emotional stakes with deadlines, create to-do lists, and try to make my work process a tactile and dopamine-inducing experience. Grasping for distance and objectivity, I sometimes imagine my conundrum as belonging to someone else. What advice would I give another person with the same problem? I take a beat, my perspective widening. Suddenly my prose is replete with sub themes and sub arguments. Transitional sentences abound.
Another way having ADHD can sometimes hinder my writerly work is in how I structure a story. Like everyone, my brain organizes the various elements that shape a narrative into a beginning, middle, and end. Over time, I’ve learned that I often start with the ending or give away too much, or too little, too soon, or too late. One can rightfully posit that this happens to every writer in their earlier drafts. In my case, however, it’s almost guaranteed that I’ll start with what should be the ending. I’ve come to realize this is part of my process. Tellingly, it echoes how I worked in my former career as a performing singer-songwriter. I composed my best songs when I wrote with the title already in mind. It’s almost always the same with writing prose. I feel or think something instinctually and need to explore how it is that I arrived at my conclusion.
I also rarely organize a narrative in a linear fashion, especially when it comes to writing personal essays. Writing about my life is a way for me to better know myself and to share on paper the things I can’t seem to say in person. To tell my story in a strictly linear form would betray the way I’ve lived my life and neglect the powers of my associative mind. While I must order my work in a manner that makes sense for the reader, there may be occasional moments of confusion regarding the sequence of events. The reader may also be occasionally stumped by which version of me is speaking. The middle-aged adult? The angsty teenager? The emotionally empty twenty something? These muddling moments are part of the point. How can the reader truly understand my chaotic story if they’re not even momentarily bewildered? I must combat any potential perplexity by strengthening my persuasive powers.
The coping mechanisms I employ to manage what are my perceived weaknesses are now part of my strengths as a writer, editor, and even as a reader. I can be inattentive even when I’m passionate about a subject matter. My attention ricochets off tangential treasure troves. Before I know it, I’ve absentmindedly read two pages worth of prose. To prevent this waste of time and energy, I make the reading experience more kinesthetic by annotating and highlighting passages. Doing so helps me to not only focus, but better retain what I’m reading. Although I sometimes plow through a written text, I can also take an inordinately long time to read a book or article because it spawns so many ideas for essays and pitches. The number of ideas I can generate in a short time can be overwhelming. I suppose this is a good problem to have. And this is how I choose to frame the reality of living with ADHD. At times, it’s absolutely debilitating. But mostly, it’s an advantage disguised as a disorder. Like anyone else, I must determine how I work best and utilize my strengths to overcome my weaknesses. I need to not only accept but forgive myself for the various ADHD-addled errors I make due to poor executive function and impulsivity. I acknowledge the cons and celebrate the pros. One of the best parts about having ADHD is getting to know other like-minded people with challenges and superpowers akin to mine. We’re a wonderfully curious and creative bunch.
Nancy Dutra 