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And the Kryptonite That Comes With It
How writing my grandfather’s 52,000-word war memoir in two weeks taught me to stop fighting my brain and start leveraging it
Everyone wants to know the secret to writing a book fast. For more, see how i handle rejection as a ghostwriter.
I wrote my grandfather’s entire memoir in two weeks. For more, see nobody will read your book (and why that's the dumbest excus. From blank page to 52,000 words. 187 pages of his life story, from the Yangtze River Patrol through three years and four months in Japanese prison camps my memoir process during World War II.
People assume I’m disciplined. Or organized. Or have some magical productivity system.
The truth? I have AuADHD (autism plus ADHD), and when my brain decides something matters, the rest of the world ceases to exist.
When the Firehose Turns On
It started forty-eight years ago when I was seventeen, sitting on an uncomfortable folding chair in my grandfather’s living room during Christmas visits. While the family argued about money and directions and whose fault everything was, I escaped to listen to his war stories. Stories no one else wanted to hear.
He told me about Shanghai, about the hell ships to Japan, about three years and four months as a prisoner of war. I was just a kid trying to get away from family dysfunction, but those conversations became something bigger. He trusted me with memories he’d kept locked away for decades.
Then Alzheimer’s stole both the stories and the man who could tell them.
A month or so ago, forty-eight years after those Christmas conversations, something clicked in my brain. Not gradually. Like a switch flipped inside my skull.
My grandfather’s stories were disappearing from the world. I was the only one who’d listened. The only one who carried them forward. And if I didn’t write them down, they’d die with me.
For the next fourteen days, I barely left my office. I didn’t plan chapters. I didn’t outline. I just started typing, and the stories poured out like I was channeling his memory directly onto the page.
Food became optional. I’d realize at 6 PM that I hadn’t eaten since yesterday. Sleep turned into these weird four-hour chunks where I’d collapse wherever I was, wake up, and immediately return to the keyboard.
I’d make sandwiches I’d forget to eat. I’d find them hours later, still wrapped, sitting next to empty water bottles that had multiplied like mushrooms around my desk.
Time stopped making sense. I’d look up thinking I’d been writing for an hour and discover eight had passed. The sun would be setting, and I’d have no memory of it rising.
This wasn’t discipline. This was something else entirely. Like my brain had decided this project mattered more than anything else in the universe, so everything else got deleted from my awareness.
Day seven: 25,000 words done.
Day ten: 35,000 words done.
Day fourteen: 52,000 words, complete manuscript, edited and formatted.
My grandfather’s entire story, captured before the last witness to his experience could die. Behind the Wire: From Manila to Japan exists because my AuADHD brain decided preserving those memories mattered more than anything else for two weeks.
People called it miraculous. I called it Tuesday.
The Kryptonite Nobody Warns You About
Every superpower comes with kryptonite.
Last week, I was waiting in line at a restaurant when a very pretty woman approached me with the biggest smile.
“Richard!” she exclaimed, like we were old friends reuniting after years apart.
I stopped, smiled back, and felt that familiar sinking feeling in my stomach. The one that comes when someone clearly knows me, and I have absolutely no idea who they are.
“We walked together every day for years,” she continued, her eyes bright with recognition. “Remember? At the complex? Every morning at seven?”
I nodded and made appropriate noises. Inside, my brain was frantically searching through memory files, finding nothing. Not even a flicker of recognition.
She was beautiful. She had warm energy. She seemed genuinely happy to see me.
I might as well have been looking at a stranger.
The Butterfly Effect
Face blindness sounds simple when you say it fast, but living with it is like having holes in your memory where people should be.
Think about butterflies. You see them, admire their beauty, maybe even stop to watch them flutter around your garden. But do you remember every butterfly you’ve ever seen? Can you distinguish between the orange monarch you saw yesterday and the one from last week?
That’s how my brain processes most people. Pretty in the moment, but unless there’s significant emotional weight or repeated meaningful interaction, they simply don’t stick.
It’s not personal. It’s neurological.
The woman at the restaurant could have been my walking companion for months. There’s more on that in being wired differently at 64. We might have shared stories, complained about the weather, developed genuine rapport. But if she was just pleasant company without deeper significance, my brain filed her under “temporary social experience” and deleted the data.
I’ve forgotten coworkers I sat next to for months. Neighbors who helped me move furniture. People I’ve had multiple conversations with at parties.
But I remember every detail of conversations that mattered. The exact words my grandfather said when he told me about the hell ships to Japan. The advice from a mentor ten years ago that changed how I approach my work.
My brain keeps what matters and discards the rest. Efficient, maybe. Socially awkward, definitely.
The Trade-Off Nobody Explains
The hyperfocus that let me write a book in two weeks is the same neurological wiring that makes me forget people exist. They’re not separate features of my brain. They’re the same feature operating in different contexts.
When something captures my complete attention, everything else gets filtered out. During the memoir project, that meant forgetting to eat, losing track of time, ignoring phone calls.
In social situations, that filtering system means people who don’t trigger my “this matters” sensors simply don’t get encoded into long-term memory.
It’s like having a brain that operates at extremes. Either something gets my full laser-focused attention, or it gets treated as background noise and discarded.
Most people exist somewhere in the middle. They notice everything moderately and remember most things partially. My brain doesn’t do middle. It’s either all or nothing.
Why I Stopped Apologizing
For years, I thought both the hyperfocus and the face blindness were problems to solve. I tried many things to control the hyperfocus. I developed elaborate systems to remember people’s names and faces.
But you can’t take the kryptonite without losing the superpower.
The same neural wiring that makes me forget casual acquaintances lets me disappear into important projects for weeks. The filtering system that erases people also lets me maintain laser focus on what matters most.
I’ve stopped trying to fix my brain and started leveraging how it works.
Now when I need to write something important, I embrace the hyperfocus. I stock up on easy food and prepare to lose myself in the work.
And when someone approaches me like an old friend and I don’t recognize them? I’m honest about it. “I’m sorry, remind me how we know each other?” Most people are more understanding than you’d expect.
The Real Superpower
The real superpower isn’t the hyperfocus itself. It’s learning to aim it.
Before I understood my brain, I’d hyperfocus on random things. Video games, research rabbit holes, reorganizing my entire digital file system at 2 AM. Powerful, but undirected.
Now I’ve learned to recognize when the hyperfocus is available and point it toward projects that matter. Writing projects. Business goals. Learning new skills.
It’s like having a rocket booster that only works sometimes, so you have to be strategic about when to fire it.
The face blindness taught me something equally valuable: not everything needs to be remembered. My brain has limited storage space, and it’s quite efficient at keeping what matters and discarding what doesn’t.
I may not remember every person I meet, but I remember every meaningful conversation. I may forget pleasant small talk, but I never forget someone who taught me something important.
What’s Your Trade-Off?
Everyone has trade-offs. The difference is whether you fight them or learn to work with them.
Your analytical mind that makes you great at problem-solving might also make you overthink social situations. Your sensitivity that helps you create beautiful art might also make criticism feel devastating. Your attention to detail that produces perfect work might also make deadlines stressful.
The question isn’t how to eliminate your kryptonite. It’s how to aim your superpowers and accept the costs that come with them.
My grandfather’s war stories exist because my weird brain decided they mattered more than anything else in the world for two weeks. I captured his voice, his experiences, his survival, before the last witness to his experience could die.
I didn’t write that book because I’m disciplined or organized or have perfect memory. I wrote it because when my brain locks onto something important, everything else disappears.
That’s my superpower. That’s my kryptonite. They’re the same thing.
What’s yours?
If you want to see what 52,000 words of hyperfocus looks like, you can read the complete war memoir Behind the Wire: From Manila to Japan.
For more stories about writing, entrepreneurship, and working with neurodivergent brains, follow me on Substack or LinkedIn.
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