A day in the life of aaron sorkin

6:00am: I wake up in a cold sweat, just like every morning. Six am on the dot, the very way I trained myself. I break into a blood-curdling scream: the only way to get my assistant’s attention. I’ve never tried calling her a different way, but I’m certain that this is the only method that works.

She knows the drill. If she didn’t, she’d be gone. Three knocks, then my scream subsides. She enters.

“Do you have it?” I know she has it. I just like to hear her say it.

“Four eggs, two links of sausage still attached to each other, and half a raw onion.”


I shove the half-onion into my mouth in one fell swoop, then dump the rest of the plate on the floor. It shatters. Relishing the sound is the closest I believe I’ll ever get to enjoying “music.”

My assistant fetches the broom and begins to sweep, just like every morning. It keeps her humble. For the same reason, I’ve refused to learn her name. But I feel like we’re close. Possibly the closest I’ve ever been with another woman.

She inches towards the door, ready to leave me for my morning brainstorming session.

“Woman,” I say, just before she exits. She turns around. “You did good this morning.” I try to avoid overindulging the help, but every now and then, I believe in rewarding people.

7:00am: Time to brainstorm. I’ve said before, that perhaps it is not my passion to write, but rather, my duty. For what kind of a man would I be if I forsake the world my gift?

I’ve never had a bad idea, and each new idea is better than the last. I start to make the list, knowing that each item on it will immediately move from my paper into development.

-Mean but respected man does sports.
-Smart man starts a good company.
-Businessman goes to the moon and is good at it.

7:01am: Work over. I break into my scream again, letting my assistant know it’s time to return. She enters with a fully baked and iced cake — Cassata. It’s not meant to have chocolate frosting, but dammit if I’m not one to reinvent the wheel.

I give a stern nod to signify I’m ready, and she wordlessly mashes the cake into my face. This completes her work for the day; she may go back from whence she came. Where exactly that is, though, I have no idea. Women are mysteries.

7:05am-3:00pm: I sit in the darkness and achieve a stare so unrelenting and stoic that the average observer would presume me to be dead.

3:01pm: Meeting time. Five identical Anglo-Saxon men file into my room with perfectly coordinated movements. As a formality, we join hands to recite Martin Luther’s Ninety-five Theses in full before beginning. Then, I wordlessly hand them a little piece of heaven — the very paper I did my brainstorming on earlier in the morning.

None of these men have ever shed a single tear in their lives, but upon reading my ideas, they immediately break into a sob. Moved by my wit and still in perfect unison, they open their briefcases which are filled with wads and wads of cash and violently thrust the money into my hands before leaving.

3:05pm-6:59pm: Pensive listening to the cassette tape compilation I had made of every time my name was ever spoken on television.

7:00pm: I pull out a phone book and choose a number at random to call up and relay an impossibly complicated riddle that I’ve improvised.

8:00pm: Time for an exercise in imagination. In an attempt to exercise my creative muscle, I try to picture a world in which women could be anything — president, fathers, horses, doctors.

8:30pm: I chug one glass of heavy cream for dessert and then promptly fall into an unwakeable sleep, armed with the knowledge that I will never die, eager and excited for another day of being a brilliant screenwriter.