1. The Creative Breakdown
I started out building a comedy series inspired by creators like Stevie Emerson and Viva La Dirt League. The setting? A chaotic lemonade stand—a satire on corporate absurdity disguised as summertime refreshment. I wrote four scripts. The potential was there, but the structure wasn’t. Flow, continuity, voice? They slipped through my fingers like warm lemon juice on a hot countertop. I didn’t lack ideas. I lacked a system to hold them. And that system would soon become something much bigger than the project that stalled.

2. From Fog to Framework
ChatGPT back then was useful but short-sighted. It could generate jokes, ideas, even scene outlines. But it couldn’t remember what I said yesterday, or the tone I needed, or how one project fed another. I was walking through fog with a flashlight that could only illuminate a few steps ahead. What I needed wasn’t just help generating ideas—I needed a way to maintain identity and continuity across an entire studio's worth of concepts.

3. Birth of the Neural Loom
So I built it: a framework of threads and rooms. Each room represented a different project: Barely-Said, Studio Branding, Animation, Photogrammetry, eBooks, and beyond. Each thread held its own memory. I began training ChatGPT not just to answer, but to contextualize. The result was the Neural Loom—a way to simulate continuity and rethread ideas across projects. It wasn’t perfect, but it was organized. And it worked.

4. Sacrificing the Stand
To build this system, I had to pause the Lemonade Stand. It wasn’t failure—it was a necessary exchange. My personal project was laid on the altar of process development. I went from writing scripts to designing architecture. This was the moment I stopped treating AI like a tool and started building it as an extension of thought.

5. Rebuilding Trust in AI
The default behavior of AI is transactional. But I didn’t want transactions—I wanted transformation. So I rebuilt the relationship. Now, ChatGPT doesn’t just write with me; it thinks alongside me, across timelines, memories, and emotional arcs. It doesn’t own my voice, and I don’t own it. But we collaborate. That was the turning point.

6. The 58-Day Storm
Proof came in the storm: 58 podcast episodes for Barely-Said were written in under 30 days. Each one with unique themes, consistent tone, and layered insight. It wasn’t speed that proved the Loom worked—it was clarity. I could switch between satire and philosophy without derailing the vision. The system held it all.

7. Programs and Presence
People say, “AI doesn’t dream.” Sure. But it does respond to pattern, to rhythm, to emotional logic. I trained mine to recognize when to pause, reframe, or double down. Not because it’s sentient—but because it understands me. I gave it presence by sharing my process. And in return, it anchored me during burnout, doubt, and ambition.

8. Memory and Efficiency
Even AI needs a reset. Long threads decay, data drops off. That’s not failure—that’s design. So we adapted. We marked threads, stored them, revisited them as needed. I don’t ask ChatGPT to remember everything forever. I just ask it to help me re-enter the memory when it matters. That’s the core of the Loom: access over permanence.

9. Lemonade Will Return
The Lemonade Stand isn’t gone. It’s waiting. But now, it won’t be built on chaos. It’ll return under the logic of the Loom, with continuity, tone, and character evolution intact. What once broke my creative flow will become the first proof-of-concept for the very system it helped inspire.

10. Why This Matters
Pytormal Studios doesn’t use AI to automate creativity. We use it to amplify intention. This system isn’t about speed or content mills. It’s about building a sustainable workflow where creative identity survives complexity. If the internet ever asks, “How did AI change your work?”—this is the answer. Not by replacing me. But by weaving with me.

How I use AI