The Autistic Writer: A Wrap Up
All throughout this year I’ve posted about the perspectives of a writer that is also Autistic.
Several take aways present themselves for those who have read more than a few of these posts. Mostly certainly, the fact that Autism manifests itself differently for each person on the Spectrum. I may struggle at something another person with ASD may excel at.
On the other side of this same coin, I’ve talked about trends in Autism that are about as near to universal to the experience as one can hope to pinpoint. Among such are an interior life, and inward-oriented mindset.
Also among the most common truths about Autism is the alternate take on the social structure and behaviors of society at large. (Which in and of itself presents differently depending on the society a given Autistic grows up and lives in.)
Yet as I bring this series of columns to a close this week, I’ll remind the reader that even when I am not opining specifically on the nature of being a writer with ASD, everything that i write contains a component of being Autistic. No matter how much I may mask, on purpose or subconsciously, no matter how much those out there may choose to “overlook” my Autism, or in darker cases dismiss it, no matter if a readership knows, or still somehow is unaware of my place on the Spectrum, every word I put down passes through that filter. This series has merely tried to illuminate this truth with greater details than may be generally understood.
Autism Spectrum Disorder is not something to be conquered, or worked around, and certainly not ignored or masked. It is simply a component of what and who I am. It has always been so, even before I knew I had it. In these weekly posts this year, I hope, if nothing else I have presented this truth more than all others.
My whiteness will never allow me to know racial oppression. My cis-hetero nature precludes me from fully comprehending with queer identity issues, and of course I am a male, unaware of the nature of being female. Autism is nonetheless a minority status that, if left unspoken of can lead to it being (remaining?) unaccepted. Which in turn opens the door for misunderstanding at best, oppression at worst.
The world tends to frown upon the outlier, the exception, the skewed and the alternative. Only knowledge and exposure can change this, and such an outcome is possible only if I am open about what makes me who I am, when I do what it is I do. More than anything else, that’s what these columns have been about each week.
And yet, the Autistic is still only half of what I have explored. “Writer” is of course the other primary aspect of these weekly explorations. I wonder if at times if I am anymore able to divest myself of being a writer than I am able to divest myself from being Autistic.
Unlike being Autistic, I do no have to be writing. I could close this laptop and never write another word, but would remain Autistic.
Autistic, but perhaps not authentic.
Writing is difficult. Laborious. Time consuming and energy draining. It’s an activity that never quite mirrors the speed or the coloring of what one sees in ones head, and yet is perhaps the best remedy for placing what is in one’s head in a position to be partaken of by others. Unlike some writers, I don’t break out in a cold sweat chomping at the bit to just throw myself in front of this train daily. But if I were to never do it again, even to myself, I have to wonder if I’d be betraying something of me even more mysterious than Autism and all of its horrors/wonders.
Then again, if not for the one, would there be the others. Plenty of other writers are not Autistic. Plenty of people on the Spectrum are not writers. Did I call myself a writer because of the effects of ASD?
In order to truly answer that question in good faith, I would have to separate the two. Of course, my dear reader, that is not possible. For I am both Autistic and a writer by nature, if not always by presentation.
Here at the end of this series, though, that is of course the point of it all: I am the Autistic Writer.
The Autistic Writer: Self-Publishing
I’ve spoken of my self-publishing journey before on this blog. If you follow me on other social media platforms, you’ve heard me talk of that adventure as well, and how it relates to my Autism. But as this weekly series draws to a close soon, I wanted to share my approach to something integral to my author career.
I have self published four novels so far, and 6 other books of various type. For those who may not know the lingo, this means that certain websites, (usually Draft2Digital for me), electronically receive my final draft of a book, well-edited and proofread to the Nth degree. The system in question formats the manuscript for ebook, creates the needed files, attached my cover art, and places my book and it’s descriptors (meta data) on the various ebook retailers of my choosing for you and hopefully many others to purchase and download to your respective device.
After I have done my darndest to market the crap out of it.
This, as opposed to what they now call “traditional publishing.” In such, one must still have the best possible final draft. One shops the idea around to many of what is called a “literary agent.” If interested, this agent will ask for a sample of your book. If the agent takes you on, it becomes their job to then convince publishing companies to accept your book because it will make money.
Some changes are made depending. You may and probably will be asked to rewrite the book a few more times. The press in questions puts your book onto paper and into bookstores. (Where self-published books rarely get accepted.) Hopefully people in book stores buy it.
After I (that is to say NOT the publishing company in most cases) once again market the crap out of it.
The whole process, on the whole from final draft to available to purchase in stores takes 3-5 years on average. If you get an agent. It could also sometimes take several years to get an agent in the first place, who could in turn take many more years to find a publisher if they do at all.
It’s a wonderful rewarded process for those less interested in control of their work, and with the patience of a saint.
Unfortunately, neither trait applies to me.
As an Autistic person, I am very much uncomfortable with giving up so much control, and pace as the traditional publishing route requires. I thrive on routine and predictability of task. Adaptability of schedule if needed, as well as the freedom to change my mind. (My upcoming novel is not the novel I had planned to publish yet, originally. More on that in future posts.)
I may or may not succeed at marketing, and may or may not sell many copies. Usually I do not. But the process is 98% mine. Sink or float it will do so, by and large while at liberty to pursue my own rhythms and abilities.
Traditional publishing requires perhaps a score of people doing their job, doing it well, and doing it for many, many other people, making me, the author, a lower priority, (Another Autistic ick of mine…being someone’s low priority.)
And when all is said and done, I can look at the finished product knowing I did it all. (Or sometimes help with cover art, as I have this time around, again more on it later.)
I feel “in contact” with my books from word one to final placement in stores when I self-publish, even if I don’t generally have a book store presence. That tangible proximity couples well with my overall sense of creative vulnerability that turns up at times.
For my own money, I would advise other folks on the Spectrum to try self-publishing. Of course everyone is different, as I say all the time. But going by trends, best guesses, and my own personal experience with both being Autistic, and being a writer, (what’s the name of this series again??) I feel most Autistic authors are more likely to find more satisfaction more often with the self-publishing route.
Will I swear I will never seek an agent? No. I will never swear to it. I can’t see it occurring in a definable future, but the time could come when I choose the “traditional” route. Teamwork with publishers and agents may appeal to a different aspect of my Autism, after all. But because I am not much of a gambler, I like to keep dice roles to a minimum, and there are far too many dice flying around in traditional publishing success right now for me to consider it.
Note: Next week will mark the conclusion of this near-year long column about being both Autistic and a writer, so that I can concentrate more on the final push and additional discussion for my upcoming novel, due in November, The Rubble and the Shakespeare. —Ty
The Autistic Writer: Rejection
Rejection. It takes on several forms and I hate all of them. Most writers hate all of them. Hell, most people hate all of them.
Being Autistic nonetheless adds a dimension to the experience of rejection, as it does to so many other common components of daily life.
It’s called Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, and unlike my Autism I have not received an official diagnosis. It is however quite common for those on the Spectrum, and after years of consideration, I’m willing to self-diagnose in this case.
RSD is defined as experiencing overwhelming levels of emotional pain in response to rejection or perceived rejection, to the point that it interferes with one’s ability to regulate one’s emotions in wake of rejection and failure. (Thank you, ClevelandClinic.com.)
As with Autism itself, RSD is on a spectrum. I experience some aspects of it, and not others. Over time, I have learned to better regulate my responses, and no longer present in the same ways I may have, say, in high school.
But it’s there.
When people choose not to read my writing, it is a rejection. On the surface it is merely a choice to not engage with me and/or my creations, not a judgement of my worthiness as a human being.
But it is still a rejection.
This choice is particularly painful when friends and comrades opt not to read my books on a regular basis. (Or in some cases, opt never to come see me perform on stage.) Most of them are not rejecting me as a whole person, but I can feel it as though they are doing so, and I need time to recover.
This is because:
- I work hard on my writing, and put a lot of myself into it. I advertise and share updates of same far and wide within my circle, and the numbers of engagement among them remain low. To put so much of me into something that others who have also been a large part of my life opt not to look into feels for all the world like a disinterest in me.
- My writing, (sometimes acting) are two of the few ways in which I can present myself to the world free of Autism-related difficulty. Any chance I have of making even the slightest impression on my community, or on individuals has upwards of 90% chance of being connected to one of these two crafts, because of how ineffective I am at connecting with people otherwise. When my writing goes unread by the community at large, (and it usually does), that is another form of rejection. I am, at least in the moment, denied my rare chance to impact the world, and the people in it.
Combine this with the (likely) presence of RSD, and you can see why I must struggle at times to maintain enough motivation to continue the labor, (and much of it is labor) of writing.
As I mentioned already, I am better at dealing with all of this than I was once. One by one, as different aspects of my world presented me with rejection after rejection through life, I came to an emotional place of tolerance for it, even if not total acceptance. A certain peace, if you will.
Yet when it comes to my writing? Tolerance of rejection has been slower, and requiring more emotional taxation than much of the other facets of my existence.
There is a saying that the only thing a true writer must learn to do all the time, besides write, is be rejected. I’m aware of this truth. With time, I may be able to embrace the process and the process only of writing as opposed to the levels of my readership. (Ironically the sage advice of many successful authors.) Still, if I had to guess, if ever I get over it, it will be the final type of everyday rejection I will make peace with.
The Autistic Writer: Ableism
Ableism can refer to a hateful, dismissive attitude toward those with disabilities. Viewing such people as somehow broken, or worse than that, subhuman, is ableism.
Ableism also manifests in a refusal to make accommodations, especially in the public sector with use of public funds, for those with disabilities. Buildings, parks, schools, built with little to no accessibility for those in wheelchairs for example display an ableist mentality at work.
Yet another, more subtle version of ableism poisons society. It is the assumption that a person with disabilities either isn’t in fact disabled, or that they are otherwise capable of overcoming their disability if only they put their mind to the task.
Level 1 (“high” functioning) Autistics such as myself experience this type of ableism most often.
Yes, even in the writing world. Or, perhaps I should more specifically say, the marketing and publishing arm of said world. For upon closer examination, despite gradual changes, much of the advice, many of the expectations of author success are rooted in ableist approaches.
“You’re well-spoken, obviously highly intelligent. You shouldn’t have any problem at all.”
Such was the assessment of every state-employed job development counselor I had for 3 years. Not one of them landed me so much as an interview, and more than one of them said that my struggles with their suggestions made no sense.
I no longer work with the state job development agency in question, but their underlying ableist mentality runs parallel to the societal structure within the author community.
Consider the following advice I often received in my excruciating efforts to secure employment:
Cold calling. Mingling. Introducing myself to powerful people, offering to help them solve a problem for free. Attending conferences and workshops. Glistening resumes and practicing both 30 and 60 second “elevator pitches” in the mirror every night. (“You’re an actor, you’ll be great at that!”)
If you haven’t caught on by now, much of the same expectations are in place when it comes to book marketing and promotion, for both the self-published author and the more “traditionally” published among us.
I’ll let you in on a bit of a secret that isn’t; it’s no more practical for me to do these things in pursuit of book sales and networking among fellow creatives than it is for the sake of a job.
Yet as with job hunting, particularly in the United States, the very DNA of making one’s way as an author, the blueprints, the essence of making a name for one’s self as a writer, regardless of talent, is fused with a neurotypical worldview and laced with ableist thinking.
Notions of pure capitalism and gregarious, extroverted, charismatic interaction with society at large are offered up, if not foisted upon the writer as the only path to success.
Other than pure capitalism, none of the above strike me as particularly wrong. Many ride the wave of such an approach with varying degrees of ease, into success. My beef is with the assumption that because of “the way of the world” there is zero alternatives for those that struggle in the particular way writers such as myself struggle. I’m angered with the binary of “do these things, or give up writing.”
And yet, because I am “smart” and I “don’t look disabled,” I should have no problem doing any of it. Just a matter of trying harder, and getting out of that good old comfort zone.
People on the Spectrum do manage to thrive with such strictions. For the millionth time on this blog alone I will restate that Autism manifests differently for everyone. However, should those on the Spectrum, even those who manage to “muddle through” such constraints be ignored? Should their stories be untold on a wider scale because they suffer from certain crippling anxieties and confusions?
Of course they should not. Not anymore than someone who cannot walk should have to crawl out of their wheelchair and through the front door of an establishment. That would be unconscionable.
Let’s open our minds to the struggles of writers with different sets of disability. Let’s not be ableist in our consumption of the written word.
The Autistic Writer: Loneliness
The literal process of writing is a solitary act. Even if you are collaborating on something with another author, or battling it out in the proverbial “writers room,” ultimately, even if only for a few minutes, you write alone. (Even with others present.)
The very nature of Autism is the tendency to turn inward. (It’s the original nature of the term, after all.) The vast majority of people on the Spectrum either don’t mind being alone, or actively prefer it.
That doesn’t mean those with ASD cannot ever be lonely. I myself am in fact usually lonely. For not only am I Autistic, I am, as you know, a writer. Two very much “by-yourself” identities in one.
If I spent the lion’s share of my free time doing something like roleplaying games, or if I had a career in event planning, I must definitely could still feel lonely. At the same time the nature of those two lives not only provides but requires a certain degree of connectivity with other people. Interaction, even superficial, is a must, thereby, through sheer statistics, increases the chances of meeting a wide variety of people, which in turn can combat feelings of loneliness.
Writers have the occasional writing group, which I find hit or miss when it comes to socializing. But most writers in most writers groups are not Autistic either.
Don’t get me wrong, the chance to kibitz with others who have at least a notion of the nuanced, frantic, sometimes crushing life of a writer is important. One does however become weary of discussing the very things that one spends most of one’s energy on when alone, though.
Film buffs often agree that making a high-quality movie about writing is in essence impossible. Good films about writers exist, but they usually focus, ironically, on aspects of the life in question that are outside of writing. Throw in montage of the protagonist pounding away at a keyboard, complete with erasing, or depending on the era, ripping the page out of the typewriter and balling it up before throwing it across the room.
Then it’s back to the drug/romance/money problem to drive the narrative.
It’s because, as I said, writing is an internal struggle. Internal joy. Internal adventure. But internal, regardless, and how do you present that visually? One must engage the audience with “writing adjacent” activities and moods.
Not being a filmmaker, and being Autistic to boot, therefore can be an isolating calling.
It absolutely has advantages, as I have described in these posts many times. When I finally get focused on a project, little can pull me away from it, and the quiet of not having a social life to commit to becomes an advantage.
It’s just that IO have nobody to talk to about it. Or better said, I have nobody to talk to about anything else but, much of the time.
Ty Unglebower 