For me, writing fiction is a way of bringing shadowy things into the light. Sometimes I like that. Sometimes I don’t. But if there is another way to write, I haven’t found it.
Probably everyone writes like this. Probably it all comes down to personal differences.
My differences have to do with autism and my own particular history. So I understand why my characters turn out the way they turn out—and I have come to accept them.
I know that the characters in my stories will probably be traumatized or codependent or addicted or disconnected, no matter how hard I try for normal. I understand that they may not be likable. I know that it will take an entire book for most of them to make a single, incremental change.
To me, those small changes matter—but that doesn’t always make them easy to spot in my writing. Which is one reason why beta readers and critique partners can be important.
From my perspective these early readers are a little ambassadors from a faraway land. I don’t understand the culture in their country of origin. I don’t know what hope looks like there, or happiness or what passes for courage.
I don’t know if those things are learnable or if they really matter at all—but I do know that I can’t tell the story of a culture that isn’t my own. For me, in fact, the creative process is the exact opposite of that.
I would like to translate my fiction into something people from some other place might understand, however. Which is why I just rewrote the ending of the vampire story. It’s my attempt to make a small incremental change visible.
That small change is the point of the point of the story. It’s not about realizing that love conquers all. It’s about allowing for the possibility that love prevails against some things. Sometimes. And that is as close as I get.
I used to say that I wrote anti-romance, but I’m actually not sure that anti-romance would describe the stories I write today. There is an element of love in the stories I write now—even if ideas about love are essentially cultural, and even if we are all sovereign states.
This post is about autism and how it may affect the ability to narrate. Points made may not apply to other individuals on the spectrum and are NOT meant to imply that narration is a prolem for all autistics.
Narration or the Lack of it
A fear of death drives us to become narrators, to transform the disconnected chaos of our sensorium into representative mental texts whose distinct scenes contain recognisable characters that act in coherent plots. -Matthew Belmonte, More Than Human
Familiar narrative structures include the three discrete acts structure (beginning, middle and end), primary literary categories (poem, novel, play), and specific fiction and nonfiction genres. Meaning is found in the overarching message these narratives convey.
Even everyday stories are usually told in three acts and, while some people are better at storytelling than others, most can construct a narrative without giving it a whole lot of thought. The neurobiology of narration, however, isn't as straightforward as we might expect.
According to Belmonte, our ability to narrate depends on the "coordination of activity amongst widely separated brain regions." In autism, Belmonte writes, brain regions that are "more or less intact" may not be "coordinated or modulated in response to cognitive demands."
This is essentially a networking issue where "a disrupted neural organisation implies disrupted narrative organisation." (Belmonte)
This is not to say that the narratives of neurotypical people are necessarily better or more authentic than that of autistics. Only that, as a group, neurotypicals find the stories themselves easier to organize and construct.
Writers on the Spectrum
It is simple, to ache in the bone, or the rind — But gimlets — among the nerve — Mangle daintier — terribler — Like a panther in the glove -Emily Dickinson
The heart of Brown's book, however, is the idea that autistic writers may have trouble with specific elements of writing. The list of issues that Brown, and others, have identified (with possible causes in parentheses) follows.
It bears repeating that these issues are NOT problems for all autistics and that few autistics will demonstrate all of them:
- A messy writing process (possibly due to autistic issues with abstract, linear processes)
- Difficulty writing for an audience (autistic theory of mind issues)
- Problems adhering to a genre expectations (oppositional or nonconformist tendencies in some autistics)
- Struggles in building a narrative structure (autistic tendency to view life, and writing, as "an incoherent series of unconnected events" - Bernard Rimland )
- Issues with character arc and character development (impaired relationships and understanding of human nature in some autistics)
- Strong use of setting that may overwhelm the reader (exceptional memory and eye for detail in some autistic people)
- Rich use of symbolism which may not be comprehensible to all readers (possible autistic tendency towards "associative thinking" - Kristin Chew)
Brown then analyzes the work of her eight authors for these particular issues—and finds them.
According to Brown, each writer featured showed "a marked resistance against the writing of novels" because of the difficulty experienced in creating a "sustained, organically whole fictional narrative."
For me, this was an important insight.
I did identify with most of the other issues listed above—as well as some of the less common traits mentioned, like basing characters on oneself (which can made critique groups especially difficult) and the tendency to create duplicate or parallel characters. Still, for me, issues with narrative structure has been, and continues to be, my biggest writing challenge.
Dead Dreams and Do Overs
Irish poets learn your trade. Sing whatever is well made... -W.B. Yeats, Under Ben Bulben
Writing a well plotted novel has always been challenging for me. And when I say challenging, I mean that I have tried to do it dozens, if not hundreds of times—without success. I abandoned most of those unsuccessful manuscripts without finishing them. Those I completed had serious structural defects.
The point of this blog post isn't that autistics can't write novels because some obviously can. The point is that long-form fiction is a difficult proposition for many—including me. I have proven this to myself over and over again. But I couldn't accept it as a possible limitation until I understood why it was happening.
Writing a novel has been a dream of mine for a very long time and it's hard to just walk away from it. But change can serve a purpose, and I think the writers featured in Writers on the Spectrum prove that point.
Hans Christian Anderson switched from long-form fiction to fairy tales still read today. Thoreau gave up on society and inspired a nation. Yeats left the Theosophical Society and embraced the mythology of Ireland. Sherwood Anderson stopped writing books and created a brand new genre.
The genre Sherwood Anderson launched with the publication of his book Winesburg, Ohio is called the 'short story cycle.' I am going to try my own short story cycle at some point. But I'm going to publish the vampire story, which has just become a novella (or maybe even a novelette), first.
It is a little sad to think that I might not write a traditional novel. But it's exciting to imagine myself writing (and finishing) short stories and novellas and the occasional poem—and I am not just saying that.
My track record for finishing things isn't the best, but I have always been able to pull a new creative project out of the ashes. In the wake of my ASD diagnosis, I understand this ability to be one among the constellation of traits we call autism.
According to psychologist Michael Fitzgerald autistics have "the ability to focus intensely on a topic...for very long periods..." as well as "a remarkable capacity for persistence...an enormous capacity for curiosity and a compulsion to understand and make sense of the world."
Fitzgerald goes on to say, "they do not give up when obstacles to their creativity are encountered," and I think that this is something I mean to hold onto.
'It was a curious dream, dear, certainly: but now run in to your tea; it’s getting late.' So Alice got up and ran off... But her sister sat still just as she left her, leaning her head on her hand, watching the setting sun, and thinking of little Alice and all her wonderful Adventures, till she too began dreaming after a fashion, and... the whole place around her became alive with the strange creatures of her little sister’s dream. -Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
_________
Resources:
- Writers on the Spectrum (affiliate link) by Julie Brown (literary professor and critic)
- Human But More So by Matthew Belmonte (research psychologist)
- Autism and Creativity (affiliate link) by Michael Fitzgerald (research psychologist)
- Nobody Nowhere (affiliate link) by Donna Williams, specifically the intro by Bernard Rimland (research psychologist)
Please note: If you click on one of the Amazon affiliate links (above), I may receive a small commission at no cost to you.
All of the books featured are available in ebook. They are:
- Xandri Corelel Series (affiliate link) by Karia Sønderby: 0. Testing Pandora, 1. Failure to Communicate, 2. Tone of Voice (affiliate links)
- Drama Queen (affiliate link) by Sara Gibbs
- Label Me (affiliate link) by Francesca Baird
- U Don't Seem Autistic (affiliate link) by Kathleen Schuber
_______________
Please note that I may receive a small commission at no cost to you if you click on one of my affiliate links above.
Theme music by the Caffiene Creek Band
Vampire Story Update
I’ve spent most of the summer rewriting my vampire story. The first version was a novel. The second is a novella.
The initial rewrite took out a major character and storyline. The edits I’m working on now take out another. The cuts were the kind of material that’s often found in paranormal fiction. Unfortunately, it just didn’t read well in mine.
For better or worse, my story isn’t high stakes or even especially complicated. Most of the violence happens off page. There is a not very spectacular crime plot, no explicit sex and only one curse word.
Instead of a kick-ass heroine I have somebody whose arc is mostly about addiction, neurobiology, trauma recovery and vampires. It is a little dark but not in the usual way.
My working title is Swap Junkies (which will make sense by the end of Chapter One).
I plan to have the rewrites done by my birthday (August 22nd). Which means I’m going to have stop binge re-watching Dark Shadows at night and get back to writing.
(More on Dark Shadows in an upcoming post).
Swap Junkies Scene 1
Miranda O’Malley arrived at the Black Goddess a little after midnight and took a seat at her usual table. On a low pedestal just a few feet away, an over-sized statue of Kali glared blindly into the crowd.
Kali was painted in bright carnival colors, the paint strange and shiny in the light of a dozen flickering candles. A necklace of bleached baby monkey skulls encircled her neck. At her feet was a wide brass bowl filled with fruit and flowers and money.
On this particular night, most of the vampires at the Black Goddess were half-vamps. Unlike their blue-blood vampire mothers or fathers, half-vamps couldn’t zap people or wipe someone’s mind or see the power pulsing away in another vampire’s aura.
Miranda couldn’t do those things either, of course, but she could hear auras at least instead of see them. And each one was unique.
Blue-bloods were a symphony and each symphony was a one of a kind composition. Half-vamps were static, but it was never the same static even with them—which made being around a bar full of half-vamps sound like an old time radio receiver sweeping back and forth in between channels.
Miranda pulled out her phone and stared at blindly as she worked to shut out the energy and when she looked up, a small girl with long, silky brown hair was standing on the other side of the table.
Her name was Layla Peterson, and she had been friends with Miranda’s younger sister Violet, up until Violet had gone away to college and never looked back
“Hey Miranda.”
Miranda put down her phone. “Hey.”
Layla had a on white filmy blouse with long gauzy sleeves and round peasant neck. It made her look soft and pretty and young. “I heard Daniel’s back home. ”
Miranda sighed. It would be that. “So did I.”
“You haven’t seen him?”
“Nope.”
Layla didn’t smile, but Miranda knew she was happy. “Word is you guys are on the outs.”
“We are.” Miranda resisted the urge to disconnect from the conversation and go back to her phone. “Have you seen Sketcher?”
Layla shook her head. “I think he’s in jail.”
“For dealing?”
“That’s what I heard.”
He’d gone outside the gate then, the idiot, or sold to some tourist. “Do you know anyone else?”
“Not for V.” Layla picked at her bright pink nails and the long gauzy sleeves slipped down to reveal three sets of fresh double dot bite marks. She’d gotten tired, apparently, of waiting for Daniel to notice her. “But a vampire I know was asking about you.”
“Which one?”
Layla made a quick over the shoulder gesture. “By Kali.”
Miranda studied the skinny half-breed vampire on the far side of the altar. His dark hair was slicked back and his complexion was pasty. The plains of his face were sharp in the flickering light of Kali’s candles.
He was obviously lurking—close enough for even a half-vamp to hear every word they were saying.
“Is he safe?” Miranda asked.
Layla pulled down her sleeves. “Definitely.”
Miranda focused on the fuzzy pulse of his energy, and the static around her began to fade.
In this episode, I talk a bit about why I've switched gears with the podcast, my journey to a (very) late autism diagnosis, and how I was misdiagnosed with bipolar disorder for almost 20 years.
Memoir I loved (mentioned in the episode): Drama Queen (affiliate link) by Sara Gibbs
If you like this content, please consider following and / or sharing the show with others!
Show music performed by the Caffeine Creek Band
...And who knows whether you have not come to the kingdom for such a time as this? (Esther 4:14)
The seed for this blog was planted on a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Israel, two years before I was diagnosed with autism.
It was an odd choice of reading. Because, the truth was, I had never liked Esther. Now I realized why. Esther was powerlessness young girl in a patriarchal society and that struck a chord in me.
Recognizing this made it possible for me to connect with the story. I finished the Book of Esther on the plane to Tel Aviv, and then I read it again in between the events that affected me so profoundly during my trip.
Looking at it through that lens, I saw that while my story was smaller than hers, it was substantially larger than my fears and insecurities. So, when I got home, I decided it was time to find my voice, as Esther had, and I wanted to do it through writing.
All things have their season... under heaven. A time to keep silence, and a time to speak. (Ecclesiastes 3:1,7)
On this episode of the Autistic POV podcast (please note I changed the name to Autistic POV after this episode!) I shared some information on freewriting and my experience with freewriting. I’m just starting this practice and will be talking about it again.
From the podcast write up::
Freewriting can help us improve creativity, explore identity, and even improve physical and emotional health. In this episode, we explore the practice and benefits of freewriting with an emphasis on how autistic people might benefit in the three key areas of creativity, identity, and healing.
I wanted to share the following resources related to this episode:
- A short summary of evidence-based research on freewriting and creativity is available on the University of Bolton website in the article Psychological Benefits of Free Writing.
- A very nice PDF on the benefits of freewriting and the research of Dr. Pennebaker is available from the University of Wisconsin: Therapeutic Journaling PDF
- You may also want to check out the book Expressive Writing by by James W. Pennebaker and John Frank Evans
- I also read about autism and identity in Tony Attwood's book The Complete Guide to Asperger's Syndrome. This is an older book but I have found it helpful.
- Both these books should be available at your local library or elsewhere via interlibrary loan
Of Autism and Audience
When Characters Annoy
The Problem of Character Arc
Where I'm At
I thought it might be fun to talk about some of things I blog about on Writing on the Spectrum, so I started a podcast.At first I called it the Autistic Writers podcast then I changed it to Autistic POV. It's on most popular podcast apps (and will also post here).
This is the first episode. It gives a broad overview of what I'm learning about autism and writing. I don't really have anyone to talk to about autism and writing so I think this could procide a nice outlet--in addition to blogging of course.
I also hope this will help keep me on track. Autism has become one of my special interests but writing (actually doing it, though I do like to talk about) and reading still come first. I also like watching a bit of TV here and there (right now it's The Originals) and learning about parapsychology so it can be hard to maintain a balance at times!
Podcast Intro
Welcome to the first episode of Autistic Writers—now Autistic POV! My name is Barbara Graver, and this is a place where we'll be chatting about autism and autism related topics. In this first episode, I talk a bit about autism and creativity, autistic character traits (strengths) and my plans for the podcast. I hope you'll check back and please do follow the show!
For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together... - Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 NRSV-CE
I grew up in a family of artists and writers. My grandfather sculpted, my father did pen and ink, my uncle painted, my mom worked as a journalist until she got married and my great uncle Howard was a feature writer and editor at a magazine called The Living Wilderness.
In light of all that, my parents were fine with the many hours I spent drawing and designing and writing short stories or poetry. But the bar was set high at home and I didn't get a lot of positive feedback. which might have been why the nice things my teachers, and the occasional classmate, said about my writing and artwork had such an effect.
By the end of elementary school, I'd decided that my teachers were right and that when it came time for me to go away to college I would study English or Art or both.
My parents didn't agree. Probably because, with the exception of my great uncle Howard, everybody in my family, no matter how talented, worked a regular nine to five and did creative stuff on the side. According to my father, art was a hobby—not a career. As part of that conversation, I was told that being the best artist in the entire sixth grade didn't mean anything because by the time I got to college, I would see that other people were better.
At twelve, the idea of choosing a career that didn't pay the bills seemed almost irrelevant but, because being inferior was already a thing with me, I took the prediction about college to heart. My teachers and classmates still said nice things. But by my sophomore year in high school, I had stopped drawing and, aside from the occasional dark poem, there was no more writing for a very long time.
When it came time to choose a career, I chose nursing. But as an adult, just like many of my relatives, I dabbled.
I took art and craft classes. And when I was forced to take time off from my job because of a family tragedy, I began to write fiction. I wrote a couple of manuscripts and hated them. But I learned about writing through doing it.
I missed the freedom of working at the paper, but there were some things I liked about nursing—like the people I got to know as a visiting nurse. Some told me stories about coal mines and the depression and growing up in other countries. Others patiently corrected my garbled attempts to learn Polish or Gaelic. A few were instrumental in my decision to convert to Catholicism.
But the wisdom that is most relevant here came from a retired nurse I used to visit. In her retirement, she had taken up painting. Her work featured big blown out Georgia O'Keeffe style flowers and impressionist landscapes that dripped with color. One day, after showing me her newest project, she made a prediction. And, unlike the prediction made when I was planning my college career in seventh grade, this one came true.
I remember it word for word. "You are going to love retirement, Barbara, because it will give you a chance to do all the things you've always wanted to do."
I guess that a lot of people probably think that's what will happen to them when they retire and then don't have the money or health to actually do it. But retirement came early for me for a variety of reasons and now that I'm well into it, I think I'm lucky in my way because the things I want to do are neither expensive or strenuous.
When fae energy reader Miranda O’Malley comes to after a brutal attack, she learns that council vampire Nick Markovich has saved her life. All Nick asks in return is for her to help him track down the vampire who attacked her. But as events unfold, Miranda begins to question Nick's motives. Is he really a once in a life- time good guy vampire or is he after something? Is Miranda falling back into old self-destructive patterns? And who is really playing who, anyway? Available in the summer of 2024!
Read Excerpts
- Excerpt 1: The Black Goddess
- Excerpt 2: Aftermath of an Attack
Telling Stories
Getting Along
Landing
On Sunday I stopped at a convenience store so my son could use the ATM. After he got his cash he stood looking down at something on the sidewalk while the other shoppers rushed around him, some obviously annoyed.
When the coast was clear he came back to the car and said that there was a butterfly on the ground that seemed unable to fly.
Thinking that the butterfly was probably injured and that a convenience store sidewalk was a really awful place to die, I got out of the car to see what I could do.
The butterfly was big and beautiful and bright. He didn't seem to be injured or at least if he was we couldn't see how. But he there was no doubt that he was not about to fly. I watched him crawl around in circles for a moment, while the Sunday shoppers streamed back and forth, and then I put down my hand and let him crawl onto my palm. His little feet were gentle and soft.
Walking around to the side of the store we were surprised to see that someone had made a small landscaped garden in the area between the shop and the lot. So I put the butterfly down on a bush, even though he seemed as if he wanted to stay right there on my hand.
We drove the next couple of blocks to our destination wondering if the butterfly might have not been injured at all but simply new to life as a butterfly and not quite ready to take flight. I told my son about a cocoon I had kept as a child and how the moth emerged and sat for a long time on the edge of the open jar as if he didn't quite know what to do.
I had thought the moth was sick so I gave him bits of broken leaves to eat and a soda cap of water and laid down on the grass and waited. After what seemed like forever, he finally spread his wings and flew away, small and brown and sturdy against the bright blue summer sky.
Now, almost half a century later, my son and I couldn't help wondering if the big orange butterfly might just have needed a bit of time to get his bearings. It was a breezy day and probably not the best time for a first attempt at flying. Or maybe he had been flying and got tossed about in the storm the night before.
Either way, we speculated, he might have remembered his old safe caterpillar life and decided to take a time out on the ground.
We arrived at our destination and got out of the car. At that very moment, a bright orange butterfly came dipping and weaving across the windy parking lot. As he passed almost directly in front of us, I had the distinct impression that he was saying, "Look at me, I've got it."
My son and I exchanged a look. "I'd like to think that's our butterfly," he said.
"So would I," I said feeling surprisingly certain that it was. And I felt happy for the butterfly and happy for us.
Winter in Miami
She will never see Florida
but she has the world
in her windows.
In the morning the river is fog
and the trees are lost.
Sunrise happens way up high.
It spills down the slopes,
and shines brighter than itself
in the imperfections of old glass.
There is shade all day until
the sun gets lost in the hills again
and the light come on.
Forever is train noises and headlights
in the dark and every star in the universe
shining out across the fields.
I have been to Florida over and over
until I lost count.
Black seaweed, white sand,
the ocean is always itself.
The whole of humanity sits on towels
to watch it
stretch out of sight.
I wasn't ever there for that.
I was there for the dark days
and the rain.
Days when the wild things
cry out across the everglades
and the black-winged birds
come pouring in from the North
to wage war
over back lot scraps.
Days when the ocean churns its garbage out
onto cold beaches
and the tourists leave Miami
looking for other
better places
where the weather is constant
and the sea
stands still.
_________
Picture above is of my grandparent's farm in NE Appalachia.
Reflections on Winter
For a while I switched from tarot
to playing cards.
Just regular old cards.
No pretty pictures.
No Colman-Smith.
No abstract art.
No rainbow colors.
Just numbers and suit,
black and red,
light and dark,
energy and associations.
And the associations are easy
with ordinary cards.
Spades are winter,
spades are dark.
The Queen, the twelfth card
of her suit,
a winter queen,
a winter month.
This is how you time a reading.
And I timed every reading out
to December,
to myself,
to that sharp and solitary queen.
Today is a turning point in time.
The air is cold and the wind is strong.
And air is winter.
Air is spirit
and, if you're lucky, inspiration,
intellect and looking inward.
And I have been luckier in this regard
than in others.
Today, I stand outside
and it's a new month and a new year.
The yard is a monochrome of snow
and dormant garden.
There are crows calling from the trees
loud and free and wild.
And the sky beyond the branches
isn't gray or silver
but really surprisingly blue.
Blue enough to get my attention.
Blue enough to anchor me
to this scene, this spot, this lonely season.
So I stand outside until my feet are cold
and I think that this is probably
where all the symbols point.
Not where you've been,
not where you're going
but the absolute magnitude
of where you are.
Today I know exactly
where that is.
Today is Sunday,
early January.
Today is number one of seven.
Today is number one of twelve.
And one is creation and renewal.
One is power under pressure.
One is stepping out and breaking free
And one is the breath we take
before we leap.
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