*This is the moment where you thank the flying spaghetti monster it's only going to be once today*
When I started writing three years ago, I had no clue how awful I was. Really, I read and reread the stuff and simply could not see why it didn't work. I'm going to tell you straight away, that's pretty normal in itself. I think the majority of my experience with learning the craft of writing follows a predictable time line. The writing I'm doing now is far and above what I produced then--through countless hours of practice--but we'll get to that later. Right now I want to talk about what I think are the hardest parts of any creative endeavor, and also why autistic people can be so good at them.
*Pardon me while I ramble--we'll get there*
Predictably, my first crushing reality check came the first time I let someone read one of my stories. Criticism is not my kind of hang-around-pal to begin with, but it kept showing up on my doorstep nonetheless. There was a set of skills I had to learn, I soon realized, if I wanted to be able to interact with other writers enough to improve my work. If I have to admit it, writing finally taught me to better accept criticism in all aspects of my life. If I have to admit to the fact a group of writers taught me to temper my habit of seeing things as black and white, and learn to appreciate more gray in the world (even at age thirty-six), I have no problem doing to that, either. How did those two things happen? A year ago, I found myself a new writer-friendly web home and water cooler. Because it wasn't a face to face group with a bunch of strangers, the real challenge in the beginning was, I had to be "nice" or I'd get booted.
Nice was not something I'd been much of the time, and I could have cared less about it, but now, nice is something I'll carry with me for the rest of my life. I was there to learn so I played by the rules. Most people are capable of polite and I certainly was, too, but I was't the type of person to hand out web hugs and say flowery things before I was a member of that community. I certainly wasn't the type of person to filter my thoughts--it was just as likely I'd kick the garbage cans on a sidewalk or tell someone I thought they were a useless *expletive*. I'd have chewed my own arm off rather than NOT tell a perfect stranger exactly what I thought if the urge struck me, and that's only because a mouthful of arm was likely the only thing that would shut me up. So there's another few tools picked up on the fly that I need if I want to get by in publishing--my interactions there had, and still have, just as much to do with writing books as they do with learning to be.
Beyond criticism, warm-fuzzy feelings, and learning to shut my trap when I disagree, there are things more powerful I happen to still be learning. Those first few rounds of critiques made me realize I'm a rusher when I tell a story--I tended to be that way in my real life so it made sense to me when it came up. The hyper focus and accuracy which is often common to people with autism is no different when trying to create a piece of literature. It doesn't necessarily want to bend to possibility; it doesn't want to give in to things unnecessary or descriptive; it serves the Gods of Utility. Even when I write these blogs, I have to start them a day or two in advance so I have enough time to go back and expand upon the ideas I present. It's often said that autistic people have a hard time imagining things. For my part, I have an unusual imagination that tends to be stubborn when called upon. The inside of my brain is a place of crazy snapshots and made up words and awe inspiring sounds, but they don't want to build a story. Words, one after the other, through trial and error, are the only way for me to do that just like anyone else. But slowing down in my judgments, how I express myself, how I approach a problem, have all been good things for me. Patience is skill I've picked up on in spades.
In my early fiction, I left out huge chunks of the most important ingredient--the characters. They were one dimensional by far and lacked realistic emotional responses (it's probably not hard to imagine why that was). The only way for me to cure the ailment was to learn "people" again and I dove straight into the assignment. Once an idea strikes me, there can be a lot of fun in realizing there's a new view of an assumed thing waiting for me to find it, so that keeps it from seeming like work. It removes the drudgery another person might see as a hassle and it becomes a challenge.
For all the years of people watching I'd done, I had a set perimeter of things I chose to notice. While I'm uncanny at spotting when someone's cut off half an inch of their hair, and know by heart what kind of beer they drink on what day, or the fact they always order a tuna sandwich with pickles at a certain restaurant, there are important things I was oblivious to. And while I do pay attention to facial expression and voice fluctuation, I never qualified those sort of things in concert with the way those people reacted emotionally and mentally to changes in conversation topics or bits of information they'd not heard yet. I never made a real effort to "feel" people unless their emotions were obvious and slapped me in the face; anger, despair, elation, etc. Those small shifts in response as things progress are just as important to building a particular character as knowing the guy in the bowler hat smokes a pipe and likes pineapple candy. Writing has helped me to understand the subtleties of the human condition.
It took reading endless stacks of books in an entirely new way for me to understand what actually happens in those seemingly endless pages of a novel. What one person can meander through like a winding country road, I want to ride a rocket straight through so I can get from point A to point B.....because it's efficient and makes the most sense, right?
Right?
SO not right.
Good fiction, as I've come to understand it, is like a dance when it begins. It's not only about the cast as they're printed in the program. One ballerina flits onto the stage and she spins and spins until you think she'll fall, and then a few more come streaming from behind the curtains. An orchestra strikes up and the violins play first, then the cellos. Before I know what's happened, half the night has passed--the kettle drums pound and the conductor is in a fervor and I'm watching the dancers leap and all the arms as they fly across the instruments and I see the people in the audience lean forward in their seats while the tops of their heads buzz with electricity, but....it's also completely silent. The only thing I really hear are the words slipping through the air and wandering away. They climbed in my eyes and stirred the hot soup in my brain and of course I set them free so I could move on to the next row. THAT is how I want to write, and I want to stick around until the show stops and it's time to turn down the lights and wander home, hands-in-pockets. There are too many things to miss if you don't keep to the show and stick it out.
I was really reluctant to share the following cluster of sentences, but I'm going to anyway because I decided this place would be my No Fear blog. I went through my old stuff and found something I typed into another blog I had back in 2005~
I have to tell you all because i'm honest . Gee-willakers. Here is the crux. I usually love to paint. More than I love other things. I have no art training though.
Golly Gee indeed! ( I still cannot believe I said that) Was that as painful for you to read as it was for me to share? Needless to say, I've come a long way since those early days of crux. I think one blessing that can be pulled from having Aspergers is my ability to rapidly absorb information. For a girl who couldn't diagram a sentence in grade school (and I still can't, mind you) I don't think I'm doing too shabby. But ultimately, my opinions about what makes autistic people so good with creative endeavors have little to do with skill and everything to do with communication. It's not surprising to me whatsoever that the internet opened up new worlds for me. I was incredibly solitary and limited in my exposure to new ideas before I got online. One of the reasons I chose writing to begin with was the realization that I could say all the things in my head on the screen better than I could face to face (though I admit, that has also greatly improved).
The best part? *Gasp* There were actual people out there willing to read what I had to say!
The best part? *Gasp* There were actual people out there willing to read what I had to say!
I don't know the kind of frustration a person who can't speak feels. I'm very high functioning nowadays so it's not impossible for me to carry on a conversation with my neighbor or the gas station attendant, even if it's uncomfortable at times. But people speak the things they can't say, and transfer the emotions they feel but can't express, through words and painting and music all the time. Colors mean different things to different people just as sounds do. We all pick out separate details when we look at the autumn leaves drifting from a tree. While many people write off that visual as simple and think, "Huh, pretty," I can get stuck watching them fall, seeing the way they dance together toward the ground and find a pattern where there is none. Imagining them finally free from the place they were stuck, finally able to meet each other on the ground, finally able to touch and not be so alone. The metaphors and similes any author uses relate to the way a thing was/can be perceived, or the way they want a reader to visualize/feel.
It's the tidal wave of information I constantly absorb and how I relate the data that enables me to write fiction, not my stubborn imagination. I'm still able to create a unique picture from the words I choose when I stop and dig through the Filofax in my head--and those words absolutely do relate to my experience as a human being with a warm, beating heart. It's true that I can't speak for other people as to their creative process, but again, it's not hard to imagine mine is very different from another person who has an Autism Spectrum Disorder. We sometimes communicate emotions that aren't obvious, because from the outside it may appear as though we don't always have them, but we definitely do in our own way. The world needs only to hush and sit in their chairs so the orchestra can start to play, and then they'll feel them, too.
It's the tidal wave of information I constantly absorb and how I relate the data that enables me to write fiction, not my stubborn imagination. I'm still able to create a unique picture from the words I choose when I stop and dig through the Filofax in my head--and those words absolutely do relate to my experience as a human being with a warm, beating heart. It's true that I can't speak for other people as to their creative process, but again, it's not hard to imagine mine is very different from another person who has an Autism Spectrum Disorder. We sometimes communicate emotions that aren't obvious, because from the outside it may appear as though we don't always have them, but we definitely do in our own way. The world needs only to hush and sit in their chairs so the orchestra can start to play, and then they'll feel them, too.
