November 14th, 2010

Music is one of those "noises" that keeps me sane in my everyday sludge. It's a real lifesaver when other sensory input overwhelms. As I write this blog, I'm reminded of last evening~ I was sitting at my desk trying to read something online; Sponge Bob's voice flowed from an upstairs TV, my daughter tapped a pencil on a pad of paper behind me as she did her homework, a dog barked a block away, a car passed every couple minutes, the fan in the PC whirred, the refrigerator kicked on...

Most people can drown out everyday sounds such as those as they become accustomed to them. I cannot do that ever for any reason. Every once in a while I think about J.K. Rowling locking herself in a hotel room to finish the end of HP 7 and Oh My God do I ever understand why that could help a person complete a project. Those noises I hear don't combine to create something pleasant the way music does, obviously, so the choice for me is an easy one. In those times I'm wanting to concentrate, the ear buds have to go in and the iPod goes ON. The singer is little different than Sponge Bob, the drums are the tapping pencil, the chorus similar in cycle to the cars, but it has a totally different effect on me (as it does on just about anyone else), and it's essential.

As with most things in my life, I have very narrow interests in music, and each individual artist I like represents a particular year and state of being. The only album I listened to for the first six months after it released was Pearl Jam's Ten (It reminds me of bullying and neglect). In 1994 it was Green Day's Dookie (Spite and rebellion), and six months after that I picked up Nirvana's Nevermind (Utter disenchantment, all the way). I still listen to those three albums on occasion, but very little else that came out around that time. Entire albums represent an all encompassing picture and clicking-slide-disk of memories, sort of a definition and list of snapshots on whatever "section" of life I happened to be dealing with at that time--also defined as a particular developmental level, I guess. I'd be bothered by the amount of science I apply to it if I thought for a second it lacked emotion, but for something that can be charted and graphed, there's nine tons of invisible feeling where the lines should lay.

From age ten to age twelve I had Michael Jackson's Thriller (I certainly sensed his fear of others back then), Cyndi Lauper's She's So Unusual (Innate strangeness), Phil Collin's No Jacket Required (Unapologetic sense of humor), and nothing else unless it was a one hit wonder on the radio. At fifteen and sixteen, It was Guns and Roses Welcome to the Jungle (Shameless violence and drugs (curiosity at that point)) and  L.A. Guns' Cocked and Loaded (Melodramatic depression and stage drama). At seventeen it was Danzig's self titled album (Vengeance, futility, and little else)...and on and on that list goes.

I can't pretend to be a music aficionado in any scope of the word. While I have 17,000 songs on my PC and know a lot of information about various bands from the 80's and 90's (it's a compulsive collecting issue, as with DVD's I'll never watch more than once, or books I've never read but have to own, etc.), I listen to only ONE artist regularly--and that's Sting.

I wouldn't say I'm obsessed. When you talk about unrealistic schizoid issues, this girl ain't guilty at all. If I met the guy, I'd certainly want to shake his hand and say thanks for the music, but I wouldn't expect to be his pal or want a lock of his hair. For whatever reason though, when I first hard the song Syncronicity ll way back in the early 80's, I latched on for dear life. It could have been the lyrics that got me...

Another suburban family morning
Grandmother screaming at the wall
We have to shout above the din of our Rice Crispies
Can't hear anything at all

Since then, I've gone on to collect every album in both The Police and Sting's discography. I even have foreign editions and bootleg studio recordings and various concerts. I've heard each one of those songs thousands of times and never tire of them. Often when I'm writing fiction, I have to play either On a Winter's Night or Mercury Falling. They're the only two albums I can concentrate to (for the last year)--every other song in the Universe in those moments would normally be an utter distraction. If I don't play Best of the Police when I clean my house, I'm slow as a slug or reluctant to do anything at all.

Stranger still, every album I listen to has a few numbers attached to it. If on a Winter's Night plays at volume 15 and is around 51 minutes long and was released in 2009. Ten plays at volume 16 and is close to 53 minutes long and was released in 1991 . Nevermind plays at Volume 18 and is about 42 minutes long and was released in 1991, etc., etc., etc.

There's no way on God's green Earth I'm going to be able to explain why that is. I'd have to be able to explain it to myself before I have any hope of letting another person know why or how that particular quirk evolved. It just IS to me, and it's perfectly normal from where I sit. There have been many occasions I've had my feelings hurt in various blogs or chat-room comments because I am so one track mind about it. Some people don't understand that narrowness of interest, or the tunnel-vision I experience fighting my way through each and every day. And the good news is, I get over it pretty fast because I don't expect anyone else to understand how I operate. Really, how could they unless I ran around whining about me, me, me all the time?

I realize the cyclone of information that twirls around inside my head whenever I approach something would probably sound exhausting to other people if I described it, and it really can be sometimes. There are days I fall into bed at night and could almost cry because it's finally dark and silent and it's just what I need. There are other days where life is overwhelming right from the jump and I hide away for hours in a room with a laptop and a good book. Again, I know no other way of being so it's something I have to deal with. There is a constant battle that goes on inside my head over what I think is "normal" and what isn't. It's a coping mechanism that allows me to be perceived by people I meet on the sidewalk as "just like them".

One of the reasons I like the radio on occasion, is that each song I've heard over the course of my life recalls a distinct time and place, even a smell or emotion. It allows me to step outside of the moment I'm in and wander off into my history and "my world," which can be an immense stress reliever. Strangely enough, the only time I break out of my routines and do something different (like turning on the radio or listening to 'Madama Butterfly' rather than hitting the same button on the CD player) is when I'm over stressed and I've exhausted my go-to-list of usual chaos blockers. Songs can be akin to reading a book--a grisly haunting or an eastern beach, depending on what a person needs--because a good song will tell a story before the last beat rolls around. Sometimes, not making sense makes sense.

Music can be a lifeline, a friend, an aspiration, a nemesis, an art, a science, an emotion, a million other things....to absolutely anyone, not just this girl.

November 13th, 2010

Since my main focus in life is writing fiction, we all know I have to talk about it. So, I'm going to wax poetic with abandon and zero apology since you haven't had to listen to me ramble yet...

*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!

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.