Work, Work, Work

I’ve begun writing a literary novel about growing up autistic. Of course I’m grossly unqualified to do so, being neither autistic nor literary. It’s by far the hardest thing I’ve ever attempted.

I’ve trod this path before, albeit more cautiously. I once started a book about being ADHD, which is something I can relate to more. My son, who struggles with that syndrome, read the manuscript and remarked how accurately it captured some of his experiences.

I was pleased. That work was a docu-drama, a fictional version of my observations of his experiences, juiced up a little to make a story.

This new thing is entirely different.

I am imagining a life experience that to my knowledge has never been articulated by any first-hand observer. Most autistic people are too deeply entwined with their problems to hope of describing it for the rest of us.

I have two primary sources. Donna Williams, an Australian woman wrote Nobody Nowhere, about growing up autistic, but having read most of her story, I suspect she might conform more to Asperger’s syndrome than full blown autism. Not that I have any way of judging.

The second source is Temple Grandin’s book, Thinking in Pictures. The movie about her life inspired my desire to write the novel. I haven’t started reading the book yet, but she’s the kind of person I’d like to portray with my character.

The central premise of my story is that autistic people lack the filters that shield the rest of us from the bombardment of sensations we swim through daily. One example: fluorescent lights buzz, especially cheap ones. I’m irritated by them every time I enter the utility room behind our kitchen. My son says the noise was so distracting for him he could never concentrate in school.

Imagine if everything – every touch, smell, sound, image and emotion – forced itself onto your consciousness every moment of your existence. You couldn’t stop it, you couldn’t block it out, you couldn’t ignore it or forget it. How could you or anyone else cope with that?

That’s how I imagine life is for someone with autism. Some people learn to live with it. Some retreat into their own world where they can either indulge their fascination with those intrusions or slip into a nether dream world where everything else ceases to exist.

I can imagine that struggle. I can imagine what it would take to draw him or her out.

Getting it into words will be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.