You never really think about your relationship with books being anything too unusual. I mean, it’s painfully clear if you’re a reader that not everyone is a reader, and that you’re a bit different if you’re a book lover. That’s made obvious early and often by the popular people over the years.
What I’m talking about is that deeper relationship with books that is a lot closer to obsession.
In my case, I began reading before I was speaking all that much, and was the kind of baby who would escape my crib to go find the books (or toys; I woke up at night a lot and would get myself out of bed to where the action was). One time, I threw all the books I could find into my crib and cried because, while I had mastered getting out of the crib, getting back in wasn’t possible. I needed those books.
My mother doesn’t per-se remember teaching me to read. I just figured it out.
Side note: reading early has nothing to do with reading ability or intelligence, and late readers catch up. The teacher in me needs to tell you that.
But I digress.
The point I am making is that my relationship with books was different from my relationship with people. At night, books and the odd toy could comfort me, but people were unnecessary.
So I think I said at one point that I don’t get writer’s block. And that’s true, strictly speaking.
However, as you can tell, I’m sitting here, spilling out words, but I’m using them to whine about writer’s block. What gives?
Well, I had three pages of something I don’t much like that I gave up on writing and decided to come over here. A lot has been going on, particularly regarding the authenticity of Autistic voices. Far stronger bloggers than I are debating whether self-diagnosis is valid and other fun topics. Since returning to working outside the house, though, there’s a limit to how much I can really get involved.
So instead, I do my advocacy through writing about things like education and neurodiversity advocacy “and stuff.”
But I haven’t even had time for that lately. (By the way, hi, blogosphere. I miss you guys. Thanks for fighting the good fight on self-diagnosis and other demons!).
Tomorrow I’m due to write my second story for the fiction class (by the way, I’ve got a revised edition of the first story, but I’m thinking about “shopping it around for publication” so if the early draft disappears from the website, that’s why.
The little voice in me finally started to speak; actually, she screamed during this #BoycottToSiri saga that’s been going on lately.
The little voice that is me had already been complaining considerably while I was writing my paper to end the semester. I knocked the thing out pretty quickly and it’s fine; it answered my questions, and I did okay. But I hated every minute of writing that academic paper.
However, I’m increasingly feeling myself at a bend in the proverbial road. I see two options before me. They can blend for now, sure, but in order to save my spoons I foresee making a choice, and quickly.
I’m reading this new-to-me author, Rachel Hawkins. I’m in the third book of this Hex Hall trilogy that my author brought home. She’s into these stories of empowered women saving the universe from whatever evil is en vogue right about now: vampires, witches, dystopian universes, etc. My author, meanwhile, is writing a short story for her writing class. I look up from time to time, and she’s still typing away which is good because I’m almost done with this and I know there’s a fourth book around here somewhere.
My author looks over at me a moment, and doesn’t seem to see me, but then she focuses on the cover. “It’s good, right?” she says.
I nod. In life, I wrote a lot of children’s fantasy, so the stuff she has around here has kept me busy over the years. There was a window when she wasn’t reading as much fiction, and she’d come back with these dry non-fiction reads that even she wasn’t actually interested in reading. I understood why she bought them: she wanted to “engage in the discourse of academia.” But none of that was really her passion. A lot of those books languish on the shelves in the upstairs of the house that she shares with her husband, child, and some cats. Oh, and obviously, me. I’m her muse, by the way.
I glance up to see what she’s doing. She’s gone back to typing. She’s pretty busy these days. We used to spend hours talking about life, about writing, about my books. But now it’s like she barely needs me anymore.
Everybody in our family has Autism. My husband’s Autism makes him a mathematician, all logic and reason. And me, my Autism makes me a writer. I write long paragraphs because I fear my words won’t be enough. My son’s Autism makes him an encyclopedia. He remembers just about everything he reads or hears. The cats have Autism, too, but we just call that being cats.
But my niece’s Autism, her Autism, is more like the Autism-of-possibility, like a potential future awakening she doesn’t yet see she has, as if in the future, someday, we will have a long talk and the hours she spends on art, and she amazes us all with her talent, and her interest and gifts in robotics and computers, where she spends so much time learning how things go together, and her love of acting and performing, where she spends so much time trying to memorize and to pick the right costume, yet is afraid to talk to strangers and still, at twelve, might hide behind her grandmother, will all make sense. The art, the robotics, the acting, and the fear of social speaking are all part of the Autism that’s all her own.
They still remember the day he came home with them. They had deliberately chosen the one who was to be his brother: orange and white and cowering in the “multi-cat room,” afraid of the other cats. He had to be saved first. Draper. They had tried one or two other cats near him, but the cat seemed so afraid of everyone. Then, it was suggested that they try Charlie, who had been surrendered when his owner could only have one cat in the new apartment. Charlie was a blue-eyed Lynx-point Siamese and the woman had seen him and wanted him immediately, but she tried to be logical: a cat’s appearance tells one nothing about the cat, really, and so she disregarded him. After all, a Siamese would take no time to find a loving home. But when the worker suggested Charlie and they had him brought him out, he looked at Draper indifferently, and decided the cat room was better. That’s when they brought both of them home.
The first time you go AWOL, stumbling over the sides of your crib, you might rush yourself over to the bookshelves and select a few titles. You’ll toss them into the crib, understanding that reading in bed is to be the most divine of pleasures, but be forced to cry to get help when you can’t lift yourself back into the crib with your plunder. You’ll be reading fluently by the age of two or so, confusing your mother when your precociousness in life doesn’t match up with your reading prowess; you hide behind her at every opportunity and are subsequently enrolled in pre-school to “socialize” you. Your little sister never has to go.
You’re such an academic wonder, your mother and father push to enroll you in Kindergarten at the age of 4. After all, having an October birthday can’t be a hard-and-fast rule for someone who has been reading for two years, right? The district will offer everyone the opportunity, but only you will pass the screening to gain admission to Kindergarten early. The only thing that tripped you up in the screening? Of all things, it will be the eye chart. In a real doctor’s office, eyes are screened with a chart of a hodgepodge of letters grouped in a pyramid shape. But when reading before attending school is unusual, there will be an eye chart made only of the letter “E.” Some E’s will be facing left, others right, and others are up or down. You will be confused when they ask you to pretend your hand is an “E” and turn it to show which direction the letter E is pointing. You have no idea they are trying to check whether you can see. Had they busted out a real eye chart, the one with all of the letters, you would have passed it the first time, rather than having to go back a second time to have the lady imperfectly explain to you the hand gestures you needed to make to “read” the eye-chart of a single letter.
What is the secret that neurotypicals know about having a lifelong friendship with someone? Today, I grapple with this question whenever someone tells me about someone they’ve been friends with since kindergarten, or how they still get together with college friends. I think about my college roommate, my then-best friend, and wonder.
Linda was an elementary education major, but she was too honest to teach young children. I watched her get frustrated in student teaching when the teacher told her to never admit being wrong in front of the children, and wasn’t at all surprised when she ended up working in computers, instead. Her mother was a math teacher and a bit blunt for most people’s tastes and her father, an engineer. Linda seemed to skate the line between “computer savvy” and “girly-girl” better than the average girl interested in computers in the early 1990’s. While Linda had had a high school boyfriend or two and had dated a few guys during college, I was timid around boys, but bossy and demanding around women, which meant that I was hopeless whenever we (rarely) had the male of the species around our women’s college and it took a special woman to put up with me. Linda fit the bill, and we became roommates our second year at college.
I heard a click from the door and opened my eyes. Quarter after five.
Eleanor slipped into the darkened room. I pretended to be asleep.
“Are you awake, Kate?” she said in a voice slightly above a stage whisper. When I didn’t answer, she turned to whoever she’d left at the door, “Let me get my books and put this over by the closet.”
Whoever it was didn’t respond. It was probably Gwen, who had taken Eleanor home with her for the weekend since I wasn’t feeling well. Sister Dorothy, the principal and sometimes nurse at our boarding school had declared me “well enough” late last night, but I still felt sleepy.
When Eleanor left, I opened my eyes and turned on the light. I looked around, to see what she’d brought back with her and spied a garment bag that seemed new. Like me, Eleanor had been at St. Agnes’ since she was 12, and we’d been roommates the whole time and rarely went home on holidays. We knew everything about each other.