I'm sitting at the table staring at a blank page and nothing is coming or rather a wave of ideas are shot down by doubt, confusion and-
"Hey boss how come you aren't working with other writes on this?" Ben's interruption is so sudden it makes me jump.
"Um, I don't know any writers," I mumble still trying to pull myself out of an internal rip tide.
"Why don't you join a writers group or a class, you know get together and crit-"
"--I've been kicked out of several groups for offering an honest opinion," My voice growing louder. There is silent as I try to calm down. I know he's going to ask why.
"Because of autism I tend to be blunt when people only want smooth praise for their perfect writing. You think actors are insecure? Writers are plagued with hundreds of pages of disappointment."
"It's bad enough I have to walk around on eggshells every Goddamn day dealing with so called normal people, dealing with neurotic writers is suicide." I slam my notebook shut and allow the tide to pull me under.
"The reason I'm alone most of the time, don't have a job or do volunteer work is because when I say something the wrong way my tactlessness is perceived as intentional and mean. I'm a pariah."
"Diplomacy is not your strong suit but your honesty is from the heart," Ben tries to pull me from drowning. I shake my head.
"Tell that to people who don't understand autism. I'm not a mean person just--clueless."
I have to constantly remind myself how fragile people are. My fatal flaw--a concept in character development- is having no filter.
Writing is about constructing a world with language, it's about the story and the characters we serve, not our precious sense of self importance.
"Hemmingway said all first drafts are shit, so are second and thirds but they clean up and smell better," I comment. Ben snorts.
"Yeah well, that macho jerk was also an alcoholic little boy terrified of being interviewed on film," Ben puts in.
"When your famous, people can forgive your eccentric faults but I'm not famous and I'm dealing with writing alone so I'm looking at a high failure rate," I sigh.
"Then why do you keep writing?"
It's a good question and I sit for a long time as I mentally swim back to shore exhausted by the struggle.
"It's the only thing I know how to do," I whisper.
Meaning it's the only thing I want to do. All my writing will amount to nothing but I have to get these stories out or my head will explode.
" I don't know how to belong in a writers group, I'll just get rejected again." I say as a way to drop the subject.
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