I’ve decided to start a little series of articles based on my experience of being a neurodivergent writer.
Since my fantasy story, Godzilla as a Young Man Named Mike, was included in the Podcastle Disability Pride and Magic special, (listen / read here or find it on your podcasting app) I’ve been thinking a lot about doing something like this. And, since I have a million other things to do today, of course it was always gonna be now I’d start it.
Where you get story ideas from?
It’s often writers’ least favourite question. But in my case, it’s even more difficult to answer thanks to ADHD. My brain is a box of chaotic mysteries. Even I’m not sure what’s going on most of the time. And worse, I can’t depend on it to do what I want it to.
This morning I thought about a good metaphor to explain what it’s like. Everyone likes a metaphor, right? Hopefully this will be useful to anyone who has their own neurodivergent struggles, or knows someone who does, or is just curious and wants an insider look.
My Brain’s Like a Beautiful House
But it is situated in a shitty neighbourhood.
There are quite a few rooms. It’s rambly and a bit ramshackle, but it’s homely and it’s comfortable. I love living here. But the services are… intermittent in their provision. And the neighbourhood would euphemistically be called “lively” on a real estate listing.
A lot of visitors come to my front door. Sometimes it’s something useful. Like the post. But the postman’s unreliable – could turn up any time – and the postal service loses things constantly.
Hey, Mr Postman
Here’s me on the threshold, looking at what’s just come through the letter flap: “Oh look, this one’s a story idea. Handwriting could be better, and it looks like it’s missing the last two pages and a return address, so I’m not sure how it ends or where it came from. Well, onto the pile of mail there by the door. I’ll get to working out what it means later.”
Sometimes it’s a package from a friend, containing an exciting new hobby. But there’s no instruction book and not all the bits. So maybe I have to figure it out. I buy a couple of the bits with my own money, curious and intrigued. I start out well, but soon get lost in the details and confused, so I’ll put it in the junk room for later but before I get back to it, the next one arrives! And the next! Soon I’m trying to juggle them and I feel guilty about not spending as much time on them as I should. They came from friends and I spent quite a lot of my own money. I should make the most of them. But I can’t physically do them all so I do none.
They end up both neglected and a source of guilt and they’re piling up in my house, just crazy amounts of space. They get to be too much, so I close the door of that junk room and try to get on with something more useful.
Sometimes I get a misdelivered parcel, something entirely useless to me, like a snorkel. I don’t live anywhere near the sea, and I don’t have the time or money to do anything with it. Besides, it’s not even mine! Again, no clue who its for and no return address, so that goes in the junk room too, or I leave it piled somewhere because someone come by for it one day! I feel too guilty to throw it out and so my house becomes even more cluttered. I imagine, quite mistakenly, that some of it could be useful one day. I forget, in the mess, what came when and how.
These guys are the distractions. I would like more of those delicious story letters, but I can’t tell the senders to get on with it, since there’s no return address. I can’t even complain when they’re missing bits, because the postal service might be the one to blame. They’re interesting, but they’re often quite useless, or just plain junk.
This Neighbourhood, I swear…
A lot sirens go by this house – police, ambulances… They’re fleeting and they go by fast. But they do make me wonder, every time, whether I should be concerned, whether someone’s hurt or if something is on fire. The state of the world these days makes everything seem more ominous.
But worse than that, there’s a gang of youths in the neighbourhood who like to knock and run away laughing. All day, while I’m trying to get something done, I have to keep getting up to go check the door, find nobody there, slam the door and I’m so flustered, my momentum so derailed, I either forget where I was and have to spend a long time backtracking, or I just have to go do something else entirely. My work lives in the few minutes between their pranks, but I’m constantly on edge, knowing the next could be any second.
And sometimes they’ll knock when I’m in bed trying to sleep. And the neighbours next door will play loud music at all hours, ignoring my tired, frustrated banging on the wall to try to get them to JUST SHUT UP.
Those guys are the intrusive thoughts. They make no useful contribution to society. Their only amusement seems to be in fucking with me.
It’s exhausting, annoying, stressful, sometimes even a bit scary. Sometimes legitimate callers get lost in the noise. Or frightened off. Who would want to come here? I get depressed.
So What Do You Do?
I can’t move house in this (admittedly laboured) metaphor. I’m locked in.
We only get one brain (the injustice!) So, I have to deal. It’s hard. It takes up time. It’s part of the “ND tax” – the price which people with similar issues have to pay over and above what other people might. Some of that tax can be arriving half an hour early to an appointment because you’re so paranoid you’ll forget or be late that you just end up sitting there, wasting time that could be spent on other things. Except you know you wouldn’t be spending time on anything good, you’d be sitting in your house in “waiting mode” again.
But distractive and intrusive thoughts are another part of it. Especially if you’re more on the ADHD side of the spectrum.
In this metaphor, I have to try to train myself to differentiate between the sound of the knocks, and open the door only for the real, beneficial visitors while ignoring the youths and the noisy neighbours. I have to make sure the legitimate visitors know I’m there, I’ll answer, and chase off the kids if they’re acting all skeezy near my steps. I have to let the right thoughts in and ignore the wrong ones.
Medication helps with that differentiation of what’s legit. A bit. But sometimes that tiny bit is enough to help me not get sidetracked. Which helps me calm down. Which helps me see the work I’ve got to do. Which helps me focus on doing it.
Sometimes, medication doesn’t work. It’s not a magic potion. I have good days and bad days. I have friends and family who are unceasingly understanding and they, too, make my life just that bit more bearable. After growing up with “why can’t you just”, it’s such a relief. “Why can’t you just remember to do things? Why can’t you just sit down and focus? Why can’t you just make a list and be organised?” (I can’t “just” because I have a disability. That’s the plain fact.)
Some people aren’t as lucky as I am. They don’t have access to meds or help or sympathetic family. I see my privilege and I’m grateful. But every day, I still wonder, “Who’s gonna come to the door today?”
Today, it was an article, that appeared and grew and grew. And I decided, yes, this one is worth doing.
Tomorrow, we’ll see.
