It's Not About Autism

"I'd rather regret the things I've done than regret the things I haven't done." ~ Lucille Ball

That’s how I feel about the subject material on which I’m about to pontificate. I’m a speak first, regret later kind of person. The following reflects the way I feel. I’m not always a mainstream thinker and occasionally I piss someone off. Keep that in mind.

I have a son on the Autism spectrum. Let’s call him Michael. He’s been labeled with Asperger’s Syndrome although that’s no longer a diagnosis according to the DSM V. This is probably good news to my ex-husband (let’s call him Edward), who I believe is similarly afflicted, but will deny it to the ends of the earth. This is ironic since Edward is all too happy to embrace the diagnosis as it applies to our son. He’s happy that because of that diagnosis we’re able to get Michael the help that Edward wished he’d had when he was growing up.

I digress.

I love my son. I think he’s the most fabulously talented, funny, warm, loving boy I know. I am not, however, one of many mothers of children with Autism who write and talk about how much she wishes everyone else could see how wonderful her child is or how difficult it is to have a child on ‘the spectrum.’

You won’t find me posting about the tremendous pressures of raising a child with autism. I don’t have a monopoly on difficult child-rearing. You might find me posting about the amount of wine I consume on a nightly basis, however, but that’s different.

Michael is eleven years old. He knows he has Asperger’s. He knows he’s different and he understands his challenges and issues. He also knows that everyone has a issue but that no two people’s issues are the same.  Which brings me to my point.

We all have issues and challenges and we all deal with them and we all do the best we can. Some have more difficult challenges than others. You don’t have to look far to find someone worse off. Every time I read an article, a tweet, or a post about Autistic individuals, whatever is being said can be applied to anyone. For example, I just now read this:

In autism the processing of all information, sensory, verbal etc alters the person’s perception of the world and how they interact in it...

No two people see the world the same way. Nor do any two autistic people see the world the same way. The above statement applies to everyone, not just autistic people.

This is what I tell Michael: Get over it. Make the best of things and do something worthwhile with your life. Have fun, for God’s sake. Figure out what you need to do to survive and who can help you. And, Michael, I’m going to point it out to you anytime you’re doing something that will cause other people to think you’re weird. I'm going to do this because I love you and your life will be easier if other people don’t think you’re weird and life is about getting along with other people. If other people don't think you're weird, you'll get along better.

But really… who isn’t weird? Let them cast the first stone.  

On Writing and Wine

This is the cork from a bottle of XYZin Zinfandel that I shared in Santa Monica with an unexpected friend. That bottle of wine led to an unexpected turn of events that inspired the pivotal scene in my novel, Up the Hill.

Wine can do things like that.

At the center of celebrations, in intimate moments, shared between friends, wine is a marker of memories. In raising a glass we commune with others. We are intertwined and connected.

A couple of years ago at the opening of one of my plays, the love of my life handed me the cork from a bottle of champagne and asked if I wanted to save it. I had never thought of keeping something so seemingly insignificant, but since that night I have collected a few. 

In each cork there is a memory of wine being poured in celebration, in mourning, in remembrance, in laughter, in tears, with friends, with colleagues, with lovers, and with strangers who, through the sharing of wine, became part of each other’s lives.

Those moments, strung together, become the threads of my writing and wine is woven into each story just as it is in life.

Luckily, someone reminded me to grab that XYZin cork off the bar in Santa Monica. I had almost forgotten to pick it up and what a shame that would have been.

Hold the Pictures, Please

     I read a tweet today that said that licensed comics are gateway products for people who are not yet regular comic readers. There is no ‘gateway’ enticing enough for me to ever pick up a comic book.

     I really don’t understand grown-ups with this obsession. Comic books, graphic novels, or whatever you want to call them. Manga? I don’t get it. I’ll have the prose, please. Hold the pictures. You want to explain to me what I’m missing? By all means. Proceed.

     I also rarely enjoy a film, no matter how well crafted, whose screenplay was adapted from a book I loved. The pictures take up too much room. The actors don’t look like the characters I imagined. Important stuff has to be left out and sometimes the story becomes distorted and almost unrecognizable because the film can’t be longer than two hours.

     For me, the art in literature is the writer’s ability to use words to create images in the reader’s mind the same way that a painter uses oils or watercolors to create images on canvas. The difference is that the words on paper are colorless and no two images will be alike. I’ll bring my schema and you bring yours and we’ll have something to discuss. 

     In keeping with today's theme I will refrain from adding a picture to my post. Make your own.

Confessions of a Faker

Most Saturday afternoons I can be found in one of my favorite wine shops in front of beautiful tables of sommelier-selected wines, swirling and sipping and ooohing and ahhing and occasionally turning up my nose. I’m a keen observer of how it’s done and I’ve learned to use descriptors like: spicy, earthy, notes of citrus, great finish, delicate yet complicated, and on and on. I nod in agreement with the thin men with neatly trimmed beards and sweater vests who stick their noses fully into the glasses and then talk knowingly about the region and the grape and the tradition of the grower.

I, however, am a liar and a fraud. I know virtually nothing about wine. I just like to drink it. Don’t talk to me about pairings. I drink wine without food most of the time and my tastebuds aren't… I mean my palate isn’t sophisticated enough to care about whether or not the Zinfandel compliments the filet mignon. (Who am I kidding? I never have filet mignon.)

I drink wine almost every night. A glass or two. Maybe three on a weekend. My budget doesn’t really allow for this, but as I’ve said before, I’d probably go without heat before I go without my evening glass of wine. I can’t afford $35 bottles of wine. Ever. I know what I’m missing, however, because I get to taste $35 bottles (and higher sometimes) at the tables on Saturdays.

Life is about compromise. I know what I like and what I don’t. I have yet to find anything under $6 that I think doesn’t taste like Nyquil. There are several wines in the $9-10 range that are perfectly drinkable everyday wines. I’m not going to pay a lot of attention to them when I’m drinking them, but they’re not going to make me scrunch my face up every time I take a sip. When I know I’m going to sit down with someone I love and really enjoy the wine, I might spend $15 or so on an Oregon Pinot Noir - and I really enjoy it.

When my novel sells a few hundred thousand copies (Stop laughing. It could happen.) I’ll splurge on $20 bottles of wine. I still won’t know anything about wine, but I'll still be faking like I do.

Making a Name for Myself

So I had this dilemma that I resolved, but in the process it created another problem. (Isn’t that always the way?)

I’ve written articles for professional journals in education and I’m the author of a well-known professional publication that’s used as a textbook in major universities across the country. Don’t be impressed. The net royalties from this book have paid for a couple of really nice dinners.  More importantly, however, my writing has earned me a certain amount of respect that I enjoy from others in my field.

The problem arose when I decided to write fiction that’s somewhat provocative, perhaps even controversial, and this might cause the parents of my kindergarten students to wonder what their teacher does outside of the classroom. My colleagues might understand but I didn’t want there to be any confusion when their undergrad students searched for the textbook by the author’s name - my name.

So, I decided I needed a pseudonym for my fiction work. A pen name.  A nom de plume.  I created one, just like I created names for my characters. Dilemma solved.

The problem now is promoting the novel. I am now as much a fictional character as the characters in my book. In fact, I am a fictional character in my book.  I’ve created a fictional persona with a fictional Facebook page and a fictional Twitter account, and oh, look at what you’re reading: a fictional blog. Sort of.

I’m open to ideas. How do you market a product without attaching yourself to it? If you’ve done this and have suggestions, I’m all ears. Just make sure you send them to my fictional address.