Timothy Scott Bennett's Blog: Everything is Research: Life, Asperger's, and the Written Word, page 4

Every Little Thing She Does – Part 6

An Adult Aspergers Experience of Living in a Distracting World

Out beyond ideas of wrong-doing and right-doing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about. Ideas, language, even the phrase ‘each other’ doesn’t make any sense. – Rumi

It feels to me sometimes, as I said in the previous installment, that “all the world is my enemy,” a “boundless realm of Distracting Sensations and Expectant Others,” a land of Outerlands Zombies from whom I must escape to my Innerlands, my fortified shelter. It’s as though the world is an enormous library filled with yacking, running, noisy patrons and I, sitting in my cubicle, bothering no one and trying to focus on my research, must spend my days shushing them.

If I’m neurologically prone to being distracted, to getting “knocked out of the story,” then what is it I’m being distracted from? What is the story I’m in, or wanting to be in, or trying to create, out of which I can get “knocked”?

I’m trying to get to Rumi’s promised field.

In a way, I think I’ve been searching for Rumi’s field for most of my life, just as Dorothy Gale longed for “a place where there isn’t any trouble.” I’ve pushed through the mainstream of thought and knowledge and belief, and sought the distant shores beyond “right” and “wrong” – the edges, the fringe, the “high weirdness” – not simply to assert my right to be who I was, but because I sensed, I believed, that from that vantage point at the edge of the normal curve, I could view and experience the maelstrom of truth and experience and reality from a spot “far above the fray.”

Standing above the fray, I might finally feel safe.

But it wasn’t just the constant low-level assault of sensory inputs I wanted to feel safe from, though those are significant. It was the presence of other human beings that felt the most unsettling. Unlike the crows, dogs, cats, squirrels, cows, deer, chickens, raccoons, sheep, opossums, horses, chickadees, and rabbits I’ve encountered as I’ve walked through this world, human beings come with a confusing set of acquired stories and unquestioned assumptions, with faces that can cover up their thoughts, words that do not match their feelings, and behaviors that do not always follow the rational rules of logic or self-interest or social-reciprocity.

Though I have deficits in the realm of being able to read human beings face-to-face, it also feels true to say that human beings are the animal most practiced in the art of dissembling. But whether that’s true or not, I came here knowing that there was also more to the story. I could sense the vast and beautiful potential of the human animal, and loved them for that, even if I was disappointed by how few of them seemed interested in exploring that realm. I remember, back in my freshman year of college, explaining to the woman who would become my first wife, that, “on the whole, I don’t much like human beings.” Yet when I sat with one of my gurus, back during the making of What a Way to Go, he reduced me to sobs by pointing out that I could not possibly be making such a film without harboring a deep love for my fellow humans.

What pieces of work were human beings, and yet how difficult for me to understand them. I knew from my own experience that I was filled to the brim with feelings and thoughts and complexities and contradictions, and knew that such things shaped my life in every way, and underlied my every word and action. I could reason that at least some of the humans around me must be similar in this regard, and could very often sense the energies that surged within them, even if my interpretation of what those energies represented was hit-or-miss. But I didn’t know how to make them reveal themselves in a way that I could find peace in their presence. It felt like I lived amongst erratic, clumsy robots who seemed unwilling, or unable, to tell me of their programming, such that I could understand why they moved as they did.

I wanted to meet people in Rumi’s field, in a place beyond all the complexities, limitations, and contradictions of language, story, culture, and assumption. I wanted to lie down with them in that soft, tranquil grass and stare up at the clouds and the stars, and speak with them as chickadees or horses might speak, of our felt experiences, our dreams and our fears, our soft, wounded bodies, and of our shared-reality, and in a manner far beyond the usual discourse of judgment and belief, argument, persuasion, and defense, but in the spirit of open dialogue, the telling of the truths, and the collective search for clarity, understanding, and wisdom.

That’s the research I’ve been doing in my cubicle: to try and understand these strange creatures I walk amongst, to find my own way to the sort of self-revelation I seek in others, and to seek to more fully understand the factors that keep individuals, cultures, and entire paradigms from lying peacefully in that soft grass. I’ve questioned everything I could think to question, with much more remaining to do, seeking always to know the “what’s so of what’s so,” trying to understand “what’s really going on.” I’ve sought to meet “that man behind the curtain” and hear his or her story. Perhaps because I hoped that if only I found the right wizard, he or she might take me back home to Kansas.

I needed to lie in that grass, you see, a place so “over the rainbow” that I might find, finally, the peace I knew was possible. It felt like Rumi’s field was the planet I’d come from. Like the signs say on Maine highways, living beyond “right” and “wrong” was “the way life should be.”

So I built my Zombie-proof fortress of routines and filled my closet with identical suits, reducing the distractions as much as was possible while I tasked my intellect with trying to make sense of other human beings, and of why my life amongst them felt so difficult and painful.

And beside me for much of that journey has been Sally, my own personal “confusing person” and “professional distraction.” Because Sally, despite being so often so “wrong,” had been exploring her beautiful human potential far longer than I had. And she knew of pathways to Rumi’s field that I had not taken.

(Part Seven Coming Soon)

(Read Part 5 Here)

(Read Part 1 Here)

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Casting Aspergians

Thinking today about this graphic I used the other day…

… and how Hans Asperger felt it necessary, especially as he was living in the shadow of the Nazi regime, to argue that “abnormal” should not automatically mean “inferior.”

It was necessary, because while the word technically or originally means “deviating from what is normal or usual,” it also comes, in the dominant global worldview, with the strong flavor of “typically in a way that is undesirable or worrying.” (We could also go after the word “deviating,” couldn’t we?)

You can easily see that at work in this culture, famously depicted in this clip from Young Frankenstein, in which the humor depends on the assumption that “abnormal” means “monstrous.”

 

The association of “abnormal” and “inferior” makes perfect sense, of course, from the vantage point of a culture that sees things in terms of materialism, genes, and DNA, where the old story is that most mutations are harmful, even if it’s probably more true to say that most are neutral, some are harmful, and some are beneficial.

It also seems to align with the old and related notion (encountered, if memory serves, in the Bible, and in ancient Egyptian thought, and in the Arthurian Legends) that the health of the land, the people, or the nation is directly related to the health of the leader or king, and that leaders who are wounded or sick or deformed should no longer lead. (I’d love some specific references to this notion, if any of ya’ll have some.)

But it contrasts with what I’ve read about some cultures, in which “abnormalities” such as epilepsy, bodily deformations, or schizophrenia can be indicative of special powers and gifts, and can put “abnormal people” into important, yet “fringe,” positions, such as the shaman, sorcerer, or spiritual leader. (Specific references to this would also be appreciated.)

All of which is fascinating to me, of course, and of some import, not only because I’ve spent much of my life feeling “abnormal” and “deviating from the norm,” but because now, as I explore this subject of Asperger’s in order to throw light onto my experience, I find myself taking on a label which comes with its own suite of associations, many of them seasoned with the flavor of “inferior.”

As a result of these feelings of abnormality, I’ve often felt the need to assert my right to be who I was, and have crawled as far out onto the limb as I might, trying to find a safe spot from which I might view the whole tree.

And it’s amazing to me that, even now, when I write a post about Aspergers, and my experience of it, I hesitate before I mash the “publish” button, and wonder whether it’s a good idea. Writing about Aspergers focuses on the differences, and fails to balance those differences with the many ways in which the “autism spectrum” is simply a small portion of the larger “human spectrum,” and does not necessarily acknowledge the kinship and solidarity of all who experience a human life.

The word “Asperger’s” is so helpful to me that I feel compelled to speak it. But I would prefer that it not create more distance. It’s already shaky enough, out here on the end of my thin branch.

Enough for now. Time. To. Mash. The. Button…

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Sunday Cross Words – #2 Down

Another Little Aspie Rant

You know what I really hate? Mouth sounds. Chewing. Slurping. Lip-smacking. Crunching. Tisking and tutting. Mouth sounds. Hate ’em. They make me nuts.

There’s a word for it: misophonia.

So it seems I’m not alone.

I remember noticing these sounds as a kid. I remember that there was nothing to do about them. I mean… what, do I go around asking people to chew more quietly? Excuse me, sir, but your lips are smacking…

It’s like fingernails on a chalkboard. It’s like blenders and weed-whackers and lawn-mowers. Sometimes I want to scream.

But I have strategies. Eating in restaurants, though often hard for me for other reasons, at least provides relief in this matter, as the mouth sounds are lost in the din. Eating while watching something on Netflix helps a great deal. And chewing while others chew, timing my bites with theirs so that the sounds in my own head mask the sounds coming from the outside, also helps. Sometimes I just send hate rays at people, and imagine their heads exploding.

Misophonia: Please, give, so that others will not suffer.

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Was It Something I Said?

An Aspergers Experience

I write a Facebook message and there’s no response. I’d tried to tell the truth of my experience, but maybe I failed somehow. I look back over what I’ve written. The words seem to accurately represent my thoughts. But perhaps I shared some ideas that are too far from the norm. And I begin to wonder… Did I say something offensive?

I speak up in a group of humans discussing a piece of their holy scripture, and notice the leader looking at me, his brow deeply lined. I tried to share my fascination with the meaning of the words we’d just read, and how we might question their usual interpretation. I think back over my sharing. Perhaps I had some unusual energy connected to my words. A loud, nervous voice. A quickness of speech. A forcefulness of expression. And I begin to wonder… Were the others put off by my comment?

I send someone a friend request. I give them the URL for my blog. But the request goes weeks before it’s accepted, and nary a word is said about my writing. I think back over my interactions, and try to see the world through the other person’s eyes. I think about the content of my blog posts. And I begin to wonder… Am I just too scary?

I answer a question somebody poses to me on Twitter. My first 140 characters are not enough, so I tweet another 140, then follow that up with a longer direct message. She doesn’t answer right away. I go back over what I’ve written, pouring over my sentences, wondering if I’d crossed a boundary I could not see, thinking maybe I’d devolved into giving advice, or pontificating and pronouncing like a White Guy™. And I begin to wonder… Were my responses too much?

Over and over, as I’ve slowly grown to accept my Aspie nature, I’ve been confronted by the astonishing news that I do not always accurately understand the needs, feelings, interests, limitations, superpowers, and capacities of the people with whom I interact. It’s astonishing to me because I feel like I’m so deeply sensitive to the humans around me. I notice the silences, the furrowed brows, the strange looks, and the energy in their voices. I hear every voice in the restaurant. I watch people as they interact.

But my noticing is often more a matter of self-preservation than connection, or even interest. My focus is on my own thoughts, my fascinations, my exciting ideas and my interesting bits of data. And I’m constantly monitoring the alarm bells that sound in my soul in the presence of other humans, looking for danger, trying to stay a step ahead, figuring out exactly what I have to do or say, who I have to be, in order to survive the interaction unscathed. Usually that involves getting out of it as soon as is possible.

So I notice, but I too often fail to understand. And now, knowing that I do this, I wonder and worry more than ever.

Sometimes I feel like I’m this towering, striding giant, stomping through the world, not noticing whom I might be stepping on as I make my way. I try to be careful, but I’m so high up that I can barely hear the voices of the people underfoot, and my attention is on the horizon, where sits yet another fascinating new building for me to explore.

Watch out!

I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you.

 

 

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Hans Asperger

While I continue, in the background, to work on the next installment of my ongoing series I call “Every Little Thing She Does,” I’m working on other things. One of the things I’m doing is making my way through Steve Silberman’s wonderful book, NeuroTribes: The Legacy of Autism and the Future of Neurodiversity.

I just finished his chapter on Hans Asperger and found it fascinating. Silberman’s description of the medical milieu in pre-WWII Vienna was, I thought, particularly delicious: a gathering-in of open-minded, bright, thoughtful souls more interested in root causes, humane and individualized treatment, and the search for the truth than they were in easy labels, routine prescriptions, and standardized treatments. It sounded, to me, like an idealized example of science, medicine, and research as they should be practiced.

It was in this setting that Asperger began to notice, study, think, and write about this new condition called “autism.” And it became clear to him, rather quickly, that autism was not “rare,” and that it manifested along a wide spectrum of expression.

All of which contrasted sharply with the larger background setting, which included the rise of Adolf Hitler and the Nazi party. Silberman’s descriptions of that unfolding tragedy as it played out in Vienna and elsewhere was chilling. And the way he connected it to the earlier rise of eugenics in the United States was fascinating, and exciting to my ears, given my own current writing project.

Most striking, to me, was how the Nazi presence shaped Asperger’s life and career. As the Nazis put more and more attention on the presence of the weak, wounded, and damaged who lived amongst them, with an eye toward the sterilization or elimination of these “threats” to the gene pool, Asperger found ways to argue for the protection of his patients, highlighting their abilities and superpowers and likening them to the “absent minded professors” they all knew, people who, though strange or eccentric, were capable of making great contributions to the world. He called his autistic patients his “little professors,” and did his best to draw the attention of Nazi eyes away from them.

As far as anyone can tell, Asperger never signed a loyalty oath or joined the party, perhaps because he was protected by one of his superiors who had some influence in the matter. He was, eventually, drafted into theWehrmacht , where he served as a medical officer in Croatia. But much of his early work was lost in the war, as his clinic and school were bombed. And because most things German were shunned or ignored after the war, his discoveries, ideas, observations, and writings were largely lost to the public mind for decades.

In particular, his observations that autism was not rare, and that it manifested along a wide spectrum, were lost for quite some time, severely limiting the ways in which autism was understood and treated.

I found, in my quick search, no English-language biographies of Hans Asperger, though I’d be glad to learn that one exists. This seems a ripe time for such a work, and perhaps even a film treatment, given the current level of interest in the matter. It’s at times like this that I wish I had a clone. He could go off and work on these projects while I continued writing fiction.

No human clones yet? C’mon! We were promised jetpacks. What’s up with that?

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Cleaning Volcanoes

Ebenezer: I suppose you’ll be wanting the whole day off?

Bob Cratchit: Yes, Mr. Scrooge. If it’s quite convenient, Sir.

I’ve been doing twelve to fifteen hour days at the computer, writing and editing, learning the ropes of SEO and Google and keywords and site design, researching marketing schemes and feeling my way through the strange and wondrous worlds of various social media platforms.

This morning, I feel close to burn-out, and as I admit that to myself I feel tears well up in my eyes. As Sally said yesterday, there’s a real cost to my Aspie tendency to obsessively dive into my “special interests” and follow my “fascinations.” Balance suffers, and other things go missing or ignored or forgotten, and I fail to notice, until there are leaks springing, that the pressure has grown to such tremendous levels.

It was like this for What a Way to Go, where I spent so many long hours editing video that my eyes still suffer from the experience. It was like this for All of the Above. It was like this for the first drafting of Rumi’s Field. And it’s like this now, as I make my way from Author and Publisher to Entrepreneur. Long, long hours, each time, with my head so caught up in the project at hand that everything else feels like a distraction, and nothing else feels as enlivening and real as what I’m doing.

Truth be told, I’m not at all sure that this is a bad thing. I might complain about my Muse’s tendency to manacle me to my desk, but when she’s not pushing me, I miss her. I love my fascinations, you see. It’s why I follow them. And much that “goes missing” is stuff that I don’t particularly care so much about. They’re just “things that need doing,” the volcanoes I have to clean on a daily basis, before, like the Little Prince, I fly off with my “migration of wild birds” and visit the strange lands that call to me.

But “fascinating” or not, those volcanoes must be cleaned, or they’ll create havoc when they finally blow. So I’m going to spend some time cleaning them today, and then I’m going to pull my head out of this fascinating matter of writing and editing and “finding my readers,” and do something else.

Saying that is quite terrifying to me, you understand. Because it’s difficult for me to find things in “the real world” that are as compelling as my “special interests.” But I need to change it up for a day, or most of a day, and see if I can relieve the pressures that have caused me to spring a leak. If that means nothing more than taking an extra beach walk, or reading a novel, playing a game or three, or just cooking an interesting new recipe, so be it. But if there’s something out there, some other flock of “wild geese” that might call to me and help me find “my place in the family of things,” I’m open to that as well.

It’s at times like this that I have to most loudly remind myself that Everything is Research.

Maybe Sally will have some ideas.

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Free Books, Amazon Reviews, and the Road to my Compelling Vision

I don’t have all of the details worked out yet, or the various pieces in place, but at some point in the next few weeks I’m going to launch the first step in my campaign to reach my ultimate goal of sitting with Gillian Anderson, Keanu Reeves, and Robert Downey Jr to discuss the upcoming shooting for the Netflix-produced series version of the None So Blind trilogy, starting with All of the Above.

(Or something… remember, it’s not what the vision is, but what it does!)

This campaign will involve FREE EBOOK COPIES of All of the Above, Newsletter SignUps, the goal of 100 Amazon Reviews for All of the Above, FREE ADVANCED PDF COPIES of Rumi’s Field, the goal of having 100 Amazon Reviews for Rumi’s Field ready to go when it’s officially published this summer, and even some FREE PRINT COPIES of Rumi’s Field for those who go the extra mile. Think of it as my own private “bookstarter” campaign, with you receiving free books and me receiving your help in finding my larger audience and getting Amazon’s attention.

As I say, the details are still falling into place, but I wanted to throw my hat over the fence, so I’d have to go get it.

Stay tuned!

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Sunday Cross Words – #1 Across

Little Rants from the Aspergers Experience

You know what I really hate? Cold. And hot. And I hate humid. And swampy. As a kid, I used to keep fish in an aquarium, and was struck by the narrow temperature ranges they required. I remember teasing them for being such entitled babies. Now I realize that I’m the same way. I need my aquarium to be kept between 65°F and 72°F, preferably with full sun and a moderate, dry breeze. Call me Goldilocks: I want things “just right.”

Anything other than that and it might as well be a full-on, gut-wrenching, in-your-face storm, which I love: a hurricane, a tornado, a blizzard, maybe even an alien invasion. If I can’t have my aquarium “just right,” then give me weather that’s dramatic and exciting, that holds the promise of a “snow day,” which gives me permission to relax the rules. Well, some of the rules…

One reason I hate certain conditions is that they create a sensation on my skin that is distracting and difficult for me to tolerate. Hot, humid weather feels like slathering on a layer of lotion. It makes my whole body feel like I’ve just eaten a huge cheeseburger and I cannot wait to get to the bathroom to wash my hands, even if I have to use that horrible liquid handsoap from the dispenser, which I also hate, because the toxic odor lingers for so long and does not wish to be rinsed away. Such things make me feel like I’m wrapped in plastic, like I’m suffocating, like my skin is gasping for air. Help me!

Another reason I hate extremes of temperature is that often I fail to notice them right away. I’m sitting there, working on my computer, reading, watching television, whatever, and slowly I’m getting irritated, or anxious, or feeling sick to my stomach, and sometimes it’s not until Sally asks me about it that I realize that it’s fucking freezing in here, and that I’m wearing nothing but shorts and a t-shirt, and that I could, actually, if I could be bothered to, get up and put on a sweater or some socks or even, gads, some long pants.

They say this has something to do with “deficits in executive function,” but c’mon. I’m like, really, Universe? You can’t manage to maintain a constant agreeable temperature and humidity for me so I don’t have to be distracted? Really? I’m busy here. Really?

Ahem…

 

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Love Letters From a Nearby Pond

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

-Mary Oliver, Wild Geese

I said to my guru the other day, “One function of my blog is to serve as a love letter to my family.”

It surprised me, to hear those words come out of my mouth, and yet I could feel the truth of them. Though we’re now mostly separated by time and distance and estrangement and distrust and unresolved conflict, I still, as best I can, in the ways I know how, feel love and gratitude and appreciation for the people and places from which I came.

We simply don’t know what to do with each other. That’s the phrase that sticks with me. There seem to be “irreconcilable differences” between us, though I have no idea if they are truly irreconcilable, or just beyond our present means. So one of the things that compels me to put fingers to keyboard is the impulse to more deeply understand those differences, and to explore them “out loud” in a way that might help.

I do it with little expectation or need. I’ve largely let go of the struggle, the need to convince and self-justify, or the hope of having had a better past. I do it because I can, and because I don’t know what will come of it, and because I think, on my deathbed, that I would regret not having done so. I do it because it’s a way I can express my love. I reveal myself as openly as I can, exposing, as Mary Oliver said, the “soft animal of my body,” listening for the wild geese, and claiming my own place “in the family of things.” If there is some unknown country to one day reach that lies beyond that which currently seems “irreconcilable,” that’s the path I have to take to find it.

The thing is, no matter the old hurts or rants or defenses or critiques I might still harbor, I remain in touch with the many gifts I received from my family of origin. And I know that, just like me, they are all good people, living from good intentions, and doing the best they can with what they have.

But in order for this to serve as a “love letter to my family,” it must first serve as a love letter to my self. And that has been the trickier part. If there are vast differences between myself and my family, they seem to constellate around me, the ugliest duckling in my family’s particular pond. And it’s very difficult for the outlier, I think, to not take on the responsibility and blame for the conflicts such differences create, and accept it all as shame.

Those are the waters through which I’ve had to swim these past fifteen years or so, pushing through strong, strange currents and encountering terrifying new flocks, ready to run or fly or bite back, if need be. I was fighting for the right simply to be myself, not fully understanding that the conflict was mostly inside my own soul, rather than between myself and others. I ducked and dodged as I made my way along this waterway of shame and self-judgment, looking for cover, strengthening my legs and wings, sharpening my bill. I could not see, through the mists, that my primary adversary looked just like me.

And then, one day, I found myself on a different pond, where swam the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. My heart soared, as she welcomed me to join her. And only very slowly did I grow brave enough to look down at the water and observe my own reflection, and see that I looked just like her, and learn that I was not alone. And very slowly did I come to know myself not as “bad,” or “wrong,” or “to blame,” but simply very different.

The simplest way to put it is this: my relationship with Sally, my work with my various gurus, and my Aspergers diagnosis have allowed me to love myself in a way that I did not before. I now understand why my feathers look different from so many of the other birds I’ve known. And, loving myself for who I am, I have a new freedom to love others for who they are. We may swim on different ponds and fly in different skies, but we can do so in peace, fondness, mutual respect, and a deep appreciation for each others gifts. And who knows… perhaps one day there’ll be a great fly-in that brings us all together again in the same pond.

I’m far from mastering the skill of allowing others to be who they are. The old habits of self-defense can still arise within me when triggered. But I train daily to lay down my old weapons. And already their allure has diminished greatly.

That, in itself, has been worth the journey. Weapons can get pretty heavy. And they really hurt when you use them against yourself.

 

 

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Author Interview – Session 5

Note: As I continue to push through my final, smoothing edit, I’m concurrently working on a number of marketing and branding tasks. In order to help book reviewers, I’m making ready an interview to which they can refer. I sat for long sessions with a person named Q, and will post our discussion here in small sections as I go along.

****

Q: So if All of the Above is about first waking up, then Rumi’s Field is more about how your characters respond to what they encounter once they’re awake?

A: Sure. Three years have passed since the end of All of the Above. During that time, Linda Travis strove valiantly to lead her nation toward finding a more sane response to the issues of global environmental destruction, economic instability, and resource depletion. She confronted the group that had served as the primary liaison, in the U.S., between the secret human elite and the alien presence, and that group has largely gone into hiding. It almost seemed as though both the aliens and the human elite had disappeared from world affairs.

Q: And in Rumi’s Field she finds out differently.

A: Yes. We meet her at the point where she’s having to confront the limitations of her Presidential power to avert the laws of physics, chemistry, population dynamics, and human psychology. And we learn that there are far deeper levels of hidden elite power and control, and that they are enacting a centuries-old plan of their own.

Q: You sound as if you’re being careful with your words, not wanting to reveal too much.

A: I am, yes. I find stories much more fun when I don’t know where they’re going. I love the surprises around the next corner, the twists and turns, the slowly unfolding mysteries. I love guessing where they’re going, and then seeing if I’m right. I’d hate to deprive my readers of that experience. I avoid spoilers whenever I can.

Q: Thank you.

A: I saw a movie trailer yesterday, for the remake of Ben-Hur. In two and a half minutes, they told the entire story. Hit all the beats. Showed all the major characters, the primary conflict, the story arc. After watching that trailer, I knew that there was now no reason at all for me to see the movie itself, unless all I wanted was two hours of eye-candy. I’d already seen it. I knew exactly how it would resolve, how it would feel. And I was already bored with it. Contrast that with the trailer for 10 Cloverfield Lane. I’ve got a million reasons to see that one. I need to see it. It looks jam-packed with the sort of delicious reveals that I love, and the trailer told me only the tiny bit I needed to know to get me in the theater.

Q: Okay. So, in that spirit, what would you like to say about Imbolc?

A: Um… not much. But I’ll say what I can. We actually see a scene from Imbolc in Rumi’s Field. A small “flash forward” that reveals something about Cole’s story and points to a future he does not understand. In this small flash, he’s an old man, walking through an ice-encrusted landscape, looking for his daughter, Grace, who’s now grown.

Q: So the story jumps far ahead, then.

A: About thirty years or so. And things have changed a great deal, as a direct result of the events in Rumi’s Field. There’ve been more unravelings of the present social systems, and Linda’s mandate to “reach up to the stars” has flowered in unexpected ways. But you probably shouldn’t quote me on any of this.

Q: Why’s that?

A: Well, the story has yet to fully unfold in my consciousness. I know where it begins, and much of what has transpired in the time between, and I know some really juicy bits about where it’s headed. But until I sit for long periods and view the characters as they live through the story, there’s much that I don’t know. That delicious revelation that happens when you read a book or watch a movie? It happens for me as I write the story as well. It’s the thing that makes writing the most exciting and fun for me. I can’t wait.

Q: The story’s called Imbolc, which, if memory serves, is the old Celtic festival roughly equivalent to the modern Groundhog’s Day. A festival that celebrates the first signs of spring.

A: Yes. So winter has come. But now there’s a new smell to the air, a slightly warmer breeze, and even a new bud or two, appearing on the trees. But I mean that metaphorically as well as physically. Lots of things are shifting.

Q: Will Imbolc center around the same cast of characters?

A: It will center on Cole and Linda, for sure. And it will go more deeply into their relationship. Focusing more on their “love story,” if you will. Around them will be many of the characters we’ve grown to know and love. And a cast of new folks will make their appearance, as we should also expect.

Q: Cats and dogs included?

A: And a rabbit. One who’s been with me for a very long time, and is finally getting the chance to play out his story. And we’ll finally learn why I named my artisanal publishing company Blue Hag Books.

Q: I cant’ wait.

A: You’ll have to. But hopefully not as long as you’ve had to wait for Rumi’s Field.

Q: Yeah. So let’s talk about that. By the time you publish Book 2 this summer, five years will have passed since All of the Above came out. Say more about why it took you so long.

A: (sighing) Well, lots of reasons for that, I think. One we’ve already discussed. While Books 1 and 3 had downloaded at least partially into my consciousness many years ago, and had already manifested in a few chapters, Book 2 took more time for me to stop and sit with and remote view. I had to wait longer for it to download.

Q: And you were using a 56K modem?

A: It felt like it sometimes, yeah. But that’s only a small part of it. I think there were some things that sort of knocked the wind out of me, so to speak. The first being that, while I knew how to write a book, I had no idea how to forge the link between the book and its readers. Having made What a Way to Go, and having amassed a good-sized audience and email list as a result of our documentary, our blogging, and the many connections we made while doing the interview and screening tours, I was astounded to learn that documentary watchers were not necessarily science-fiction readers, and that those who had loved the movie were not automatically interested in following me down this new path. And if they weren’t my readers, then who were my readers? I didn’t know. And I didn’t know how to reach them.

Q: I’ve heard you say that, in your mind, All of the Above was the logical successor to your documentary, that it was the way you wanted or needed to continue the conversation you wanted to have.

A: Yes. But as Sally is fond of pointing out, my Aspergian mind tends to miss some things, and regards things as obvious that are, in reality, not obvious at all. I think she’s probably right. The conversation I’m having in the None So Blind series, while sharing some themes with my former work, is also fundamentally different in some important ways. It’s not the obvious “next step” that people will want or need to take. It’s just a possible next conversation to have. It’s the one that fascinates and excites me, to be sure. And I think it’s a conversation that will fascinate and excite many, many others. But it turns out that I have to find that audience in a different way.

Q: And that realization “knocked the wind out of you”?

A: Well, the lack of response knocked the wind out of me. I failed to easily find the larger audience I’d dreamt of. But the realization came much later, and is still unfolding.

Q: And there were other things that knocked the wind out of you?

A: I think so, yes. One was just the busyness of daily life. There were houses to renovate, and Sally’s many projects and businesses to support and help with. I also took a left turn into rock and roll for about eighteen months, hooking up with a group of musicians and singing and playing my electric mandolin and drumming a bit, stepping into an old, secret dream I had not allowed myself to even consider before. That took a great deal of my time and energy and consciousness.

But probably the biggest factor was that I had to go through some rather dark times of withdrawal and anxiety and grief and loss and self-examination. For me to write, I need a background of peaceful routine and a sense of safety. I’d lost what little I had of that, and it took me a long time to recover it.

Q: But you’ve recovered it now?

A: I’ve recovered it enough to dive fully back into my work, yes. Anxiety remains a constant friend, though he doesn’t call as often as he used to, and his voice is not quite so loud as it was. I’ve found I had to face head-on into the truth of my being, so that I could understand why my life had gone as it had gone, why it was going as it was going, and why so much of it felt hard and challenging and confusing. As it turns out, I am “afflicted” with both Asperger’s Syndrome and very high IQ scores.

Q: “Afflicted” is a funny term to apply to high IQ scores.

A: Sure. That’s why I said it with scare quotes. And I don’t actually consider either Aspergers or high IQ as an affliction. Both confer upon me a set of superpowers I’m quite glad to have, and I would trade neither of them in for a new rack of letters, to grab a metaphor from the Scrabble game. But so many things are two-edge swords, in a very all-of-the-above sort of way. While they convey certain advantages, both Aspergers and high IQ come with some significant costs attached to them. Those costs had begun to really add up in the last five years or so. They’d become a great weight on my soul, and showed up in every relationship I had, and interfered with my ability to simply calm down enough to sit and write, to feel safe in the Cosmos. So I had to take some time and sort my way through them. Declare psychological bankruptcy, if you will, and get the creditors off my back enough that I could rebuild my sense of self.

Q: It sounds like you’ve done a great deal of that now.

A: I have. In a way, getting these two “diagnoses” allowed me, in Sally’s words, to “get my ticket stamped.” I was able to admit the truth of myself to myself, and then to others, which I do in my blog. I was able to find some new sources of peace and power. And now, knowing what my superpowers are, I’m able to consciously apply them to my work. I hadn’t really “known” how smart I was, how able I was to learn and understand certain things, and how much ability I do have to forge connections with other people, even if only, or primarily, through the written word. Knowing that, I can dive in.

So I’m creating my own “crash course” in social media, blogging, writing and editing, marketing, and putting my work into the world in a way that others can find it. I feel “credentialed” now in a way that I did not before. I have great gifts and a unique way of seeing the world. And I know now that my writing is really good, and valuable to others, and is worthy of a larger audience.

Q: I’m glad you’ve figured that out. When you read through your Amazon reviews, it seems like there are a bunch of people that already knew that about your work.

A: By talking about my previous failure to find a larger audience, I hope I don’t sound ungrateful for the audience I did find. I’m so thankful for those who have read All of the Above, and especially for those who’ve taken the time to leave a review, or a comment on Facebook, or a like or a tweet or a follow or a share. This conversation that I’m having in my writing, it’s beginning to feel really fun when I get to have that conversation with other real human beings, rather than just with the more abstract “Mind at Large.” I can know, intellectually, that there’s a large community of lurkers out there, people from whom writers will never hear directly. So in actuality, I won’t ever really know exactly how big my audience might be, or who they are. But sometimes it’s difficult to remember that, and feel the truth of it. And the circuit doesn’t feel complete, when I don’t trust that my stories are reaching the ears that want and need to hear them.

Q: Speaking of lurkers, when you write about secret elite conspirators and their nefarious plans, do you ever wonder, or fear, that some of them are “lurking” out there, red-flagging you for watch lists or following you for possible usefulness to their plan?

A: (laughing) Worry? Not at all. In fact, to the extent that there really are “secret elite conspirators” out there, which would be another topic altogether, I’m hoping to catch their attention.

Q: Really? And why is that?

A: Because I’m fascinated by them. And I want to know the truth of things, and to see the world through their eyes, and understand better why things have gone the way they have gone. I wish the Fisherman would take me on a guided tour of the “breakaway civilization,” if it exists as some people describe.

Q: And the aliens? You want them reading your books?

A: Wouldn’t that be interesting? I can imagine Spud, reading All of the Above, and shaking his head at the parts I got wrong. Maybe he should write an Amazon review!

Q: Sometimes I have difficulty knowing when you’re just joking.

A: You and me both, Q.

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