Timothy Scott Bennett's Blog: Everything is Research: Life, Asperger's, and the Written Word, page 9

More Hank Than Max – Part 1: The Challenge to Identity

Recognition. Resonance. Assessment. Diagnosis. Disclosure. These, it seems, are steps many Aspies, if not most, take on their journeys of discovery. I know I’ve taken, and am still taking, every one of them. And for myself, taking these steps has meant rewriting large chunks of my identity and self-perception. That has been challenging, to say the least.

But then when have I ever just said the least?

If identity is an onion (and of course it is), then I’d like to peel away a few layers and see what I find within. The first layer is the one you see when you look at the onion from the outside.

As I’ve contemplated “coming out,” I’ve wondered about how the “news” would be received. Would I be believed? Accepted? Ridiculed? After all, I thought, I don’t “look” Aspie, which is to say that, from what I could see, I wasn’t a strong match for the common cultural perceptions or stereotypes associated with Asperger’s Syndrome. From my point of view, I just look like I’ve always looked, like “a regular Joe,” like “one of us.” To some, perhaps, my claiming to be Aspie might seem as foolish as claiming to be Lithuanian, or short, or a gerbil. (And no, I don’t hold there to be anything wrong with either Lithuanians, short people, or gerbils. I do, however, have some rather unkind thoughts about hamsters. But then, who doesn’t?)

For those who’ve watched the NBC series Parenthood, I’m way more Hank than Max. That’s how it seems. Max, who we watched grow from child to adolescent as the series progressed, was the more obvious, stereotypical television Aspie: unable to hold eye contact, fairly obsessive in his special interests, at times rude™ or even cold™ (some might say), and prone to “acting out.” Hank, on the other hand, was a middle-aged adult with an ex-wife and a teenage daughter. He was quiet, socially awkward, and somewhat flat in terms of affect, but mostly lacked Max’s more obvious traits. He was quirky, you might say. A bit odd. Rather lost in the realm of human relationship. But not obvious. Just a regular Joe.

And that’s me. Hank was me. A bit odd? Sure, I’ll accept that. Socially inept? Check. Distant? Aloof? Difficult to know? Prone to anxiety? Eccentric in my interests and beliefs? All that. But I’m no more obvious than Hank was, am I? I mean, I’ve passed for “regular Joe” my entire life, haven’t I? What the heck could I be talking about with this Aspie thing?

That’s what I could imagine people saying. That’s what I said to myself. I’m just me. The same me I’ve always been. How could I expect others to accept something even I had doubts about?

But the relief I felt, from both recognition and resonance, was strong and real. The assessments all pointed in the same direction. The books, the blogs, and Sally – who has always seen me more fully than any other living soul – all argued the case. And diagnosis by professionals confirmed it: the story of Asperger’s was a fair and accurate tale to tell about myself.

And here’s why: It turns out that I’m only really Hank on the outside. Inside, I’m way more Max than even I ever realized, and way more Max than I ever let most people see.

(Part 2 Coming Soon)

Ask me the questions, bridgekeeper. I’m not afraid.

I’m going to be away for a couple of days. I could use your help, during my absence, if you’re of a mind to give it to me. I’d like to put together a written interview that I might use here and there in support of my new novel, or parts thereof. Perhaps you could ask me some questions.

Ask me about All of the Above. Ask me about the new book, Rumi’s Field. Ask me about the third book, Imbolc. Ask me about myself, my life, my process, my thoughts. Ask me about being an Aspie, or a Blogger, or an Aspie Blogger, or a blogging Aspie. Ask me about the whys and wherefores and whats and hows. I don’t know the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow, but I do know lots of other things. And I’m adept at making shit up.

Ask me. Here in the comments. On the Facebook thread. On Twitter. I’ll do my best to respond when I return, and the written interview will fall together as if by magic. And the person that asks me the BEST question (the one that most tickles me, or is the most fun to answer) between now and February 18th will get a free eBook copy of Rumi’s Field when it comes out!

Thanks, all.  Pax-T

Social Media Crash Course

With the upcoming publication of Rumi’s Field, I’m doing something new: I’m taking myself seriously as a writer, and putting my work out there to find its audience.

To do this, I’m following the obvious steps first, most of which, at this point, involve some form of social medium. Setting up a Facebook page, where I can concentrate my presence there. Figuring out Twitter. Reading about how I can use my Goodreads and LinkedIn accounts to boost my audience. Finally getting around to filling out my Amazon Author Page.

Then there are all the connections to make, between this blog and these various media and then back to the blog. Between one medium and another. Between all my various websites. I’ve got profiles to fill out, reading to do, contacts to make, tweets to tweet and blogs to write, and WordPress widgets and plugins to install and configure. And then there’s the book to finish editing.

It’s taking a great deal of time and energy and focus, doing all of this. But I must say, I’m doing well. The old dog lover is learning new tricks of the trade, and I’m excited to see where these steps, and the ones I’ll take next, will lead me. Feel free to connect with me through any or all of these media. I’ll be glad to have you there with me.

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Wabbits

I have had rabbits with me my entire life. Wise-cracking cartoon bunnies bugs-ing me on Saturday mornings. Real rabbits in the fields and lawns and roadside ditches. One rabbit dragged me with Alice to Wonderland. Another taught me how to outwit Br’er Fox. One was a Pooka. Another was a friend of Pooh. Still another was as mad as the hatter. There’s a certain wise rabbit who meets me in the lower world. There are ceramic and felted rabbits who watch me from a shelf on my desktop, and painted ones on my walls.. And in my headphones, one of my favorite bands, Frightened Rabbit, sings to me as I write.

The reasons for all these rabbit familiars are not lost on me. I am rabbit-like myself. I spend my days in constant vigilance, on alert for predators, nose twitching, ears up, listening, watching, ready to put my long legs to work as I dash away from peril. I can sense danger coming from far away in both space and time, and if I cannot outwit it first, I can always hide in the thicket. But when cleverness fails, and fleeing is not an option, I have sharp claws and a fierce kick as well. If forced, I can and will fight.

I have rabbits in my life because I am part rabbit myself. It’s how I’m wired, it’s my Asperger’s neurology, and it showed up as far back as my kindergarten report card with a comment about how sensitive I am, and how that problem™ would need to be corrected. But it’s also a product of my experience, as the years and conflicts and losses of life have taken their toll, leaving trauma in their wake. Some days, it feels like I’m surrounded by stoats and eagles and foxes. Some days, I get very tired of being on alert.

There’s one rabbit who always makes me cry. Get hold of a copy of the movie version of Watership Down. There’s a scene at the end. Hazel, the Chief Rabbit, has grown old and weary. The Black Rabbit of Inlé comes to Hazel and offers him a place in his Owsla. Tired, ready, Hazel leaves his body behind and accompanies the spirit guide into the woods, “where the first primroses were beginning to bloom.” I cannot watch without sobbing, and wonder if, when my own Black Rabbit comes, I, too, will find a place of primroses and peace.

I would like that. Some days I get so tired of being on alert.

“All the world will be your enemy, Prince With a Thousand Enemies. And whenever they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you. Digger. Listener. Runner. Prince with the swift warning. Be cunning, and full of tricks, and your people shall never be destroyed.” (Richard Adams, Watership Down)

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I Like to Watch – Episode 1

Like Chance the Gardener in the wonderful Being There, “I like to watch.” For the longest time, I liked to watch movies. But as the world changed, and places like Netflix, Hulu, and Amazon Prime made available to me quality programming without the commercials (which I mostly find quite irritating), I’ve found that, even more than movies, I like to watch series television. I understand that I am not alone here, this being the era of “Peak Television,” after all.

I find series television satisfying and helpful for a number of reasons.

After a long day in the real world, during which my Aspie limbic system is often/usually on alert, and during which I encounter any number of stimuli which irritate, offend, or overwhelm, I’m usually exhausted. Series television gives me a way to engage my heart and mind with other humans, and with Sally, in a less stressful manner, at the levels of story and myth and art than in the more demanding level of face-to-face interaction.
I find that, for me, series television is to novels as movies are to short stories. I love the longer form, in which there’s room for the writers and producers to more deeply explore characters and relationships. As my primary “alien anthropologist” mission/special interest here on Planet Houston is the study of human psychology, behavior, and relationship, series television serves as a great place for me to continue my research. The series Lie to Me stands out, in that regard, as a wonderful example. I mean… a show about a guy who studies micro-expressions? Fabulous!
The languages of cinema and story act as aids to me as I study the language of human being. Faces are close up, actions are big and clear, plots follow predictable rules, edits direct attention and cut to moments of import, camera angles and color palettes add meaning and tone, and music pulls in the heart, all in such a way that it’s much easier for me to follow the emotional and psychological subtext of the human interactions on the screen than it often is in real life. Because I am so conversant in the language of cinema, series television serves almost as a primer for learning to read human beings, all in the safety and calm of my own home. It allows me to feel with and for humans in a way that’s more difficult for me in the real world. I can take the time to see what’s going on with them because they’re not standing right there in front of me, demanding something from me. And I can stop the show and ask Sally what’s going on, or why so-and-so is doing this, or whether something being portrayed is actually how it is for humans, or share my own interpretation to check it against hers, all of which I find risky or difficult to do when real humans are standing right there in front of me.

There are things I’ve had to work out with Sally in regard to my “liking to watch.” And there are likely other factors involved. But I’ll save that for the next episode. Stay tuned.

~~~~~

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Five Years (My Brain Hurts A Lot)

All of the Above came out in the summer of 2011. The sequel, Rumi’s Field, should be out in the world by this summer. “Hey, TS. Why did it take you five years to write the sequel? Inquiring minds want to know.”

I mean, that’s a long time between novels in a sci-fi series if you want to build an audience, right? Especially when the first one was so well (if not widely) received. So what gives?

Good question. One to which I could form a variety of answers. But the answer that feels most truthy is this: I couldn’t write and publish Rumi’s Field until I was ready to do so. Ready personally. Ready psychologically. Ready emotionally. Ready spiritually. There were things I had to go through, truths I had to face, and realities I had to come to accept, before I could find the power and intention it takes to write and publish and promote a novel. Especially a novel that goes where Rumi’s Field goes.

Five years, and much of that time my brain and heart hurt very much. I learned to play the drum kit during that time. Played in a rock and roll band. I helped fix up four houses. Moved twice. Hauled firewood and shoveled snow. All of that. I read and studied and wrote and stopped. I moved through great loss, and then confronted myself in the emptiness, finding both surprising gifts and befuddling limitations. I cried. I told the truth. And over time, and with the help of others, I began to more truly love and value myself, gifts and limitations and all. I hadn’t really done that before.

Back on firm footing, I feel strong and steady, ready to release my next major work into the world and help it take wing.

Rumi’s Field. I’ll meet you there.

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Obsessions and Special Interests™

One discussion I hear in Aspieland is in regard to “special interests,” which one might say are an Aspie’s “kinder, gentler” versions of obsessions and compulsions. Probably my most life-long “special interest” is music, which leaves me a somewhat obsessive “completist.”

Here’s how it works. David Bowie puts out a new album. In anticipation of this, I start listening to all of my old Bowie. I concentrate on the LPs that I don’t know so well. Outside, say. And Tonight. And Heathen. When ★ (Blackstar) comes out, I listen to it over and over. I watch the new videos.

Then David Bowie dies. I check my iTunes folders to make sure I have all of his official releases. I start listening to his entire oeuvre, beginning at the beginning. I go to Wikipedia. There’s a bunch of live stuff I don’t have. Some rarities. An unreleased album, Toy. I go to YouTube to find them. There’s so much to hear. I’m still not finished.

And then Paul Kantner dies.

It’s not like I’m a complete obsessive. I mean, I don’t need to get all the live Bowie stuff out there. (Though I do need to get that stuff from his tour with Nine Inch Nails. And I’d love to see footage from his last few public appearances. And there’s all those old music videos, some of which I’ve never seen… ) And certainly no thinking person could expect me to listen to the Jefferson Starship LPs released past their prime, could they? Although, really, the first four Starship albums are surprisingly good, listening to them now. And then there are Kantner’s many side projects.

So maybe…

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Rumi’s Field – Author’s Note

This will go somewhere in the front matter…

Author’s Note:

From where I sit, it’s fairly easy to write a story set in what is commonly known as “the real world,” the world in which we all live together. I just take what I know and use it as the backdrop in front of which my characters speak their lines. It’s also fairly easy, I find, to write a story set in what is commonly known as “the post-apocalyptic world,” first because we’ve all already seen so many renderings of it, and second because, when we travel together that far down “the energy curve,” we end up in a whole new place. All I need do is concoct a few basic rules – no electricity or petroleum; decimated population; fast, slow, or no zombies, etc. – and go from there. It’s almost like starting from scratch, like the creation of an alien world, and that’s as easy for me as starting from the known.

But it’s much more difficult, I find, to write a story set in a world in-between our present world and a future dystopia, a world that’s fallen a few steps down the staircase of societal collapse but has a ways to go before it hits bottom, a world that is, in Linda Travis’s words, “in free fall.” And yet it’s in just such a world that the story of Rumi’s Field unfolds. More than three years have passed since the events that took place in All of the Above, and the world has fallen a few steps down the stairs.

Things are all a-jumble in Rumi’s Field. We’re about sixteen months past the global economic event known as the “Christmas Crash,” in which a great deal of money disappeared almost overnight, putting huge corporations, small businesses, and individual families out of business. Governments toppled or were overthrown. People, as the old song said, lost their jobs, wives, homes, cars, kids, and lives. Riots spread like wildfires, wildfires burned like pandemics, pandemics raged like hungry mobs, hungry mobs stormed the land like floods and droughts, and floods and droughts came and went like rich bankers and corporate personhoods, doing their damage and then absconding for someplace better, leaving devastation in their wake.

Even so, it was not the total, monolithic, Big-C “Collapse” that many had feared, a one-time mega-event that would instantly transform the structures and institutions of civilized society into vast heaps of bodies and dusty plains devoid of life, though both could be found easily enough if one looked for them. It was a big old goofy world, after all, as John Prine sang, and it very much mattered where one was. Some countries fared better than others, as appears to be the case with Canada as compared to the United States.  Some governments maintained their integrity and continued to function fairly well, taking actions to mitigate the worst effects of the Crash and finding ways to keep at least a portion of their societies intact, as did the Travis administration. Some corporations managed to hold together as their competitors were torn to pieces, and some even prospered in the new world order. There was enough left in place that many people could still find work-arounds and substitutions and alternatives enough to meet their needs. The mobs and wildfires and pandemics settled down after a year or so, or were brought under some measure of control. “We are down,” said Linda Travis, “but we are not out.”  Nobody knew whether it would last, but they appreciated the chance to take a breather.

Such is the world in which we find ourselves in Rumi’s Field. Post Crash, world governments reserved most of their fossil fuels for military and agricultural uses, and for maintaining the electrical infrastructure. While some portions of the grid were completely out, many areas still had electricity, at least part of the time. In the United States, as in many other countries, huge camps and shelters were put into operation, and great numbers of folks moved into them, or close by, in search of the food, water, warmth, and shelter they needed, not to mention the senses of safety and belonging and order they expected from their leaders. The rich remained in their fortresses, enclaves, castles and holds, as far as anybody knew. The rest stuck it out in their homes, or hit the road, or formed their own communities (and even their own sovereign countries) in their own homes and on their own lands, brewing their own biodiesel, generating their own power from solar panels or stored fuels, and growing and hunting and gathering the food they needed to stay alive.

If you were lucky enough to work for the federal government in Augusta, Maine, you lived inside the Capitol City Green Zone, into which were imported the food, fuels, and supplies which made life there feel almost normal at times, and around which bristled a military cordon hell-bent on maintaining order and safety for their Commander-in-Chief. If you were luckier still, the daughter of one of the secret rulers of the planet, say, you might not notice much change at all to life on your small, private college campus in Montreal. If your luck had run out, you might be sleeping on a cot in a gymnasium next to hundreds of others, working in the food line serving soup to nuts and watching the constant stream of news and entertainments on the Jumbotrons that looked down from where the basketball hoops once hung. If your luck had run out even further, you might be dead, murdered by a group of punks intent on stealing your blankets. Some, of course, would consider the dead the lucky ones.

It very much mattered where you were, how well you had planned, and how resourceful (or wealthy, or both) you were when the markets were closed for good. Whether you drank coffee, tea, or stale tap water, whether you could grow lettuce or artichokes or just weeds in dust, whether you slept on a hardwood floor or in the comfy confines of your private island mansion’s master bedroom, the range of conditions a human might encounter as the world unwound was great, and your personal situation depended as much on being at the right place at the right time as it did your own efforts to decide your fate. In that, perhaps, the world had not changed as much as most people seemed to think.

The world was a-jumble. The world was all-of-the-above. It’s into this world that we now proceed.

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Learning to Twit

With the upcoming late spring/early summer publication of Rumi’s Field, I’m of a mind to “give it my all” and see if I can find and grow an audience for my work. That means getting back to a regular blog, help for which I’m finding here and here. It means figuring out how to use my Amazon Author Central page. It means finding and maintaining a presence on Facebook that doesn’t hurt me. And it means finally seeing if I can figure out what the heck this whole Twitter thing is, and how to use it, help for which I’m finding here.

It’ll take time and energy and concentration up front. I’m hoping it will then pay off, as so many seem to believe it will. Time will tell.

Everything is Research

I’ve been saying it for years: everything is research. Sometimes it’s a joke, meant to soothe my own misgivings. Most of the time I know it’s also true. As a writer, I never know which experience, notion, or datum will find its way into a story or essay or screenplay or blog, which book will shape my thinking, which movie will clarify some aspect of storytelling, which song will lodge a word or phrase in my mind. And so everything I do and read and see can be accepted, welcomed, and justified (or forgiven) on that basis. Everything is research. Nothing is lost. Nothing goes to waste.

The phrase has taken on new meaning for me these past couple of years, as I’ve explored, and come to accept, my own Aspergian nature. It seems that I study everything, and always have, looking for the rules and patterns, for the safe zones and exits, watching the behaviors of others so that I can find a way to go unnoticed. Everything is research not only for my writing, but for my ongoing project of finding my place in the human world, the alien anthropologist living amongst you.

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