I have always been better at expressing myself through writing. I know this because I relied very heavily on my written work and hardly at all on social status to get me through the terrifying world of school and college. Apparently this is often the way with the autistic brain. Which makes sense really.
I mean in face-to-face communication, we are expected to read the other person’s face, understand what they said (taking into account how they said it), remember to only display body language of the deeply interested variety and come up with a response that won’t cause them to look at you as if you are speaking Martian (*takes deep breath after ridiculously complicated sentence*). And all in the space of about a microsecond. When you think about it, you can see how all that could send a socially challenged brain into a mental overload. And my brain is not good at dealing with overload.
Writing, in my experience, is a slightly different kettle of fish. Rather than having to deal with the stresses of instantly having to respond to spontaneous verbal communication, you can play with words, add some, remove others etc to your heart’s content. My earliest memories of honing my writing date back to the days when I would regularly communicate with my mother by writing letters and posting them under her door.
Such messages included “Dear Mummy: are you sorry I hurt my knee?” Or “I am sorry the book got broken, maybe we can fix it somehow”. Or Mum’s personal favourite: “Dear Mummy, (my younger sister) is being a beast. I picked her up and put her down and she went out. Love Grace.” An essay on my mum, written in year one, read “My mummy is good and kind and pretty and firm when me and my sister are bad. Sometimes my sister is bad but I am good most of the time.” Pure literary genius.
Over these past few months, people have often told me, unprompted, how much they love my blog. Having been told how witty or articulate they think it is, I can only assume that my blogging alter ego is on a completely different wavelength to my face-to-face-in-the-real-world-persona. Frustratingly, said alter ego has been reluctant to make an appearance lately, leaving me in the lurch with writers block of the worst kind. And a touch of what feels like the internet equivalent of stage fright, as I dread the possibility of running out of interesting topics and boring my blog’s multiple readers.
My application for the Creative Writing and Journalism course at De Montfort University saw me racking my brains for how to creatively write about a box. I understand that not doing an English A level meant having to prove my worth by actually sending in some work, but really, did the topic have to be that ambiguous? Apparently it did, and so I ended up writing a short story about a memory box, and the happy/sad/poignant memories linked with its contents. If that wasn’t enough, I then had to write an in-depth analysis on the whole thing, followed by an essay on why I want to study Creative Writing with De Montfort. However, it seemed that my luck was in, as I was given an unconditional offer, and will be starting uni a week on Monday. Hooray!
And so will (hopefully) begin my writing career…