I know I can write autistically and profoundly, because I stand on the shoulders of giants

Emerging Queer Voices is a monthly LGBTQ arts and culture column that features different up-and-coming LGBTQ writers. You can read more about the series and find all published editions here.

Standing out in a crowd rarely results in actually being seen. This is something I have observed throughout my life — so often being the cynosure of all eyes, but seldom the object of close study. Passively drawing stares while others draw their quick conclusions.

I was born with a congenital difference called microtia (small, mismatched ears), and while some people are genuinely unbothered by it, many others instinctively recoil — whether they're aware of it or not. I live in an uncanny valley where I'm frequently perceived as less human for my unique appearance, and even when good-hearted folks can see past it, they immediately encounter an even spikier challenge: I'm very proudly Autistic. 

Being othered at a glance is something I've had plenty of opportunities to unravel in my mind; a mere split second observed countless times from the inside out. And what these stolen glances into the human soul have taught me is that not all barriers can be overcome with tenacity and a positive attitude; some barriers are designed to keep certain people out of sight. I've also found, to add injury to insult, that those walls are often crewed by hostile artillery aimed at those of us who happen to be writers.

For someone with my neurodivergent traits, socializing can already feel like a high-stakes board game where one side uses chess pieces and the other wields checkers emblazoned with facts about Star Trek. Lacking cognitive empathy (the ability to infer and understand others' mental states), my only way of navigating the socially obsessed world that I live in is through careful trial and error. I've made countless social mistakes, big and small — each stumble in the dark unearthing a new piece of the puzzle.  

Growth aside, these lessons were learned at a slower-than-normal pace and a higher-than-normal cost — and navigating the writing community has been even more fraught. There are those who delight in sabotaging their colleagues, and even the most ancient of social missteps can be weaponized against writers already struggling to be seen and heard. Yet when I'm discouraged by this reality, I remind myself that plenty of Autistic writers have not only managed to skirt the writing industry's game of snakes and ladders, but win it on their own Autistic terms.

Emily Dickinson, George Orwell, James Joyce, Lewis Carroll — the list of iconic writers speculated to have been Autistic is long enough to raise eyebrows and Autistic market value. These wordsmiths were known for social difficulty, reclusive natures and being frustrating to work with, but more prominently for their work itself. They wrote with detailed imagery; verbose language; "choppy" flows; unabashed, controversial musings; and unique character motivations that thrust them into the annals of greatness rather than the bottom of the slush pile. I know that I can write Autistically and still create something of profound value because I stand on the shoulders of literary giants who've proved it can be done.

I may struggle to weave intricate social narratives that are lush with nuance and innuendo, but I can paint an escapist wonderland with a typewriter. My hyperfocus allows me to churn out thousands of words in a single sitting, and with storytelling being my special interest, I've only ever had to muster the will to stop writing, rather than to start. These are all valued traits for any writer to possess, but in my case, they're sourced from a treasured wellspring of neurodiversity. 

Sometimes, I feel as though I'm a tertiary root of an ancient and towering forest that the literary machine is clear-cutting for an amusement park. In the modern age, writers are supposed to self-promote, develop a brand and have a robust social following, but expecting an Autistic wordsmith to rub shoulders with the same lubricated ease as a neurotypical writer is as ableist as wanting someone with a mobility aid to crawl up a flight of stairs. 

Still, while darker corners of the writing community still hold Autistic storytellers to unforgiving social standards, advocates are working toward a future where we face fewer barriers — social or otherwise — in our careers. Autistic representation is also something that advocates and neurodivergent readers have been calling for, and as both an Autistic writer and an Autism self-advocate, providing authentic neurodivergent characters is one of my bottom lines. The need to be seen despite preconceptions is something that Autistic writers understand well, after all. And in my case, that desire and understanding doesn't just extend to neurodiversity: I also write as part of the queer community.

At first glance, you'd never think that I'm an agendered, aromantic and asexual person without any pronoun preferences. The only ways that I signal my queerness are by wearing a black ring on my middle finger, hanging a flag on my bedroom wall and through storytelling. Sexuality and gender identity are concepts that I didn't have the luxury of safely exploring until just a few years ago. I'd experienced a lifetime of being punished for my differences, so discovering even more unique aspects of my identity required tentative, terrifying baby steps. My world was already a minefield, after all, and adding more rings to the target on my back was a mad thought.

For that reason and more, writing has always been my safe space. In childhood, playing with imaginary friends in the infinite garden of my mind was how I pieced together the puzzle of my existence; an act of solitary play where I could privately delve into concepts and rehearse my responses to whatever the world threw at me. As an adult, it's allowed me to explore my queer identity without anyone kicking down my door for existing outside the margins. It's become a way to process trauma — a compulsive self-care routine where the justice I was robbed of can bloom into catharsis. It's a place where every mad thought can be not only shouted but celebrated. 

If, like me and my treasured characters, you're a neuroqueer, nonconforming, atypical human navigating a less-than-hospitable alien world, please do me a solid: Never stop trying. Never stop making mistakes. Never stop learning. Never let your spark die. And if, among all that, you also happen to be a writer: Never stop writing.