Autistic Writing Novels & Stories

" I took a deep breath and heaved a sigh. He was looking at me with some kind of resolution in his eyes; like he was hell bent on convincing me yet pissed off at the same time that I was not buying it. He clenched and unclenched his jaws and did the same for this fists to as he groped the steering wheel in one hand. "You don't have to give your self that kind of stupid storyline. You can simply write your autobiography. How about your legs? Huh? Write about them. Can't you? I've known you for a while now and I know you are not shy or insecure about sharing your story because you have bene doing just that on your Instagram posts for a while. You can simply just write about your legs and inspi

Sophia's POV I started writing in November. Not the autobiography. Not yet. First I wrote badly. This was something I hadn't anticipated. The assumption had been that a person who had spent twenty years building a company and a legal case and a family and a foundation would have, by simple accumulated experience, something to say and a competent way of saying it. What I discovered instead was that business language and legal language and the particular controlled register I'd developed across decades of high-stakes communication were not the same as the language required to put a true thing on a page.

If only I wasn't too ambitious to get noticed by him. "Uh huh..." he smirks and dangles the said note in front of me. Yup, it's also in my handwriting. The ugly scribbly kind that he knows for the twelve months and twelve days as mine. Not because it has some kind of importance, but just because no one can match my one-of-a-kind wonky-writing result. "I'm...yeah, that's...I'm..." I stutter, struggling to jumpstart my brain to make an excuse, any kind of excuse, even a lame one...anything...oh, come on...

His right hand seemed to have developed some kind of shaky syndrome, that it was as though it trembled uncontrollably whenever he wanted to write something down. Unlike the initial no action behavior that he usually put on whenever he was sad beyond words, he decided to clean his room by himself in a long time when he figured out that he could not write further beyond the previous written ones. He dusted clean and shiny every corners of his dressing room from every dirt, and even changed the arrangement of his huge room alone without anyone's help.

His first novel. And deeply personal, based in part on an autistic boy he’d known growing up. While he’d written it, he’d truly felt alive, as though he’d been accomplishing something important, something real. He’d enjoyed writing all his novels well enough but he hadn’t felt the same since that first one, like his writing was making a difference. He lifted a trembling hand. And with an odd combination of loathing and need he flicked open the book’s cover, revealing the inscription: To Hank—best cook in Pennsylvania, who called me ‘not a pain in the ass’.

"Rigo—no." Adrian raised a brow, amused. "Embarrassing?" He tilted his head, then looked straight at me. "She talks to herself when she's writing. Full-on conversations. Argument tone included." I turned to him, mortified. "You said you didn't hear that!" "I lied," he said mildly, reaching for another slice. Luke perked up. "Oh, she does. Sometimes I think she's on a call, but nope. Just arguing with herself about verbs."

The words flowed more easily than expected, filling page after page until my hand cramped and my eyes burned with fatigue. When I finally set the pen down, the sky outside my window was beginning to lighten with the first hint of dawn. It wasn't until I was about to close the journal that I noticed what Sam had written on the inside cover, her neat handwriting a stark contrast to my chaotic scrawl; {Some people write because they have something to say. Others write to find out what they have to say. I can't wait to discover which one you are. Happy birthday Shade!! - your Sunny }

"But I didn't write this." "What?" "Maisie did!" He praised, "It's been a while since she started learning cursive. This is pretty good, considering that! I think she's quite talented…" "I told you!" Whitney scoffed. Her expression changed instantly. "This isn't your style at all. You can tell how narrow-minded the person is in each stroke!" "Hey, didn't you say it was pretty great?" Toby protested. Whitney pouted, tossed the work aside, and looked away.

Amber didn’t even wait until she and Grayson made it to the kitchen. “What the fuck Grayson? Why didn’t you warn me about that man? What’s his deal anyway?” “Elton has his quirks. Believe it or not he’s come a long way. He’s on the spectrum.” Amber had met some people on the spectrum here and there. One Page at the club even had a kid who was nonverbal and didn’t like to be touched. His care cost thousands and was the main reason the Page had sought employment at The Cobra Club to pay for all his sons therapies and medical expenses. Most of the autistic people Amber had met were all high functioning customers who frequented the club and none quite like Elton.

Ninety-nine point seven percent. Half-sibling. I look at the result for a long time. Then I open a new document and I begin typing, not for the piece, not for publication, just for myself, the way I have been writing since I was ten years old, using the act of putting words in order as a way of putting thoughts in order.