Autistic Writing Novels & Stories

The words felt like knives going into old scar tissue. Ethan and my sister were gone, but their echoes had their hooks in deep. “No?” Jax said faintly. “Because I distinctly remember a truck.” “It started with me writing,” I said, louder, ignoring him. “With scribbling ghosts on notebook paper in middle school. I stayed up until three in the morning because the monster in my head wouldn’t shut up until I put it on a page.” The ink words under our feet shifted. PATHETIC DRAMATIC melted and re‑formed.

The fury had dwindled to embers, and only a pale, icy ash of despair remained. He sat alone at a simple wooden table, a single sheet of inexpensive, unlined paper before him. A pen, an ink bottle. These were his tools now, not to record the words of someone else, but to excavate his own. He began to write. Not with the careful composure of the Institute's director, or the sharp intellectual precision of the scholar. This was a more laborious, more primal script, the words pulled into being out of a wound. Robert, I don't know why I'm writing this. You will never read it. To send it would be a weakness, and to receive it would be, in your case, a burden. But I have a need to speak, even to th

Baldwin. "So, at first I just wanted to channel my hobby as a writer. I'm not a professional writer and I never had an academic background in literacy and writing. I just wrote for self-healing. Then I thought about creating a website so people can read my writing, maybe they're also interested in the method I use to do self-healing. Unexpectedly, many people even comment that they have many ideas to develop through a book. They hope that one day someone will facilitate many people so they can write stories, ideas, thoughts, and even their creativity through writing. So, I asked my friend who is now my assistant, Kim Mijung to establish a small technology company that will develop an applica

My fingers rested on the keyboard but nothing moved. Writing always felt like pushing through mud. I reached into my bag and grabbed my phone. I had to use my tricks, they weren't perfect but they worked. I took a picture of the folder and used an app to turn the image into text. Then I put my earbuds in. A flat, robotic voice started reading the words to me. It was slow and boring, but it helped my brain see the sentences without them scrambling.

He gets up quickly and sits facing the corner, mumbling louder while rocking himself. “Jack has autism,” Matt explains. “He gets like that when he's really upset.” I tell him to see if he can calm his brother down because we all need to keep quiet. We don't want to draw attention to ourselves if there is anything out there. He sits next to his brother, trying to soothe him while I strain to hear what he keeps chanting. It’s the same word over and over, but he’s saying it so quick I can’t make it out.

Writing styles differs from people to people just as the fingerprint of one man is always different from the fingerprint of another man. Presently, my room is silent. Still, instead of it giving me the air of confidence I need to write my daily account, it stares right back at me with a shady unrealistic darkness. "So, have I told you about a boy that I like and he really really likes me too. The problem is that he lives far away," Katy said to me this morning. Normally, I have already accepted that all humans in this world are selfish. Each, carrying their own selfish desires in their mind and not wanting anything to come against it but I can't go on like this, not with this obese thunder-s

Alex didn’t sleep that night. She sat on the couch with her laptop open, the house quiet, the cursor blinking on an empty page. She had started writing three different times and deleted all of it. Every version sounded wrong. Too emotional. Too careful. Too defensive. She closed her eyes for a second, then started again. This time, she didn’t try to sound like anything. She just wrote. She wrote about Catherine. Not the diagnosis, not the genetics, not the terminology people liked to use.

But after minutes of talking to him with my voice calm, his eyes dilated when I glowed my eyes right in front of him. "I'm a werewolf just like you. But we're not monsters. You're not a monster, Christopher. You are someone with serious Autism Spectrum Disorder."

He writes the way sixteen-year-olds write, which is honest and not polished. Good, I say. The committee does not need polish. It needs the real account of what happened to a boy whose wolf had been stuck at a threshold for four years and what it felt like when it was completed. Bastien sits down and reads what I have been writing for three hours. I watch him read.

She sat next to me and began to recount the history of the community, her words flowing steadily as I wrote them down word for word. Peter sat beside us, occasionally adding his own input. The steady rhythm of Laura’s voice and the scratch of the pen on paper created a strange sense of calm, despite the monumental task ahead. A mere thousand words into the essay, I asked, “Can’t magic be used to write this?” Well, you can’t blame me for now. Can you? Why wreak havoc on my spine and fingers, when magic could solve the problem? Laura explained, “I can’t. If I do, the words appearing in the sheet would be in my handwriting. However, if you can chant the magic words yourself, then your handwriti