The first Comic-Con in about a decade where I don’t have a ticket. I’m in the area, but not going to Comic-Con proper. Maybe a few para-con events.
I’ve been trying to take care of family members and resolve family issues for much of the past several months. Being autistic, these interpersonal things require me to spend much more brain chemicals, emotional resources and physical effort than would a neurotypical human. And I end up having not much to show for it, and not much accomplished, if you compare what I’ve done to what a neurotypical human would do given the same resources. So I don’t. At least I try not to. Because that’s not fair to myself.
Melva Gifford, a long time writer friend, invited me to spend several writerly days at a condo in Saint George, Utah. I appreciated that. I especially appreciated their efforts at accommodating what I needed to do to get this strange brain of mine to output. I can appear neurotic and unfriendly if you don’t know what’s going on–the sensory disorders, the fast burn on the resources whenever I attempt to “appear human,” as Linguine in “Ratatouille” put it. Melva and (the other) Carolyn took it in stride, and I was able to make headway on that excruciating Cavern chapter that’s had me gridlocked for a while. And fractals.
So this weekend I have to cope with the realization that no, I’m not going into the San Diego Convention Center, and yes, I’m working on really difficult family issues again (sorry peeps, confidential–you’ll just have to trust me)
And hey, look at all the words, and on three hours of sleep. Again. Maybe that’s the key to the vault which holds my verbal center–be so exhausted that all the idea bits and detail bits and connected bits mash up like pasta dough and start extruding out of the vault’s keyhole.
Just a thought.