—
Let me preface what I’m about to say.
I made a decent if unspectacular living as a newspaper writer. I had my dream job, that of a full-time metro columnist, for more than 20 years. I had the freedom to develop my own ideas and to come and go as I pleased.
The New York Times liked one of my books. Another book produced $7,000 or so in royalties. I’ve produced three— soon to be four — plays. As a freelancer, I’ve sold numerous pieces to newspapers in Chicago, Cleveland, Pittsburgh, Milwaukee, and Atlanta. I have a movie script about 10-year-old baseball players that is making the rounds.
I’m only 67 with ideas a-plenty. That’s certainly time enough to write a best-selling book or pen a play that’s a Broadway smash.
But there is zero chance I will attain that level of ultimate success.
My Asperger’s won’t permit it.
I can get only so far up the ladder before my limitations kick in and prevent me from moving to the next rung.
A writer in my market (Indianapolis) fulfilled a childhood wish by working for Sports Illustrated not long after graduating college.
I would never aim that high. As a kid, I was scared of any career that required an exit from the safe haven that was my corner of rural America. When I got older, I learned I don’t do well in collaborative situations and am easily intimidated by those I deem more talented.
I stayed 15 years on the small newspaper in West Virginia. It was only 90 minutes from home, and I felt comfortable around my colleagues, several of whom did not have college degrees. The pay wasn’t much, but there was very little pressure. The bureaucracy was minimal. If I wanted to write something, I simply assigned myself the project. Nobody second-guessed or evaluated my work. They were too busy just trying to put out the next day’s edition. That’s not exactly how they do things at Sports Illustrated.
In 1987, I noticed a classified ad that the Evansville, Ind., Courier was looking for a columnist. I sent a few pieces. A week or so passed and I got a call asking me to drive up for an interview.
The job paid $200 more a week, but I was afraid I wouldn’t make it in the Midwest flatlands, that any success I had in West Virginia was because I was a product of the mountains.
While waiting to speak with the executive editor, I noticed that one reporter was wearing sandals. Another was loudly belching the vowels. Not exactly intimidating.
I turned to the sports section. In the opening paragraph, the sports columnist misspelled “accommodate.” This too made me feel better. I might not know anything about corn and soybeans, but by God, I can spell.
I told the boss I work best when I’m by myself. I said I’d write the five columns a week until the cows came home, just leave me alone as much as possible.
He was OK with that and I had a pretty good run in Evansville. I put on a gruff exterior and never socialized. More than once I told colleagues I come to the office to work, not play. I fooled many of them into thinking I was the intimidating one.
I never considered leaving Evansville. I considered myself fortunate to get that high on the career ladder. I doubted I could fool folks in another newsroom.
As for other projects, my Asperger’s won’t let me write unless I have the subject matter down cold.
I coached kids’ baseball so I can pen a script about little boys picking flowers in the outfield. I grew up in the segregated South and have long been interested in racial injustice. So I can write a play about the civil rights movement. Because I had a low lottery number in the nationwide draft, I had an unwanted military experience during the Vietnam era. I was terrified that the drill sergeants were going to kill me during basic training. So I can write a book about being perhaps the worst soldier in the history of the Pentagon.
Great writers don’t have to live the story before they can write it.
I haven’t finished reading a book of fiction in 40 years. It’s like, what’s the point? Why read something I can’t use?
Great writers read everything they can get their hands on. It’s like, why limit myself?
It follows that I am not a great writer, nor will I ever be.
That’s not feeling sorry for myself. It’s just fact.
My Asperger’s gives me the willpower to get to the finish line of creative endeavors.
Just not great ones.
Originally published on Medium.com
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