Writing Under A Handicap

WRITING UNDER A HANDICAP

 The most frightening experience of my life was in February 2018, when a tiny piece of my brain, no larger than my fingernail, starved for lack of oxygen and died. Feeling unwell, I took myself to the hospital, where I was admitted under stroke protocol. For a week (without treatment; it was “not that kind of stroke”), I lay in a hospital bed as my ability to move and to speak was taken away. Then, once I “hit bottom,” I began six weeks of intensive inpatient therapy.

 Once I was released from the hospital, the more difficult part of my recovery began: My return to a “normal” life. Many things were different. I lost my job. I needed help from my wife to get from place to place. I could no longer write using a computer (my right hand was still useless) and could not record audiobooks (my once beautiful voice was halting and slurred).

 Unbeknownst to me, I had entered a secondary class. I had become “handicapped.” And this meant much more than the placard I could hang from the rearview mirror, which allowed my wife to park much closer to the grocery store.

A PRIVILEGED CLASS

 The full advantages of my new class only became apparent to me the following August, when I attended a Mariners baseball game. I was walking with a four-point cane by that time, but I still couldn’t drive. My wife dropped me off in front of the stadium, then drove off to find a parking spot.

 I was waiting in a crowd of perhaps a thousand people near the home plate entrance to the stadium. I expected to stand there for twenty minutes or so until my wife could return from parking the car. But within a minute, an usher spied me waiting on the sidewalk – holding my cane – and came up to me.

 “Sir? Would you like to come with me?”

 I followed the usher through a special door into the stadium – past a thousand people.

 “Where we going?” I asked.

 “I will take you to the club level. From there, someone will escort you to your seat.”

 I was taken upstairs to a room I had never before known existed. It was filled with perhaps a hundred people; celebrities, by the look of them. There was a bar.

 “You can have a drink while you are waiting,” my host said.

 I sidled up to the bar—again, not waiting in any line. My understanding was that the drinks were free, and many of them contained alcohol. (I ordered a coke.)

 Presently, another usher collected me and escorted me to my seat. As I sat there waiting for my wife to join me, I wondered at the singularity of the experience.

 I felt that I had joined a “privileged class.” I’m certain that all one thousand or more fans waiting outside the home plate entrance would LOVE to be personally escorted up to the club level in a private elevator and offered a free drink, then shown to their seats. But only I was given this advantage, thanks to my loss of a square centimeter of gray matter.

 I remembered feeling distinctly self-conscious, even uncomfortable. Was I better than these people? More deserving? Clearly not. With some difficulty, I could have hobbled to my seat on my own, or with the help of my wife.

 I learned on that day the meaning of the word “privilege.”

PRIVILEGE IN THE WRITING INDUSTRY AND UNDER-REPRESENTATION

Seven years later I am still mildly handicapped. I cannot stand and walk perfectly. My right index finger will not fully extend without “snapping.” My voice slurs when I am physically tired, but recovered enough that I am considering going back to recording audio books this summer.

I am also profoundly changed in ways that I can’t understand. For some reason beyond even medical explanation, my sensitivity to allergens is greatly reduced, meaning that I no longer suffer from asthma. I am completely cured!

I am also “neurodivergent,” a word which has taken on currency only recently. Usually this applies to people with dyslexia, autism, or ADHD—genuinely debilitating conditions for a writer. But in my own case it means that I have a condition called “Pseudobulbar disorder.” Basically, I experience emotions and emotional content more intensely, sometimes leading me to involuntarily laugh or cry beyond my control. This is extremely common amongst stroke survivors, but the emotion usually intensified is “irritation.” The emotion which I feel more intensely—quite rare—is “happiness.”

All of this leaves me with various new opportunities and experiences to explore. For one, I have developed an exciting new novel called “BOOK GROUP.” Part of this novel is directly inspired by my stroke recovery and time in the hospital: (No spoilers) My protagonist is profoundly handicapped, strapped to a hospital bed, uncertain of her future, wondering if she is going to live or die. Everything is punctuated by a “flashing orange light” which disturbs her sleep. This was my direct experience during my hospital stay, the “flashing orange light” from the bed alarm that would alert the nurses if I fell out of bed.

One “opportunity” makes me feel uncomfortable. I am querying the novel to agents right now. For those of you who do not know what “querying” is, they call it “the trenches.” It is long and arduous, with little hope of anything but rejection. It can take over a year to find an agent willing to represent your work, and 99 out of 100 never succeed and eventually give up.

In a way, I feel like I’m waiting in a huge crowd, like that summer day outside Safeco field, with about ten thousand others. I want to be noticed. I want to be singled out. I want an agent to come take my hand, lead me up to the club level, give me my free drink, and escort me to my publisher.

And I’ve got a cane. I am “neurodivergent.” I have a piece of paper signed by a doctor that says that.

I notice when I look at agents’ “Manuscript Wish Lists,” VERY frequently they will say that they want to represent “under-represented voices.” Usually they mean women, BIPOC, and LGBTQ+, but very frequently they will place “ND” in this list—for “neurodivergent.” These lists appear in two ways: Either the agent wants to represent WRITERS who are from these under-represented groups, or they wish to read books with PROTAGONISTS who are from under-represented groups.

When I query agents who have this distinction, who prefer under-represented PROTAGONISTS, I am quick to point out the MC of my novel is such a person. I also state that my MC’s hospital experience is BASED on my stroke recovery. This is fine. But I hesitate to state “I am ND” in my queries.

The reasons for this are complex. It may be true—I may be ND—but that has at most a MINIMAL impact on my writing. I have met—and worked with—authors that have major challenges, such as a learning disability, ADHD, or dyslexia—which severely hamper the ability to write. These people deserve any advantage the writing community can offer them.

I don’t think I need the same type of advantage. I’m uncertain if my condition hampers my writing ability at all, or it might not be to my advantage. SBD allows me to “see the world differently,” which may enhance my writing of quantum fiction. If this is true, it is not a disability, but an ability.

My core feeling on this is that when representation comes, it will be for my own abilities and not because I represent a class. This, plus it just feels dishonest to try to shovel my way past droves of similarly-endowed authors scrambling for attention. My friends sometimes try to dissuade me from this course. They recommend that I use any advantage at my disposal to achieve recognition. I would rather not achieve something due to my survival of a stroke, but on the clear merits of my writing. It seems a more honest presentation for my biography.

Even if it means I will have to wait a long time, then hobble to my seat. Even if I have to pay for my coke.