What inspired you to write...discuss

Well, that has happened to me, those instances of cognitive insight for which there doesn't appear to be an explanation; however, L.I.S. I don't usually write about them, just relate them. There is a big difference in creative writing and simply relating an anecdote.

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LOL matteos
you have the essence of a good story writing imagination

go for it you will have the world at your feet

the magic parade

check this one out it has that twist and that sort of magic that appeals to all ages

As a child, I had some traits of autism, which left me isolated. I read lots of books. Soon, I found I could express myself through writing, whereas I could not do so vocally. In time, I developed a desire to produce works of fiction and the occasional poem.

That's interesting Edgar. I read the topic you posted about the little league coach and what he had another player do to the boy on his team with autism-I didn't respond- because it just made me too angry to even think what to say. But I was happy to hear he got a jail sentence. He may not have severely physically harmed that child, but I'm sure the emotional scars inflicted by that idiot (the adult who instigated the whole thing) will last a lifetime for that boy. And the lesson he taught the "normal" children on the team is something that could cause harm to whoever they run into that is different in some way for the rest of their lives too- although the judge kind of balanced that out by giving the coach some pretty tough consequences. Maybe they'll learn that lesson instead. We can always hope.

Have you read The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime by Mark Haddon? I'd be interested in your take on that. I really loved that book. So simply written, but so enlightening.

Have you ever written about your own unique perspectives- aside from being an individual, but as an individual who has experienced this world so uniquely?
Talk about sixth sense and imagination - people with autistic tendencies usually have it in spades compared to the general population. Has that been inspiring for you in your writing- or would you say it has been more of a difficulty you've had to overcome?

*If any of this is too personal or makes you uncomfortable to discuss - I apologize and feel free to ignore it- it's just that autism is a special interest of mine, and I've never known an adult who has had those experiences as a child and could relate them. I'd be fascinated to hear.

I won't be able address all of your points here, Aidan, but I thank you for your interest. No, I haven't heard of the book you mentioned, but I may seek it out.

As a child, I had no answers in dealing with others. For instance, my closest companion, outside the immediate family, could rattle on all day on a seeming endless variety of topics. I was like a blank slate through most of it, for I could only connect with a few snatches of it to understand and had no responses to even that much. Later on, as a student, I sat through entire semesters without uttering a single word, unless directly spoken to, and then rarely responded with over a sentence or two. In about the third grade, I was sitting one morning by a backstop during a baseball game. I became intensely interested in "our side." As one of our players came in to home plate, there seemed a question as to whether or not he had been properly tagged. "He's safe," I blurted out. The teacher jumped as though she received an electric prod. For a long moment, she stared, surprised, this being the first time I had uttered a word in her presence. I shrank back into myself until the unwelcome attention dissipated. I went through high school much the same way. My grades were generally good, mostly Bs or Cs, until the tenth grade, where I failed every subject. During those years, I read Dickens, Poe and others, and wrote papers that were often read to the class by my teachers.

Once in the Navy, I developed a technique for arguing, that got me lots of attention. This was my way of becoming self assertive, of saying, I, too, am someone. It made me a pain in the behind to more than a few shipmates.

How this affects my writing to this day, is, I will be doing well on certain passages, and suddenly have to ask, what would a person in the context of the situation do next. I will hit a wall that often does not resolve itself, for I do not know what a person will or ought to do now. Much like when I played in the dirt with my cars and stick people as a child. I would direct my people home in their cars, but as soon as they stepped into the house, the little playlet ended, for I had no idea what they would do in that setting.

I never would have guessed that about you Edgar. Thanks for sharing.

Yeah, Edgar - thanks

Your description of what happened at the baseball game is very heart warming. It made me think of the film 'Field of Dreams' for some reason - do you still like to watch baseball? Or ever write about it? It's a game I've enjoyed reading about - but never seen.


Inspiring thread by the way, lostnsearching.

The last pro ball game I saw was the final appearance of Pete Rose in the Astrodome. But, no, I don't write about sports.

Someone on some thread I was reading was talking about the Bible as a guide for life - I think this book is pretty much a guide for life. The narrator is a boy who has autism - and his take on everyday things that happen around him is just so on target. It's definitely worth a read- funny too.

This would make an interesting story Edgar- if you felt like writing it up as one.


I think that's a problem we all have as writers - trying to imagine scenarios that haven't happened to us. I think that's why so much of people's writing is autobiographical - especially when they begin to write. I read something once that said the majority of first novels are heavily autobiographical, whether the author admits it or not, but as writers gain practice in plotting, characterization, etc., each successive book or story they write becomes less and less autobiographical because they become more practiced at writing or creating something outside of their own experience.

It's hard to say really what originally inspired me. I think it was something along the lines of all the trauma I had in my childhood. I never felt like I could talk to anyone about it so I wrote. Poems, stories, and a journal. It was the only place that felt "safe" to me for many years. It was like being able to escape the horror of my life for awhile and put myself somewhere else. It has been my survival tool for most of my life. When I was younger I used it to help me escape emotionally from the things that were happening around me, but now it helps me see things from a different perspective. It gives me a release from things that sometimes bind me. Anything can inspire me now. A thought. Something I see driving down the road. A sign. Something someone else says. I see writing as a gift. It is something I truly cherish.

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Thanks....just curious to know about other's 'sources of inspiration,



i think i can understand that...feels like i've felt it before... anyways your words are inspiring (within themselves!)

EVERYONE: Interesting...(i guess that's about all i've been saying in this thread, huh?)

this is a very moving string of comments......much like putting "faces" to the names in here making it seem much warmer even with the snow flurries outside my window.

Your question is simple enough and requires only the simplest of answers while inviting an opening of hearts to share much more than required. The more I thought about it just before clicking on to another string to catch up on my reading the A2K, I feel like I owe it to myself to answer your question.

When I write I do not always feel inspired. Inspiration inspires inspiration. This is true, but without determination, focus and resignation to our imagination's limitless resources, all the inspiration in the universe could not produce more than a short poem, story, or at worst, a one-liner.

Emotions motivate my writing to be accomplished. Beauty inspires, but beauty fades quickly. Pain puts my writing in check at times, but I use it as a tool later as the pain subsides. Nearing completion of my second novel has made me realize that the stories I write have already been written. I just have to discover the many intricate aspects of them.

Experience and contemplating aspects, ideas otherwise overlooked by most feed into the characters, feelings, and situations. I never kept a journal or diary, but since I knew what words were all about, I dreamed of writing. Life got in the way and now I am making up for lost time with a fevered pitch of obsession to write whether I ever see total success or not.

One last thing about inspiration: Dreams inspire and motivate my writing when I least expect it. When writing in a novel or shortstory and my writing becomes too inspired, I stop and load it into a mysteriously packed poem. In the stories, I dig up the plot for the reader; in the poem, I hide it and let the reader do the digging.

thanks for a great topic

Herema

My son suggested years ago that I should write my memoirs. At first I took it as a joke, later I dismissed it as impossible.
Finally he told me the hidden reason. Since I have hundreds of interesting stories stored away in my brain attic, I should put them on paper to save them. It would make him and others happy to read them once I'm gone.
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One day I started timidly and awkwardly to write and rewrite an essay. Eventually it became readable and I noticed an appetite to write more.
Now I have a ring binder full of essays and from time to time I slip another one into it.
My son will not see them while I am still around to tell stories. I find these essays more interesting than a tombstone.
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PS, is it possible that writing true experiences don't count?

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dreams really are awesome

oh and D.. u really owe that one to your son...Writing about real experiences is only natural for writers...that's what most of them do and that's what makes real great work! no two similar experiences can be written in the same way...my english teacher once told me: "no piece of literature is entirely new"
anyways, even fiction is rooted to real experiences and events...just jeweled a little differently!

writing true experiences ARE the most inspiring of all inspirations for writing......so.....most definitely they COUNT!!!

Here is one of the essays.
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Infatuations.
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Although I grew up in troubled times, I think of my childhood as my wonder years. There were no private schools or wealthy parents, summer homes or trips abroad. Our way of life did not include cars or telephones but one can have golden moments without them.
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During the lean war years I spent the summers on my grand-aunt's farm where life was simple. We rose early, worked hard and went to bed tired. The food was good and a day's labour was like a 12-hour workout. I don't remember seeing anyone with a belly.
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My grand-aunt was a widow with a 24-year-old daughter. Her two sons were in the army. There was a farmhand with incredible biceps, two Polish prisoners of war and an 18-year-old maid. Her name was Gretchen and of course I was deeply in love with her.
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She was rosy-cheeked and sturdy. I was four years younger and skinny. Her lover was a young farmer in the village. He was a soldier and came home from time to time. That did not stop her from being my friend in an innocent way. She had the strength of a man; when we wrestled I could feel her hard body.
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One of my jobs was to feed the fowl. When I came down from the grain loft I could hardly open the door. Hundreds of feathery friends were demanding in no uncertain terms, to be fed. The free-for-all never failed to amuse me.
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One Saturday evening we set up a steel bathtub in the kitchen. Huge kettles of hot water were waiting on the stove. I had to take my bath first. After an inspection my aunt sent me upstairs to bed. Then she and the daughter took turns. When they were finished, they called Gretchen and went to their bedroom. I tiptoed downstairs and looked through a hole in the kitchen door. There she was, soaking in the tub. Then she stood up and soaped herself from top to bottom.
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This was my first look at a full frontal nude and how rubenesque she was. I was in my nightshirt, hunched over at the peephole, sweating with excitement. She stood facing the door, washing and rinsing her incredible body for an eternity. Finally I went to bed, a happy witness to something better than all my fantasies rolled into one.
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The next morning at breakfast I looked at her with possessive pride. Before she left the room she gave me a long smile and then she winked. I almost fainted.
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Winter fun at home meant taking our sleighs to a snowy slope, climb up and race down, for hours on end. One afternoon my boyfriend and I were having fun on a hill near the stadium when two girls joined us. Soon we were racing each other and even changing partners.
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I made friends with the pretty one called Inge. She was blond, well spoken and lots of fun. We were the same age and showed off our school knowledge. After some teasing and snowball fights we said good bye.
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For the next few days I thought about her a lot. That Saturday I saw her picture in the paper. She had won a junior horse-jumping contest. What destroyed me was the caption: Inge von Buelow, daughter of a high-ranking officer. To avoid heartaches I took my sleigh elsewhere. At that time there was an ironclad class distinction in central Europe.
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If you want to keep your wings, don't flutter around a candle too noble for you.



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wow...that kinda makes me feel a little left out...ok the right word is JEALOUS.
well the 21st century isn't all that bad...'technology rocks'
that didn't work too well...
ps this topic is starting to get very interesting!

I think it's interesting too DI. The onlypart that rankled, is as a gentleman, and all grungy from your outside work, you should have let the ladies have the bath water first. It'd also be much more aesthetically pleasing to watch Gretchen wash herself in clean water than in what must have been grey and lukewarm and just all around gross by the time it was her turn.

Just kidding, I know that males always got first dibs on everything back then-you're just telling it like it was.

But your essay was fun to read - you should make a thread and post more of them.

aidan, I was a skinny little boy sent to the farm to gain some weight (there was too little food in the cities at the time) I had no clout with the all-female crew that ran the farm.
The hot water was produced on a wood stove in huge pots. It did not flow from some magic tap; not easy to make a new tub-full for each of us.
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Nevertheless, she looked clean and inviting, standing there like a painter's model.

I guess I was just projecting my own upbringing- my mother was one of those southern women who always deferred to the male- in my case-my big brother -and to this day still does.

Sounds like your situation was different though.

I did really like reading your essay and I would enjoy reading more of them. You're a good writer, and it sounds like you've had some interesting experiences.