It may be because of what makes me different but it always takes a little bit of time to realise that something monumental has happened. That a milestone has been met or an achievement realised. Part of being neurodivergent means processing things at a different speed to the average person. Birthdays are sometimes difficult to take in or enjoy. Too busy trying to make eye contact with every guest. Making sure that I’m making the right faces and performing correctly. It’s a sensory bombardment and I’m usually too busy focusing on other people to process and digest what is happening. It’s not until a few days later, when I’ve finally returned to my version of calm, that I remember the things to celebrate.
Without dwelling on the obvious reasons why this last year has been different to those that came before, I have been able to recognise one thing.
A year that was terrible in so many ways became the year that everything in my life changed and I was able to celebrate something that was hidden for twenty-six years before.
Having my debut novel published is certainly something to celebrate. It’s a monumental achievement. That’s something that I need to remind myself sometimes. Writing and finishing a book is an act that deserves celebration, even if its fate is to sit in a drawer and never be read. Writing a book is difficult. Doubt and life often get in the way. So its completion alone is something to celebrate, and it earns you the title of “writer”.
Publication is a whole other journey. Decisions about your work are made without you, some things move quickly while other things take months. Surviving the publication process is also something to celebrate. The night before your book is sent out into the world, the full reality hits. People are actually going to read your words.
That feeling alone is often frightening enough to keep me from my desk (my figurative desk, I can’t afford a real one just yet).
However, it was through writing and publishing my first novel that I came to my epiphany. Albeit slowly.
I was fulfilling my obligations to promote my book. When I signed my contract I knew I was signing with an incredible publisher. Wonderfully committed but a small press. So I was comfortable in the knowledge that my book would not be strewn across supermarket shelves. It would not embark on a grand tour of the world. It would not sell to other territories or be made into a film or television show. It would not win awards or be written about in the newspaper. I would be lucky to get a small band of readers and see my book in the occasional library.
I was perfectly happy with that. For one reason.
In announcing my book to the world, I was also announcing something else. Something equally personal. Something deeply private, up until then.
I was announcing that I am neurodivergent. Something only a few people knew. Some doctors, some loved ones. While I have spent my life hearing, ‘there’s something wrong with you, isn’t there?’, I don’t actually count that as them “knowing” that I am neurodivergent.
Now the advanced information sheet told people that my book was written by a neurodivergent author.
At the time I thought, this is okay. Its a small book climbing an uphill battle which will probably be read by less than one hundred people. One hundred people knowing is nothing. It’s totally fine.
I continued to celebrate that my little book was going to find its little audience. A pandemic arriving a couple of months before its release, saddened me but also settled my nerves about people learning the truth.
I had to state that I am neurodivergent, so my community would know that the book came from truth and experience. It was for them, nobody else.
Publication day would be met with virtual celebrations at home.
But when the book was published everything started to change.
Things started to happen, things that I knew I should celebrate. The book was made Children’s Book of the Week in both The Times and The Sunday Times. It was well-reviewed. It sold out in online retail spaces. A school revealed that they had bought 300 copies. It was made Book of the Month by both Blackwell’s and Waterstones. It was announced that a publisher in New York wanted to bring out an American edition.
Suddenly, without fully realising what I had done, I was exposed. It was not hundreds of people who now knew my once most private secret. It was thousands. It was printed in newspapers.
Messages came flooding in. Most of them beautiful. People who related to the book, who had found paragraphs too close to the bone. They quoted my words back to me, from the book and from interviews. They thanked me. They shared their stories. I treasured it.
But there were other messages. Messages telling me that I'm an abomination. That I should never celebrate the fact that I am, in their words, broken.
It was conflicting. And lonely.
The book’s success continued and in March 2021, I found myself in the Blue Peter Studio, about to accept an award. It was live television. The change in routine, the unfamiliarity, the level of social masking required was weighing on me. It was hard in a sensory way. The lights and sound were very intense. It’s not something you can change, just something you have to accept.
As I was standing behind the set, waiting to go on live to collect the award, everything hit me. I didn’t have to hide anymore. Yes, there are people who are prejudiced. Yes, there are abusers. But there is also acceptance and love.
I heard myself say the words,
‘I am a neurodivergent author.’
And I celebrate that. I’m proud of that. I will never hide from that again.
I will never hide from anyone again.
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Show Us Who You Are by Elle McNicoll is out now, published by Knights Of.