“When I sit down to write a book, I do not say to myself, ‘I am going to produce a work of art.’ I write it because there is some lie that I want to expose, some fact to which I want to draw attention, and my initial concern is to get a hearing.”

George Orwell, Why I Write, 1946

When I was six years old, something happened to me which is just as vivid now as it was back then. If you attended a UK primary school sometime in the 90’s or 00’s, you’ll probably recall those bulky old radiators with the laminate wooden covers. They were a real treat to sit near to in the winter. Or at least I thought as much. I remember the feel of the corrugated carpet underneath me, the warmth on my back, as I sat listening to my teacher. You’ll probably also be aware of that feeling you sometimes get, when something very bad is about to happen. Despite having no idea what’s about to transpire, your senses sharpen, your eyes focus. I looked over to the bottom of the radiator, when it suddenly appeared. The biggest spider I had ever seen in my life *up to that point* dangled down from below the wooden cover, and hanged there for a moment. Naturally I jolted back upon seeing it, recoiling across the room to the confusion of my peers. Then I immediately told the teacher what I had seen under the radiator. Those gangling legs. Those sharp pincers. That immense and eldritch body. Noticing how visibly shaken I was, she agreed to investigate. But no spider could be found. Not a whiff. Not a web.

Now memory is a very subjective thing as you know, so it’s possible that I did in fact imagine the spider being there. Or if I didn’t, I grossly overestimated its size. I was six after all. My world was already inhabited by giants. But even so, I find it strange that no one believed me at the time. Not my classmates. Not my teacher. Not even the caretaker when I warned him about it later. I mean, to assume a child is exaggerating is one thing – most children do – but to assume a child is lying is another thing entirely. It was my first experience of just how indifferent the world can be. The spider was my secret monster. It spun a web in my mind that would not untangle for many years. Needless to say, I never sat near one of those radiators again.

So why is this all relevant? Well…

I have Asperger syndrome. It’s difficult to explain what that’s like. That’s kind of the point. Things like social interaction, non-verbal communication, and the ways of the modern world are very alien to me at times. But one thing I really loathe, (and I’m sure a lot of people who are similarly afflicted do too), is when people try to downplay my condition. “Well everyone’s on the spectrum, aren’t they?” is one particular phrase that really sets my teeth on edge. Well yes, we’re all on the spectrum – but most people are at the point where they don’t have Autism. I cannot stress how annoying it is when people whitewash something as serious as a developmental disorder. Or try to repackage it as something more sweet-sounding like “neurodiversity”, to avoid feeling bad about it.

People over-diagnosing Autism is another pet peeve of mine. When someone does something out of the ordinary, there’s usually one you can rely on to say something like, “I think they’re on the spectrum.” I’ve made a lot of progress with my condition over the years, and it hasn’t been easy. So when people understate the significance of what I have to live with, or expect me to always be on the same page as them, it’s really quite disheartening. Having Asperger syndrome is like having a spider no one can see, and which no one believes you about. I may seem highly functional to most, but that’s because I’ve learned to live with my spider. To study it. To keep it at bay.

This is why I write. I write in the hope that the world may understand me better, a stanza at a time. I write because I have a lot to say, but don’t know who to say it to. I write because I am often lonely, and because the world can wear me down. I write fiction because magic makes more sense to me than reality sometimes. I write non-fiction in the hopes of changing things, whilst knowing most things never will. I write to start conversations, and to add to them. One of my favourite writers, George Orwell, once described the “four great motives for writing”, and I am guilty of all of them in equal measure. I write because I desire a legacy, and fear I will have no children. I write because I love the English language, and am jealous when others wield it better than I. I write to find the truth in things, for I have garnered great wisdom and I wish to share it. I write because I am political, and desire to push society in a certain direction. I write because I am bored, and to avoid doing worse things. I write because reading has changed my life, and I want to pay that forward if I can.

I write for me, and people like me. I write for those who seek meaning in their lives, and who know the power that words can have. I write for the strange, the downtrodden, and those who are willing to listen to new ideas. I don’t write for unfair critics, for those who love to hate. I don’t write for those who refuse to open their minds, and who have nothing to say themselves. I write for my spider, in the hopes that some day others will see him too, and understand he’s not so scary after all.

To enquire about republishing my content, please email me at crstrang.info@gmail.com.