Now Hear This: My Podcast Interview About Writing, Wrongful Imprisonment, and Other Riveting Thoughtstuff

It’s been awhile since I did an interview. That changes at the end of this month, when I appear live on John Darlington’s typically music-centric podcast. The show should run for approximately an hour, which will give us plenty of time to chat about my essays, stories, poetry, and memoir manuscript before moving on to the heavy subject of my experiences on the wrong side of the legal system. Mr. Darlington encourages callers during the show, and a chatroom will be open as the broadcast streams, so listeners can actively participate. It’s sure to be an interesting evening. 

Mark your calendar, stick a Post-It to your monitor, or tell Siri to remind you: the show broadcasts here on Wednesday, 30 May 2012, at 6:00 PM Central Daylight Time.

So Let It Be Written

Months later than planned, the 312-page manuscript for my memoir is finally complete. Followers of The Pariah's Syntax will be glad to know my recent stretches of inactivity, blog-wise, should be a thing of the past. The book really did take all of my time, save for the month-and-a-half stretch when my typewriter was in the shop. Friends who've barely heard a peep out of me these past nine months can attest to this. I hope, when they read what I've written, they'll understand and forgive.

In some ways, I needed to write an account of my life. There was a profound yearning in me to reconcile the different epochs (which I guess I'll have to start calling chapters) that predated the now. I suspect that most people are like me in this way, breaking their personal histories down into manageable segments, each with its own self-contained narrative. Interconnecting these as one cohesive arc takes a good memory and no small amount of commitment. Making that account interesting takes storytelling ability. I hope I've succeeded on both counts.

Introspection was another factor driving me to write this book. Know yourself — it's harder than it sounds. I thought I knew myself well enough, but it's one thing to understand underlying motivations and driving needs, quite another to be shown another layer below even those. The rabbit hole goes deep. When I learned, three and a half years ago, that I have an autistic spectrum disorder (the neurological condition Asperger's syndrome) it was a revelation. Before that, I'd been aware and accepting of who I was; now I keenly understand why I am that way. This awareness cast everything in a new light — from my beginnings as a "gifted" child prodigy who ate paper, through a troubled adolescence of cocaine addiction and confinement in a mental facility, to an awkward adulthood on the fringe. It's the exploration of this newly illuminated history, and present day, that my book follows.

Who knows, maybe someone else with the condition will read it someday and benefit from my mistakes. Or the parent of an Aspergian teen. Or a clinician who studies Asperger's syndrome. Or a person who's married to someone on the spectrum. There's a whole world out there. If this memoir makes a difference in the lives of just two people, I will feel rewarded. I'll count myself as the first.

As my journey down the road to publication progresses, I'll share the news here. For now, though, I'm taking a breather, gathering my thoughts, and catching up on some reading. That stack of magazines and books isn't getting any smaller.

If It's Not One Thing....

The completed memoir, as regular readers of The Pariah's Syntax know, was expected by late January. Call it first-book naïveté, but I really did believe I could make it what it needs to be with just two rewrites. Now, here is April, giggling and taunting me with her rush of springtime warmth. Truly the cruelest month, she asks, "Wasn't it about this warm outside when you started that project?"

Salt in the wound. The fact is, I've been hamstrung. Mere days from saturating the last page of draft number two with red ink, a precipice of accomplishment at which I was downright giddy, my typewriter — Old Faithful, my dogged workhorse of five years — went kaput. My first reaction was to curse mightily (I do that, from time to time), then I looked into repair costs. I cursed some more. An entirely new carriage assembly was needed which, as a reference point for those of you living comfortably in the twenty-first century, is like your inkjet's print head grinding to a halt. Only more expensive — insanely so, because no one in his right mind repairs typewriters in this day and age. Crazy old druids charge a lot for labor; however, the bill must be paid. I cannot hand-write my many shorter journal submissions any more than I can my book manuscript.

So now I wait. Friends tell me to make the most of the downtime. One suggested I "get some reading done."

"Take a vay-cay," prompted another.

"Go out for some fresh air," yet another insisted.

Someone else, trying to brighten my spirits, said, "Just think how motivated you'll be to work when you get it back from the shop!"

As if motivation weren't something I had enough of to bottle and sell at a premium. How I laughed when I heard these palliatives, so smilingly delivered. I laughed until I was worn out, then contemplated a nap. Too bad I was too dejected to sleep.

Earth to Byron: Do You Read?

Yes, I read... and I write. And to those who have wondered about my doings of late — the mysterious behind-the-curtain business that's all but ended my contact with the outside world — my book-writing is what's got you thinking I went and pulled a Hemingway or a Plath, when the reality is closer to Salinger or Dickinson. I'm not dead, in other words, just hiding.

My memoir is approaching completion and I commit more of myself to it every day, as if my anticipated January completion date weren't soon enough. The passion of watching the stack of pages grow and grow, from the meager handful of sheets that came from my first day's work at the typewriter, is a consuming one. Now that the critical rewriting process is days away, I'm all tingly with the urge to hack and slash these 250-plus pages down to something more readable. My unforgiving red pen has a name amongst the incarcerated writers who bring me their drafts to edit or dispassionately critique — a name many dare not to speak — and I am probably sick for wanting to wield it against my own creation. If it means rewriting my entire book in red, I'm committed to making it the best memoir it can be. Besides, I've been called far worse than "sick" in my time. That, at least in part, is what the book is about.

So while you wait and wonder, don't let your imagination run too wild. I'm alive and well. Bear with me a little while longer; I'll bring you the proof soon. Meanwhile, a birthday card this month would be nice. I'm not too busy to smile.