I’m ready to start writing again. Or trying to, at least. The last two years of Covid Crazy have been more than tough, particularly on my children. We’re all discovering neurodiversity we didn’t realise we had (ADHD for me) and time away from systems (like school and karate) have shown how broken and toxic those places can be.
I’ve had to accept that my full-time job is filling in the gaps for the family between who they are and who society thinks they should be. That actually involves taking a lot of naps to restore depleted spoons (that’s another post if you haven’t heard the term).
But I want to write. Reading has kept me going all my life, but never more so than now. I’ve been trying to think what to write about that’s authenticity me, though. I can’t write about ADHD – I’m not diagnosed, and I’m only just understanding what it means. Besides, I like Middle Grade magical fiction.
So, I’ve tried to understand the common theme across the wide range of books I do (and, more importantly, don’t) read. Then it came to me as I swam in the hot tub this morning (which is possible, as long as you don’t mind not getting anywhere!) The books I love are always optimistic, at least in the end. And they’re all about finding your tribe. The wizards, the people in Nevermoor, the elves of the Lost Cities. Finding people who understand your weirdness and explain why you didn’t fit in where you were before. A sense of belonging.
It turns out I’ve spent my life reading about neurodivergent people without ever realising it. Even a book called Divergent didn’t give a hint. All the stories I’ve written have been about not fitting in, in a way that can’t be fixed by taking a bath and learning to relax (the advice my ADHD daughter keeps getting from Counsellors).
So, that’s my genre. And it is a genre. Finding Your Tribe. That’s the easy bit. Now I just have to sit down and write. I should probably get out the hot tub…