Writing for yourself or for an audience: A neurodivergent perspective
There’s a common debate in the writing world about whether to write for yourself or for your audience. Naturally, as a writer, this is something that I sometimes think about. But I think that this dichotomy is rooted in a neurotypical worldview—or rather, a neuronormative worldview; which is to say that it’s the worldview we’re socialized into and expected to practice. It’s based on the belief that if you talk about things you’re interested in, you’re fundamentally not talking for other people, but for yourself, that you’re self-centred and essentially selfish.
When you meet someone, you’re expected to show interest in their job, their life, their interests—by actively asking about it. When you talk to people, you’re expected to talk about them. You’re expected to talk about yourself sparingly and keep redirecting the conversation back to the other person.
Writing for an audience comes from the same place. You’re expected to write based on what other people are interested in, with the implication that what you want to write for yourself isn’t interesting. If you talk about yourself, you’re expected not to centre yourself, and if you talk about yourself, only use yourself to make a larger point that your readers would be able to relate to. You become a mere anecdote, rather than the protagonist, in your own writing.
What I find puzzling is that if we’re all told not to speak “too much” about ourselves and our interests, then how exactly are we going to know each other? If we’re all told that we’re not interesting—that our stories and our lives are not interesting—then who is? Whose story is worth telling? Whose life experiences, passions, interests, are worth talking about?
Neuronormative communication feels like two people playing pingpong with each other. Each person throws the ball to the other as soon as they receive it, and neither holds on to it—neither goes in depth. The resulting conversation ends up lacking substance and depth, and consequently, lacking vulnerability and real connection.
Neurodivergent people are often told that the way we communicate is self-centred. We talk about our special interests. We monologue and are expected not to. We’re told that we’re “deficient in social communication” and in “social-emotional reciprocity” because we don’t engage in “normal back-and-forth conversation”, as per the diagnostic criteria for autism. The way we communicate is rejected and stigmatized to the point of pathologization.
What a lot of people don’t realize is that we do actually engage in reciprocal communication. It’s just that our communication creates space for more depth. When you throw the ball to me, I will throw it back once I’m ready, but you threw the ball to me—you engaged me in conversation—and that carries the implication that you want to hear me talk.
From this perspective, neuronormative communication seems to carry resentment: you throw the ball to me because you actually want me—expect me—to throw the ball back to you, which leaves me wondering why you didn’t speak in the first place, because you threw it before you were done speaking. The constant back-and-forth feels like two people who want to talk but don’t give themselves permission to because they both think they’re uninteresting, and each person constantly has to reassure the other that they’re interesting by redirecting the conversation back to them.
Personally, in my own conversations when I meet people, I’ve found that the best way to move a conversation forward is not to give, but to take—to hold onto the ball long enough to give the conversation depth. Taking gives the other person permission to take. It’s not selfish, but actually vulnerable. It’s vulnerable both because you’re breaking the social convention and making yourself open to judgment and rejection, and because by sharing, you’re opening yourself up, and that also opens you up to rejection.
As a writer, I write about my life experiences because I believe my story is worth telling, but I also write about my life experiences because I want others to share theirs too. I write the kind of content that I like to read. Memoirs are one of my favourite genres. I have read memoirs of people I had never even heard of before, with life experiences vastly different from mine, and they’re some of my favourite books. They have enriched my life and expanded my worldview.
I actually dislike books written for a general audience, books that are for everyone and thus no one in particular. Those kinds of books feel like people pleasers—you know, the kind of person who tries to impress everyone that they end up not forming any real connections with people who resonate with who they really are, because they’ve never actually revealed themselves for anyone to resonate with.
A person who opens up, who’s true to themselves and expresses themselves, is naturally not going to have everyone resonate with them. But that’s the price of forming true connections. When you open up about yourself, you open yourself up to rejection—but that’s how you open yourself up for true connection.
When I write the way I write, I accept that my writing isn’t going to resonate with everyone. But that’s a price I’m willing to pay for genuine connection. My writing is intentionally not for everyone, because if it were, it would be for no one. I don’t just want my writing to be interesting, to grab as large of an audience as possible; I want my writing to create connections. My writing is a doorway into my world. It allows people to see me. And because of that, it allows people who have experiences similar to mine to feel not alone and connect with me.