My sleep has been restless. I fall asleep, mind clear, but clearly my subconscious is obsessed with my writing a memoir. It seems that until I know the details of what I’m writing, the theme, the structure, my mind will not stop trying to figure that out.

Originally, I though I wanted to write an autism memoir. I’m not so sure that I do. Every memoir that I’ve read on autism is information heavy. You know, diagnostic criteria, facts and statistics and what not. I don’t think that’s the book I’m writing.

I’ve always imagined my book to be more, hmm, emotional. I’ve lived many lives. Most spent grappling with my own internal experience. I feel like that’s my book.

I’m not sure exactly and that’s the problem, it seems. Any memoir that I write will be an autism memoir. There are no stories that belong to me that are without autism. There is no me without autism. It’s not like some parts of myself that are singular in their existence in my life. It is my brain. Autism is the whole of me, but… I don’t think this is an “autism memoir”. If not that, if I don’t have that structure to hold onto, then what?