Holding back tears in the New York Public Library
What an autistic writer discovers after stumbling upon priceless pieces of paper
Prologue: Today I mention visiting a beloved, local stationery store in Chelsea. What didn’t fit neatly into the piece is that I was able to purchase a new pen and some stationery (about $42 worth) using subscription dollars I’ve earned here at The Editing Spectrum. Though a small amount, I was beaming with pride that the writing I offer here is having a trickle effect into other places of my life. Thank you for supporting my work this year and helping me reimagine what a career can look like for an autistic editor. If you’ve ever considered supporting my work with a paid subscription, they are $6/month now or $60/year. And now, to the story…
Honking horns, screeching tires, pigeon wings flapping above my head.
A trip to New York City at Christmastime would be a bit of a gamble on my nervous system. But my husband Lee and I went anyways. I wondered a lot about whether I could immerse myself in the sights, rhythms and sounds of the city without being flatlined in some other way.
So when our tickets to see a show got canceled, we improvised. We took a cab over to Chelsea, visited a coffee shop, a plant and flower store and then a stationery shop that I love. After grabbing some street food, we then hopped into another cab and headed toward the New York Public Library.
Part of making my way through the world as an autistic woman involves a lot of preparation. I lay down a visual and auditory roadmap for everything that an outing might entail, including conversation topics, a quiet spot if we’ll be somewhere noisy and other such “prep and rescue” items. These things help me feel safe in a world that often doesn’t make sense, but sometimes my autistic prepper side can feel quite nervous when things change.
Luckily on this day of canceled plans, New York City is a place that’s been etched over and over in my mind from a young age, so I have a lot of backup material to work with. And the New York Public Library is no exception. While riding through the bustling city streets, in my mind’s eye, I begin pulling photos and movie scenes to try to do some quick “nervous system” research.
When we arrived and I stood outside the library, I felt the need to pause. Something enormous was happening inside me already, but I couldn’t say what. I walked up the steps, counting them 1, 2, 3 as I went, an old habit from childhood that I now understand helps me stabilize a bit inside. The entrance of the library is filled with people, of course, along with a Christmas tree, deep green garlands and twinkling lights. But to me, it feels like I’ve just stepped onto the bottom of the ocean floor.
The marble floors and walls seem to be creating some small, echoing song all around me. I notice this change in sound and walk carefully ahead. With each step, my shoulders drop, my footsteps feel lighter and my eyes float slowly up and down the swirling marble along the way.
Which way should we go next? I’m not sure. But soon enough we walk up to a set of double doors whose archway has the word “Treasures” written above. It is the Polonsky Exhibition of The New York Public Library's Treasures—something I know nothing about because it hasn't yet made appearances in movies I’ve seen, nor have I read about it in any news stories where I live.
We walk inside and my eyes catch the corners of glass-encased exhibits. An even quieter ocean is in front of me.
Treasures, indeed, I think to myself.
Within a few minutes, I’m standing in front of the original Winnie-the-Pooh characters, which now hold a larger-than-life quality since singing the theme songs to my daughter Evagene for almost two years now.
The exhibit is large and has more than 250 objects on display, which means right near the entrance is a “heavy hitter”—the second copy of the Declaration of Independence. I look to my right and see a piece of paper framed by a thick white mat. I take a few steps to stand face to face with a page from George Washington’s Farewell Address.
Immediately, I have to choke back tears.
My eyes are tracing the words on the page and something keeps pushing at my mind about what I’m standing in front of.
The words, the penmanship of our nation’s first president, the courage to rescind power when nothing could have seemed more absurd at the time. And then in a flurry of connecting-the-dots, I realized something else:
This document has been edited.
It has long lines of sentences crossed out with ink.
In this moment, it feels like there’s something he—a towering figure of American history—and I have in common. We both have to work a bit to find the words we’re looking for.
As I move through the exhibit, I can’t help but notice that Washington’s edits weren’t the only ones. There’s a manuscript draft of Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, replete with ink scribbles and reframing.
Then a manuscript of the poem “The Choice” by Mary Shelley, written beautifully but still with a scratched out word around line seven. Another piece from Shelley, from the manuscript of “Transformation,” shows even deeper edits throughout the whole page.
A typed letter from S.J. Perelman shows an editing correction about three-quarters of the way through the first page.
Upstairs, there is a small case outside the entrance to the reading rooms. It holds several items from Charles Dickens’ personal collection. The case description notes that three copies of his Christmas books were specially bound with wide margins so he could “revise and amend the text to best effect for a reading.”
He underlined passages for emphasis; added notes to remind himself of tone; and canceled and added large portions of text.
Dickens edited and clarified A Christmas Carol for a public reading.
By the time we made our way back down to the library exit, I was in a pretty predictable place: in a foggy, autistic state of overload. Lee insisted we get a picture in front of the lobby’s Christmas tree, and I oblige, but I’m barely there (and I think the photo below shows evidence of this spaciness).
Everything is flooding toward me, and I keep wondering why?
Why does it matter that their writing has been edited?
Of course it has been edited. All writing is edited.
And that’s when a softer voice joined the conversation of my mind:
They let them in.
So often we shape and perceive people through a lens of astounding perfection and genius, pointing to their printed work as the pinnacle of achievement. It is this perfection in final print that I often measure my own efforts against in writing, editing, managing my life and making friends. Everything I typically read on the page feels so wonderfully precise and final, and I’m learning as an autistic woman, this also sets me up for disappointment and confusion when I have to engage with the real world. Nothing and no one is ever so precise.
Today, in the calm, quiet ocean of the New York Public Library, I was given a chance to rethink some of my own assumptions about what and who we value. Seeing these towering figures have their scribbles and edited works put on display gave me a sense of hope—to imagine that eventually society does know how to look back and see the whole person and embrace their imperfections.
And it made me wonder, however briefly, if and where that kind of generous invitation is available to all of us now.
Editor’s Note: We’ve been talking over on this post about getting writing feedback in Ask an Editor even when our goal (or current interest) as writers isn’t to grow a readership or turn our writing into a money-generating machine. There’s a poll that’s open for the rest of the day in that post. And I’d love to hear from you about how you’re finding belonging and connection for your writing.
Thank you for sharing this beautifully detailed account with us. I didn't know you were autistic, although many of us editors are! I'm glad that the excursion was worth the spoons, and judging from the photos, I would have felt the same. The Mary Shelley excerpts are the standouts for me.
A fascinating post! I understand being overwhelmed a bit, viewing those precious documents in that incredible space.
Thank you for sharing, Amanda!