So Good at Some Things, So Bad at Others: A 2e Writer’s Perspective

Exploring neurodiversity, exceptional abilities and invisible challenges in the writer's journey

“But you’re so good at writing…Why are you so bad at this other thing?” 

The question evoked terror in me from a young age—like a rippling electricity, pinging across my chest. I can look back now and understand that the adults in my life were asking from a place of care, but also genuine fear and confusion. I was a child who didn’t make sense, and in 1990s Texas, where conformity was godliness, it was unacceptable that I could display such exceptional skills in one area while failing miserably at an array of others. 

I played independently for hours; I remembered most things after being shown or told once; and I could hold conversations with my teachers at the age of 7 that none of my peers were interested in or capable of having. And yet I could not be coaxed into recess games; I preferred to study and watch my friends at play while remaining stationary; and the concept of “taking turns” with friends was completely lost on me. Unfortunately for young Amanda, the constant line of questioning and deep confusion from adults taught me to doubt whether I was truly good at anything.

I recently learned about something called the 2e—or twice exceptional—child. It’s a term that describes children who are exceptionally bright and also disabled. The 2e child is gifted in an area like math or language, but they also have a disability like dyslexia, ADHD or autism. When I began deep-diving on the 2e child, my mind replayed memories from childhood where tall adults stood over me, looking down, asking loud, echoing sorts of questions. 

As I discovered the 2e child, I began to unfold another dimension of my past: I was gifted in areas of language, cognition and communication, but I also had distinct disabilities in social-emotional settings and anything involving mathematics or spatial/body awareness. Much of how I coped with my undiagnosed autistic childhood seems to echo in how I have handled my writing life and publishing aspirations. And today I’d like to look a little more closely at how my hesitance to share or get help for my personal writing is likely linked to the early messages imprinted on me as an undiagnosed 2e child who was constantly asked, “Why can’t you just be normal?”

The role of writing as an undiagnosed autistic child

People have been asking for 15 years now when I will write a book. Electric pings in my chest can’t help but show up each time I hear this question. When I was 23, I’d joke that no one needed the memoir of a self-important 20-something. (And I stand by this, unless you are Malala Yousafzai. She can write all the books.) But the truth is, until only recently, my own writing was something I kept under lock and key. The thought of anyone reading my poems, song lyrics or nonfiction essays sent me into a tangible panic attack with elevated heart rate, sweat sliding down my arms and fluttering eyelids. 

Only recently have I been able to see that as a 2e child, writing was a solitary place of comfort in a world that only rewarded Pretend Amanda. Writing is how I processed who I really was in secret—away from the prying, critical eyes of my religious family. When I write, my whole self is free to speak up and sometimes even play. Writing has been my shield from being autistic and having to hide that truth from everyone around me for decades. Writing is probably one of my favorite special interests, but its enduring function is to help me survive a life where I have never quite figured out how to be me.

I can see now, despite all my training and skills on the editing side, why my own writing life has operated in starts and stalls. Because being “good” at something has always been framed as an all-or-nothing proposition. I assumed that if my writing were published, I could potentially lose my one life preserver in the whole entire world. Why would I risk giving that safety to an editor, let alone the entire world wide web? On top of that, why would I pay an editor a few hundred dollars to just be traumatized? For a long time, I had no answer.

What readers had to say

Last week I reached out in the Substack Chat to ask readers about their barriers to writing. While this essay revolves around the message that being “good” at something requires me to be good at everything, the answers from our community really help broaden the conversation around writing barriers in general. Here are a few that helped me see the issue in more inclusive dimensions.

Michelle Spencer of

Armchair Rebel

said she has felt “negatively exceptional,” sticking out for being “bookish” and “smart.” And that when people read her work and say, “Um…I don’t get it…” it creates a “hard ground to sow seeds in.”

Marc Howe

shared about how writing with awareness of neurotypical audiences can overwhelm his own authentic writing voice. And that he often finds any “gift” that might be admired in a neurotypical person would be written off in him as a late-in-life diagnosed autistic person.

John Lovie

talked about bringing together two unrelated observations, realizing something remarkable and new—but then the task of writing makes it quite challenging to share with others. Writing things down can be a huge “chore.”

Kate Graham

noted that navigating the world of publishing; not knowing if she’s saying the “wrong thing” in a social context; and translating her felt experiences into written words are part of a mix of writing barriers she encounters.

Teri Adams

shone a light on the potential to be a 4e person, someone for whom even sitting at a keyboard is a challenge due to physical disabilities.

Claire Venus

shared that one of her barriers is leaving writing in the “drafts” folder “forever.”

Vickey F. Brown (Ella Shawn)

said the biggest barrier to writing is not knowing when an autoimmune disease will “hijack” her day with fatigue, brain fog, pain or excessive daytime sleepiness.

Reading everyone’s courageous and open-hearted responses around their own writing barriers really opened up something for me. I began wondering if the nourishment we writers need most is the company of other neurodiverse or 2e adults. That maybe the unspoken gift of being in each other’s company is knowing we are innately understood—that someone can meet us in this writing space and intuit what’s going on when we feel unable to bring our writing onto the page, let alone into the world. 

Substack is a place for neurodiverse writers and the people who love them

I was 38 years old when I finally reached a point of desperation around my own writing. I was tired of writing into the ether, of scribbling in hiding. I couldn’t keep sharing my writing with a few select friends and then running to hide under the covers the minute I pressed “publish” on my personal blog (which I secretly hoped no one read, anyways). I was tired of the same old patterns and the same old crickets. I finally said to myself, “Maybe you aren’t the best at some of this online stuff … Maybe you need to ask for help.” 

These days, I’m profoundly grateful for the community that you all have helped foster at The Editing Spectrum. (Just look at the comments on this essay on being agents of peace.) My newsletter will always be a place for wayfinding writers, but it’s not lost on me that a lot of the work we do together will nourish an environment specifically for the neurodiverse writer and reader. 

There are a few ways I create safety for myself, and by extension, neurodiverse readers:

1. I have a serious “no trolls allowed” policy. I’m not here to make nice with people who don’t join in good faith discussions and encouragement. You can feel confident that I am not here to waste anyone’s energy (mine or yours) on people who aren’t here for the right reasons.

2. I keep Ask an Editor behind the paywall to create a safe place for us all to practice sharing about our writing. I hope this helps boost your confidence and sense of safety in being exactly as you are in an online setting—and to shake out some of the cobwebs around sharing your writing, questions and where you get stumped sometimes.

3. Behind the scenes, I offer email-only editorial support for writers through Email an Editor. The email-only format has been such a gift to me as an autistic person with auditory challenges, and I think it also fosters a special safety-on-the-page feeling for writers who are new to working with an editor. I help writers with their essay openings, refining their marketing options and we even polish their editorial branding on Substack.

You’re helping foster a place for neurodiverse writers to belong and practice writing

Thank you for journeying with me through this essay (and for replying to the Chat thread when I asked to hear about your barriers to writing!). I like to imagine that every word you read is a step we take together toward understanding and celebrating neurodiversity in writing. But this is just the beginning. Imagine a space where our conversations can dive deeper, where your voice and story are not just heard but amplified.

By subscribing, you become a pivotal part of a community that values every quirk that comes with neurodiversity. Your subscription not only supports this endeavor but opens the door to an array of content designed to inspire, teach and connect. Behind the paywall lies a safe haven for exchange, growth and the kind of support that only a community of like-hearted individuals can provide.

So, if you've ever felt the electric pings of a story begging to be told, or if you simply want to be a part of a community that cherishes every facet of the writing spectrum, I warmly invite you to join us. Join The Editing Spectrum and subscribe and let’s continue to create, learn and explore what it means to be writers together. Your story isn’t just yours—it’s ours, and I really do think the world is ready to listen.