I have exciting news! My debut novel In-Between is available for preorder on Amazon Kindle. The book releases on May 31, 2022. The paperback book will be available to order on that day as well. Amazon does not allow preorders on paperback books.

I am very excited about this cover. The cover was designed by a 17 year old artist. They are autistic and non-binary. They are also my kid. It was such a great experience to work on this project with them. I am also exceptionally happy with how the cover has developed. You can find them on Instagram at @purpawart and on YouTube

About In-Between

Sometimes life doesn’t turn out how you thought, but you can still find your place.

Alicia is a single mother to her eight-year-old son, Kenny. Being a single mother is hard enough, but her son’s principal seems convinced that she is unfit because she is on the autism spectrum.

The school keeps accusing her son of the weirdest things, such as making the school garden grow and disappearing in the middle of class. Uncertain if the school is being delusional or if more is going on, Alicia decides to track down her son’s father.

Except that she only saw him one night, a night she has tried hard to forget. Now Alicia has a man following her and claiming that her son is the heir to the elvish thrown. All Alicia wants to do is keep her son safe, but to do that, she has to give up everything she has ever known and go to a place that follows its own set of rules.

In-Between is full of magic, motherly love, and found family. It has a positive own-voice autism rep, Aromantic/Asexual rep, and a M/M romance.

Preorder In-Between on Amazon

When I first created the idea for my story, I knew two things. I wanted to have an autistic main character, and I wanted it to be anti-romance.

There is so much misunderstanding about autism, and neurotypical people write most autism rep fiction. I am sick of reading books about young boys who are burdens on their families. I am autistic, and I have raised two kids who are autistic, and I know that autism is full of benefits. So, why do neurotypicals always focus on difficulties?

Even though I am Non-Binary, I wanted a female main character. I wanted Alicia to be a mother. I wanted to show the ups and downs of parenthood being autistic. In-Between is not an autistic book – it is a fantasy book with autism rep. That was very important to me. I hope that neurotypical readers love this book, but I didn’t write it for you/them.

I also wanted to write an anti-romance book. Since this book developed, I realized that I wanted to write an aromantic book. I grew tired of watching characters make googly eyes at each other in the middle of important scenes.

Labels are significant to how I understand the world. Once I realized I am aromantic, the book developed. I created a main character who is aro/ace – who, like me, hasn’t found her language. Once I did that, I could throw in a flair of romance. There is a m/m romance between two non-narrative significant characters. But at its heart, this book is still anti-romance. I hope you can love it anyway.

They say to write the book you want to read. This is the book I needed. I hope that others find it at the right time.

My upcoming first novel, In-Between, is back from the editor. I have never been so happy to see so many comment boxes on a document.

Honestly, I expected to be a bit heartbroken when I first read through the comments. Instead, I was energized. There is work to be done, but it was also validating that I have a novel. I am a writer.

Next month is November. For every writer this means that it is NaNoWriMo – National Write a Novel Month. Last year I completed 50,000+ words on my second project. This year I will be focusing on revisions for In-Between.

I anticipate a release date in the early part of 2022.

Thank you all for being apart of my journey.

The pandemic is a generational changing event. It has highlighted inequity built into our society and has given us a chance to rebuild the world better than it was before. But, instead, there is a push in the United States to move forward as if we have learned nothing.

During the pandemic, the world met on zoom and other virtual platforms. Neurotypical people had to learn a new way to communicate, which evened the playing field for those of us on the autism spectrum. I no longer had to sit in a room wondering what body language I was not reading. If someone wanted something communicated, they had to express it.

I worked in an environment that I built for my own needs and not for a manager insecure in his ability to manage. I was able to move during the day and fidget while I was working. I did not need to worry if I was disturbing my co-workers in a cubical next door. I was not bothered by all the distractions happening all over the office.

I have thrived, become more productive, and am less stressed. While I still may not love my job, I no longer hate it. While I still may not be on an even playing field, I am at least closer.

Except neurotypicals, especially those that have risen to the ranks based on their ability to socialize more than their ability to implement logical and practical measures, are uncomfortable. They are no longer in their element. So, instead of reinventing the world to provide a place for neurodivergent individuals, they are trying to push us to go back to business as usual. A world where they thrive, and we fail.

Autistic people are supposed to have difficulty with theory of mind. Yet, I find that neurotypical individuals are more impacted in this area than we. They have never had to live in a world where it is hard, so they invalidate our experiences since it does not line up with their own. We are pawns here to serve their needs or to ignore us when we do not.

During the pandemic, a conversation about mental health emerged. It is not a new conversation. Those of us with mental health challenges have been trying to explain our truths for as long as time. For a brief moment, the world listened. The world had sympathy. Except now it is no longer convenient.

At my day job, we are now back in the office one day a week. We are told that we should be happy to be back where we are with other people. We are told that our year and a half of virtual office communication was not valid because it is only face-to-face that we become people. I have been told repeatedly, in many different ways, that the way I perceive the world is invalid. It is the same language they used before. Only now, I know that the tools that made the world more accessible for me have benefits for everyone. I do not want to go back.

Yet, I did. It was loud. My desk area was arranged wrong. I was full of anxiety about the safety of my office. I could not even find a bathroom because they had not opened the gender-neutral bathrooms yet due to the reduced working population. I had a panic attack. I stood on the side of my building, trying to breathe, trying to put myself back together so that I could walk back inside and shove myself back into the mold they want me to fit. And everyone just pretended my panic attack didn’t happen – because it was uncomfortable for all the neurotypicals.

There are so many lessons that we should have learned from the pandemic. We learned, ever so slightly, what it was like to have our mobility impaired. This knowledge should give us greater empathy for those with mobility disabilities. We should build the world around them. By doing so, the world as a whole will be better.

We learned that there was inequality in technology access and food security. We learned that grocery workers, healthcare workers, delivery drivers, childcare workers, teachers, and many others are all essential to the functioning of our society. We learned that we racially profile and punish BIPOC individuals for the color of their skin. We learned that our world is flawed, and seeing those flaws; we could tare it down and make the world a better place.

Except, we did not learn all this because of the pandemic. We knew it already. It is just easier for those with privilege to go back to how things were.

I say this as a white person. It is so much easier to ignore the injustice that happens to BIPOC every day and everywhere. I could “forget” my privilege. After all, having conversations about our privilege is hard. It is uncomfortable. It should be.

I do not have the answers.

I do know that by giving power to individuals who are not privileged, everyone benefits.

So we should step back and listen to those that have different life experiences than us. This does not mean that we should expect them to teach us – we should teach ourselves. We should put in the work. It is work that will never end.

But, as a Trans Non-Binary Autistic person, I know how much it means to me just to be acknowledged. Sometimes it is small actions that mean the world of difference. I am uplifted when someone else corrects my pronouns when I am misgendered. I am validated when others acknowledge that some aspects are harder to me than they are to them. When I have a panic attack, I would appreciate it if someone would say, “How can I help” instead of walking away like it never happened.

Three months ago, I was preparing my novel to present to an agent. Now I am working on yet another revision.

As I worked on my synopses, cover letter, and outline, I realized that my novel was not yet ready.

It was a difficult realization to make. I tried to talk myself out of it. I was procrastinating. I was succumbing to the anxiety of putting my work out there. I was making excuses.

Except I had to face reality. My novel was not ready.

It was challenging to face. I love my story. I have read it over and over and feel in love with it each time. I knew someone else would also. I had to take a step back.

My story was too short. At the time, my novel was only a little over 53,000 words for urban fantasy.

So, I’m not a wordy writer. It is not surprising since I have been writing flash fiction for most of the last ten years. Lines wrote in-between children’s meltdowns and work deadlines.

Eventually, I had to realize that it was more than that. My book was underdeveloped. I knew I did not want to put an underdeveloped book into an agent’s hand. I would be turned down for mistakes that I should have already fixed. I know my book will never be perfect, but I realized it was not even good enough.

I printed out the couple hundred pages. I punched holes in them and put them in a three-ring binder. For the last few months, I have been working on revising the story. I found out I was right. My story was underdeveloped.

My handwritten lines have been transposed back into the computer, and I have already added over 10,000 words. These are not frivolous words. These are necessary words. These are words that should be there to help the story progress. To help the reader connect.

I have not finished. I have completed 3/4 of my book, but these last chapters will need the most development. In the end, my book will be better for it.

One day this book will be in your hands, and I will be thankful that I took the time to make these edits – and the many more revisions left to come.

I was raised in Salt Lake City, Utah, in the 1980s – Pre Olympics. As a child, diversity was divided into the children who were Mormon and the children who were not. My family is Mormon.

This post is not a dialogue on the LDS faith. I do not have those kinds of answers. All I know is that it was a place that I never belonged no matter how hard I tried.

The Morman culture is binary. Past the age of twelve, girls meet together, women meet together, and boys and men meet together. If you are male, you have certain expectations and responsibilities. If you are female, you have a different set. Gender is defined in the home and put on display. Women dress one way, men another.

I remember sitting in our church at a young age. The teacher had prepared a “fun” lesson that included baking cookies. I do not remember what the teacher said that made me feel so invalidated. I remember the emotional impact it had on me. It is the first memory I have of realizing that I was broken.

When I was a young teen, I remember sitting next to my mother at a church conference. There was a man on stage speaking about women’s roles. I remember the anger at this man defining what my life was supposed to be. I remember looking at all the women listening and realizing that I was nothing like them. I remember my mother dismissing my objections.

Except I had no idea who I was.

I knew I was born female.

I knew that others labeled me a Tom Boy – a term I despise to this day.

I wore my hair long, as was expected. I tucked it under a baseball cap, all except for one strand that hung down the side of my head. I wore flannel shirts, blue jeans, and a black jacket – every single day.

Are you a boy or a girl?

I would get asked by total strangers, over and over and over again. Sick of the question, I would scream at them, “I’m not a boy.”

It was the best answer I had.

“I knew I wasn’t a boy. I also knew that I was not very good at being a girl.”

Before I could find my own identity, I got pregnant.

At nineteen, my swollen belly defined my gender for everyone. We were taught since birth that caring for children was the role of a woman.

I love all my children, but I hated being pregnant. I felt like an alien being had taken over my body. It did not feel natural, but by that time, I already knew that I was broken.

I became a mother, and I created an identity. I decided I was a not feminine female. I could live with that because there was not anything else.

When my youngest was in kindergarten, I was getting my master’s degree in developmental psychology. I focused my studies on autism spectrum disorder. Two of my children and I had already been diagnosed a few years earlier.

I read an article saying that children on the autism spectrum often did not know their gender. It needed to be taught to them, so they did not become confused. I already knew that my youngest had no concept of their gender, so I went home and taught them their biological sex. Then I told them that it doesn’t matter because they could still play with cars, keep their hair short, and play until they wore out the knees in their pants. Even still, I felt wrong, and I never attempted to teach my child their gender again.

Unfortunately, society had other plans. I will not tell you their story because they would not like me to. Certain people blamed me for allowing my child to be not female. Even though my middle child was as feminine as possible, they thought I taught my youngest how to be masculine. What is worse is I do not even think they realized the harm they caused as they watched it unfold before them.

When my kid told me they were not a girl, my response was “finally.” I knew how hard of a struggle it had been, and it broke me watching them go through it.

Then my child gave me a word – Non-Binary. Then they asked to change their pronouns. Then I realized that my child had taught me the words I had never found.

For two years, I watched and helped my child transition.

Then I found myself losing a piece of me every time that someone called me female. Still, I held off.

“People will not understand if we both identity as non-binary,” I said.

“Who cares,” my child said.

A mother can have a daughter. A father can have a son. Who will accept that my child and I were both born non-binary? I finally realized that I did not care.

Hello, my name is MJ. Please call me They/Them.

Today I submitted my first short story to a paying magazine.

It is one step.

In a world that has torn me down for being a woman but not feminine enough. For being autistic, but not autistic enough. For being, but for not being enough, this one step is the biggest towards my goal of being a paid author.

Writing is not easy, but it is fun. The process is comfortable. I can perform it in social isolation with minimal contact with humanity. Navigating the publishing world leaves me having panic attacks.

It is our fear that often stops us.

I finally realized that I would rather fail than to have lived never having tried.

I have read repeatedly to celebrate your rejections as they will bring you one step closer to an acceptance. I plan to take the advice. 

I have learned in life that it does not matter if others think you are enough. It only matters that you dare to keep going.