I don't think I'd be suitable or able to perform an editorial role for anyone, but I sincerely hope you find someone you can work together with to both improve! I am, however, curious about something you said, about not putting much visual description in. Why do you think you do that, and how come you link it to autism? I'm curious because I find myself doing a similar thing - most visual things are metaphorical for me - and I've noticed that I connect with some things you link to your autism.
Thanks so much for your best wishes, anon! For me, it comes down to three different factors, although not all autistics will have these in common, many autistics will have a different arrangement of primary senses, and neurodiverse folk who aren’t autistic or neurotypicals may have some or all of them! With this sort of thing, when folks connect to my experiences, I usually consider it an indication that autism may be worth exploring if you haven’t already, but because neurodiversity has so many similar expressions attached to several diagnoses, not to mention the possibility of comorbid or accompanying diagnoses, it doesn’t mean others should be excluded, either.
(I’m wary of making the yes, you’re absolutely autistic because I am pronouncements, because neurodiversity is such a broad and complex field and the only experiences I can speak for, at the end of the day, are my own. In me, they’re attached to this label; in others, they may not be.)
The first is that I have almost no ability to visualise images inside my head (aphantasia). I have more of an abstract knowledge of what things are--for example, I can tell you that Mum has wavy blond hair and crinkles around her eyes and she looks now like Oma (my grandmother) did in my early childhood, but I have no corresponding image of what she (or Oma!) looks like inside my head. I don’t have any visual sense without looking at her right in front of me. I don’t see a red apple in my head; I sort of think that it will have a brown stalk at the top and green shading around the stalk and the apple curves in at the bottom. The best I get as a mental picture is a red, circular blob, and for non-simple objects or scenes, not even that much. When I think of my room, for example, I list the things within it and their details rather than imagine them.
(I also have prosopagnosia, difficulty recognising faces, and while I can make eye-contact if I feel safe, I’d much rather not. It feels … it feels uncomfortable and rude and painful all at once in ways I struggle to describe. This makes fictional descriptions of people difficult for me, because I tend to interpret mood based on movement, word choice and tone of voice, not facial expressions or arrangement of facial features. As for distinguishing features, like size of nose or lips? I just don’t notice these at all.)
For this reason, when I attempt to write a scene, I have no picture of said scene in my head. None. I’m building it instead from an abstract knowledge of small details and how I think they might fit together, and while reference pictures can help, I’m rarely able to put it together the way allistic critique partners have asked of me. I’ll note that I know a few allistics with aphantasia, including one of the people who frustrated me most about wanting more description, so other people don’t seem to find it so much of a problem.
The second is that, like many autistics, I have more of a small detail sensibility–in other words, I see small details before I see the whole scene together, if I do at all. For me, a busy street scene is footsteps clattering on the pavement, the smell of petrol and perfume, music blaring from shop doorways, the screech of breaks as a car stops, the reflection on the wet asphalt as the lights change. It’s not the larger structure of the street and shops or the amount of people and cars occupying the street. The whole is suggested, for me, by the way the pieces of the small fit together.
Many allistics have read my work telling me to “describe more”, and I’m baffled, because I described the smell of the smoke and the rust of the metal and how the lift-cage creaked! How much more description do they want? Do I have to describe the shape of each flake of rust or something? I suspect it has to do with their passing over the smaller details I’ve provided in search of a missing big-picture description, while I’m just adding more and more smaller details to paint the scene, not realising that there’s anything missing–and to this day, I have no idea how to provide what they want. I don’t experience the world that way.
The third is that the world I experience is shaped more by touch, sound, taste, movement and smell than sight, more than is normal for most abled allistics. I’m better at non-visual small details than I am visual small-details. In a world where film and television have changed so much about what is expected from prose, especially genre/non-literary prose, this means my work isn’t as accessible as expected–it lacks that easily-visualised sensibility. I tend to describe how people move over depicting colour, for example, as this is something I’m more sensitive to as a stimmer. The feel of a cloth is something more natural to me to describe than its pattern.
All those things together means that my work describes things that aren’t expected to be described while leaving a lot that is expected to be described undescribed, and so far no writing teacher or crit partner has been able to explain precisely what they mean by describe more. It’s obvious to them; it’s a mystery to me. In the last couple of years, I’ve been slowly working on trying to build my descriptions and setting in ways that feel real and meaningful to me–to write how I think is natural as an autistic. There’s a lot of rules of prose to work through to try and find whatever my authentic autistic voice is underneath, though, and I’m nowhere near finished in this process.
So it’s important to me that someone else understands that my goal isn’t to make my work fit allistic expectations of description. It’s to try and better use tools of description to paint the world as I know it, so allistics can peer in and see how things look like to me–even if that image is focusing on the feel and smell of a soft wool blanket against a blurry, vague background. So I suppose my challenge is one of learning how to better convey that these gaps in my description are not a mistake but are instead the nature of my worldview–to give them a more easily-perceived sense of intentionality. I am absolutely not yet there, but I’ll keep trying.
I hope that gives you some idea, anon, from where I’m coming, but it’s worth keeping in mind that this is the combination of autism and writing for me. Just as there’s so many different shapes of autism, there’s so many different shapes of how autism interacts with writing, too.
It’s very likely that people who aren’t autistic will also relate to this, which I think makes it more important that we consider what we lose when we try to force all creatives into a singular approach on what is described. We celebrate differing approaches to how we describe, in terms of metaphor and simile and creative use of language, but allowing that difference for the what should be just as important, for both writer and reader. Yet, in non-fanfiction works (fanfiction places so much less importance on visual description!) I’ve always felt the pressure to reach a certain level of visual description to make my writing worth reading, and that’s a hard thing to carry for us creatives who cannot, for whatever reason, reach it.